Commotion: a scene of noisy activity
Chapter 3
Struggling through a sleepy haze, his hands found the blanket and he remembered where he was—a strange bed, a stranger’s house, wearing a stranger’s clothes that did not fit. He was breathing as if he had been in a foot race—a nightmare, he thought as he remembered what he had dreamed. He needed to talk to Sara; the bewildering dreams would disappear, he knew, if he could hear her voice.
Sitting up in bed, he realized he no longer heard the steady beat of rain. Looking at the window, he got up, pulled a thin curtain back and saw moonlight—a bright, almost full moon—making the world outside the window one of bright images and definite shapes. Finally, the rain had stopped. As if to support his thoughts, he saw a large bird flying across the sky, its wings casting a shadow as it flew.
He returned to bed and slept, soundly, not stirring until he heard voices in the house. When he opened the bedroom door, he found his shoes, pants and shirt, clean and dry, had been placed beside the door. He had no idea how his clothes had been returned to him as they were—but in a while, as he ate a breakfast of fresh tortillas, hot beans, soft cheese, and fruit, one of the children explained how his clothes had been washed on the back porch and hung over the kitchen stove to dry, and the boy, age twelve, had cleaned the shoes.
Before the group left the village riding in the back of an old pick-up truck, satellite phones came to life and each man got a quick message sent. Grissom, knowing she was likely asleep, texted a message to Sara, briefly, saying they were on their way to the capitol city.
Quietly, each man had left money in the home where they stayed—as a gift, not as payment for hospitality—telling the parents to buy treats for the children. The lead researcher had also paid several men to remove the fallen tree and make repairs to the building on the mountain. Slowly, the men were driven along a muddy road, partly paved but in places completely washed away. The driver attempted to avoid the biggest mud holes, but at times, he had to inch his truck through water a foot deep or the men in back jumped out and edged around a cavernous pot hole that might have drowned a loaded truck. Finally, they arrived at the main highway; a dozen or more people waited at the bus stop.
One of the men groaned. “A full bus, from the looks of it.”
“Let’s hope there is a bus,” Grissom grumbled.
A small store selling drinks and snacks was doing brisk business; Grissom filled his pockets with candy. The proprietor insisted the bus would be there in an hour; and a bus did arrive and passed blowing its horn without stopping. People onboard waved and shouted, pointing behind them. Someone figured out another bus was coming; it arrived two hours later and by that time over two dozen people were waiting to board. Somehow, everyone managed to get on the already crowded bus—or on top of it. Grissom hesitated to climb the rickety ladder to the roof, saw two children watching from the bus window and offered to let the two small children sit on his lap for a seat beside their very pregnant mother. His legs straddled two research cases while his back pack disappeared overhead.
When the bus jerked forward, Grissom would have slid onto the floor if there had been floor space available. His knees bumping into a person sitting in the bus aisle, he said “Pardon” and received a reply in English of: “Can’t be helped.”
For a while, the children were quiet but gradually began laughing as Grissom offered candy and made funny noises which developed into a game of “I-spy” colors and objects inside the bus until the small children fell asleep, one on each of his shoulders. When the young mother attempted to move one child, Grissom shook his head insisting the children stay with him. Their mother’s belly took up most of her lap—twins, she said as she held up two fingers and quietly explained the reason she was on the bus.
An hour passed, then another. Grissom felt he was in the middle of a poorly made movie when the bus stopped in the middle of the highway—no traffic, no houses, nothing as far as one could see. The bus driver barked directions and everyone climbed off the bus, women on one side, men the other—for a bathroom break. With surprising order, everyone returned to their seats or floor or rooftop to continue the trip. Evidence of the storm was everywhere—swaths of down trees, water-filled ditches, an occasional wash-out of a segment of the highway.
The bus cautiously crossed a bridge, one-lane, because half of the bridge had disappeared in the rain swollen river. Every person on the bus held their breath, said a prayer, or made the sign of the cross; some did all three. There were other bus stops along the highway, all crowded with passengers, but the bus driver sped up instead of slowing down. The crowd waiting for the bus shouted their disappointment while the passengers on the bus yelled their approval.
The young English speaking man sitting near Grissom’s feet asked “Is there really another bus?”
Grissom chuckled and answered “There is always another bus.”
In late afternoon, the bus pulled over on the outskirts of the city and everyone climbed off and joined a long line waiting for the city buses. As they waited, the men heard of more flooding, more devastation from the storm and the massive efforts of rescue and recovery along with a mention of problems at the airport. As everyone waited, some complaining occurred, but overall people waited, amiable and friendly, frequently laughing as stories were told of interrupted plans.
