Excerpt From: Everglades Wildfire
As she had every Friday night for the past 15 years, Maria finished cleaning the kitchen and left out the back of the big house. Carrying an old cigar box, she cut through the manicured back yard. The sun had set hours ago, the blanket of darkness was thick, heavy with humidity and alive with the chirping of crickets and low calls of frogs. The night hummed with the possibility that this time she would find information. Just one piece, no matter how small, would mean so much.
The end of the yard was marked by an old wood fence, probably as old as the place itself and built to keep little Ricky from wandering off into the dangerous surrounding swampy brush. Years ago, when sheâd first arrived at the house, sheâd wondered what kind of man would bring his family out into the isolated, drained swampland, building a life among the rows of sugar cane. Those questions were answered long ago and now she understood how someone could fall in love with the raw setting, a truly unlikely place to become wealthy.
Even though it wasnât used any longer, she relatched the gate after sheâd passed out of the yard. Her pickup was parked where she always left it, off to the side of the east-west two track road that ran through the backside of the property. It was Friday, so she headed east. She appreciated her life with Ricky, loved him to the extent her broken heart would allow, but always cherished the late Friday night hours. Those times were a connection to her past, her people, and her true home.
The back roads were unlit and empty, but she knew she was getting close to her destination when the bitter scent of burnt cane leaves drifted into the truckâs cab. Five minutes later, she slowed and found the familiar gravel road and turned on to it.
Jorge was in the guard shack. As always, she greeted him in their language, passed him a bag of homemade sugar cookies, then inched forward, driving slowly to keep down the dust and noise then parked in the wide sandy area in front of the building. The windows of the abandoned storehouse were latched open and the interior was lit with lanterns. The air was a mixture of laughter, jazz, and the harsh smoke of burnt cane leaves drifting over from the fields. Combined, it welcomed her and reminded her of camaraderie and community.
Maria took the cigar box off the seat beside her and headed toward her friends.
Claudia looked up from the usual domino game, greeted her in Spanish, using the name that had been hers before leaving Cuba to the relative safety of the US. âMaylin,â she said, smacking the empty chair beside her, âCome sit here, give me the luck I need.â
âI donât know how lucky I am this week,â Maria replied, setting the box near the center of the table and greeting the other six women as she lowered herself into the red painted chair.
Claudia moved a tile into position. âOh? Itâs been like that?â
Maria nodded, looking over the game and easing into the moment. âThe son is back.â
Ivet, who had pulled the box toward her and already opened the lid, moved her hands to the bottle of rum placed off to the side. Claudia reached back to pick up a glass from the small table beside the wall. She set it in front of Maria. Ivet poured in a couple inches of the golden liquid.
The conversations stalled and all the women stilled. Of course, the other woman knew who Maria meant. News of events traveled quickly in those parts. These women also knew about the past. They knew what his return meant for her and the Belleair family.
One woman asked, âDo you think heâs... different?â
âLearned his lesson?â asked another.
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