Grissom and the men with him were still several bus loads away from getting on a bus when a small white van made a turn into the waiting area; the driver’s window was down and a woman called a name—one of the researchers—and then called several more names, including Grissom’s.
“Heard you were coming in today so thought I’d get out here to pick you up! This is my third trip!” Her voice and laughter caused visible relief in the faces of the men.
The woman worked at the hotel where the research group stayed when in the city. She had known some of these men for fifteen years, met their families, and welcomed them as they arrived and as they returned. Throwing bags and cases into the back of the van, the tired men almost fell into the seats before she had fully stopped.
As the driver shifted gears, Grissom saw the young pregnant mother and two children who had given him their seat on the bus.
“Gloria—can we provide a ride to three more? The pregnant woman and her kids?” He pointed to the trio. “The kids gave me their seat. She’s coming into the city to have twins by caesarean next week.”
Gloria laughed and stopped the van. “Put them in—Lord, how do they do it? She’ll be back home in ten days probably plowing fields with a baby strapped on her back!” She motioned toward the woman and Grissom opened the sliding door.
The men shifted seats, giving the mother and children the middle row of seats. After a short conversation, the driver got an address and headed into the city.
Gloria drove with her left hand and kept her foot on the accelerator as close to the floor as possible; Grissom did not think she used brakes at all. It perplexed him as to how a population who spent two to three leisurely hours at meal time could drive across town at breakneck speed. He held on to the back of the seat in front of him as the van turned a corner and narrowly missed pedestrians crossing the street. In some way among the maze of narrow streets, the driver found the address given to her by the pregnant woman and as soon as the van stopped, five or six relatives appeared to help. Everyone talked at once; the men shook hands with everyone, and, as quickly as they had arrived at the small house, they left, returning to the crowded streets and dizzying traffic.
Grissom could not remember when he had been so happy to see a hotel—the consensus of every man in the group. A luxury suite at the Ritz would not have been more welcome than the front of the small hotel, no more than twenty rooms, with a protective gate at the entrance and a seldom used courtyard. And by the time Grissom got to his small, clean, and air-conditioned room with a hot shower, he knew he could sleep for hours.
Much to his relief, a basket of crackers, cookies, bottled water, and tea bags sat on the countertop next to an electric kettle. As he ate the cookies, he called Sara and immediately got her voicemail; his message was: “Call me—whenever you can. I’m in the city—finally. I love you!” After a brief pause, he added “and I miss you.”
With his phone working, he made another international call to a favorite garden center in Vegas, giving instructions for a specific type of plant after getting assurances it would be delivered at the requested time. “The sentiment?” he repeated when asked; thinking briefly, he said “just ‘from Grissom’. Thank you,” smiling as he ended the call.
After a long hot shower, he crawled between clean, dry sheets, naked except for the black silky boxers. He was physically exhausted, drained of thoughts, and his room, at the back of the hotel with a large window overlooking the dark courtyard, was totally quiet. It was so quiet Grissom couldn’t close his eyes for a long time and he thought again of where he wanted to be…
The banging in his head seemed real as he fought his way out of sleep—he had been asleep, certain of it—yet he was sitting in the bathroom, his boxers at his ankles, a letter in his hands. Someone was knocking—no, banging on the door.
“Gil! Gil! What’s taking so long? Are you reading that letter again? I told you not to plan another trip! I don’t care where those damn bugs are or where they want you to go! Your life is here now—with me. Gil? Answer me!”
“Yes, dear, I’ll be right out,” he answered, meekly, as he stuffed the letter between pages of the newspaper. Why, he asked himself, had he let this happen? He had choices, he made decisions—and this one had proven to be very wrong. One request, one mistake and he had been manipulated when all he wanted was—he wasn’t sure what he wanted.
The banging continued except the sound had changed from the rapping of knuckles to a flat-palm thud against the door. He folded the newspaper and opened the door.
“We need baby formula, Gil. You’ll have to go to the store. Hurry! I have clients to see in one hour.” His wife was immaculately dressed in her black working suit, not a hair out of place, make-up carefully applied. Her skirt hugged her shapely hips, her blouse plunged to show ample cleavage. A goddess, he thought, one made of cold, hard stone with emotions to match. Why had he married this woman?
“Can’t the nanny go?”
His wife gave him a look that would have melted glaciers. “She’s taking care of the twins. You wanted a family and I paid a lot of money for the little screamers! The least you can do is drive to the store. And get diapers too. They need to be changed once an hour—make sure you check after the nanny.”
“Yes, dear,” he mumbled as he buttoned his shirt. He glanced at his wife; she was preening in one of the many large mirrors that had remained in her house from the days when it served another purpose. He moved so he could catch his reflection in the mirror—he knew this was a dream! He loved Sara! He would never have married Heather…this was not where he wanted to be…
