Thursday, July 10, 2008

Two Limes and a Bracelet

The man is Miguel. He lives in a different country a thousand miles away within a culture worlds apart from my own. Between us, more was unspoken rather than said, wished rather than perpetuated, intangibles peppering the air as limes dot a tree, washing the tentative breeze with the full, ripe promise of fruit.

The horse is Nuevo, a tall, faded bay with a white-starred forehead and a tumbling, jet-black forelock. He saved me when I first rode him by teaching me to let go. On my return to the Dominican Republic, he was still friendly, patient, and wise, but this time salvation came from a different source.

The stables appeared as if tucked into the rough blanket of Puerto Plata’s short, stony foothills and scrub-brush fields. I jumped out of the van as soon as it lurched to a stop and slid down the pebbly incline to the corral. My eyes quickly scanned the stable horses tethered loosely to the fence, but I did not see Nuevo. Then I turned, and as if on cue, Miguel led Nuevo out to me. I ran forward, embracing the horse and then the man whom I met for the first time the previous summer. He handed the lead rope over to me and boosted me into the saddle.

Not much at the stable had changed in a year, as if in accord with the notion of “Dominican Time,” a cultural phenomenon dictating that “in ten minutes” becomes “in one hour” as easily as hola slides from the smiling mouths of friendly locals. On the trail ride, Nuevo was still friendly, patient, and wise. Mike, the manager of the ranch, still told amusing jokes and belly-laughed in response to my own. Miguel sat with ease in his saddle, smiling and moving with panther-like grace. Yet his eyes seemed to follow me more closely as we trotted and cantered over twisting hills and grassy slopes.

The biggest change was me. The year before, I visited the Dominican Republic just after leaving a horrible marriage, and I was a sad, scared, numb woman. This year’s return trip marked the close of the required one year of separation, and although I had surrendered on the idea of love, it was a willing and non-hostile takeover that found me happy, healthy, and eagerly beginning my long-awaited divorce proceedings back in the States. Maybe this was why the ride was more beautiful, the hills more shades of green, the breeze more tinged with the scent of sunned fruit than I previously remembered.

After the ride, Miguel invited me to Café Esmeralda, the tiny ranch bar perched almost precariously at the top of the hill. Its double saloon-style doors opened to reveal a dark wooden bar seemingly out of an old Western. He beckoned to two bar stools and we sat as he ordered sweet, frosty Cokes tumbled with pungent Dominican Bruegal rum. We eagerly swallowed our drinks down and smiled at each other. Then, as the music playing over the radio changed, he suddenly stood and held out his arms. “The mumba,” he announced, as he demonstrated the simple one-two-three-foot up movement. I hopped down, grabbed his hands, and attempted to mimic his quick, rhythmic movements. As we moved in synchronicity, he smiled and nodded approvingly. “Very good, my cowgirl,” he murmured. After our impromptu dance we left the bar, his arm slung around my shoulders.

I was shocked at how natural his touch felt after my long year of separation. The next day, the warm hug he gave me when I returned for another trail ride left me equally at ease. I watched closely as he prepared the horses, carefully placing saddle pads on their broad backs, laying down the leather-embossed saddles, and quickly but expertly slinging the sheepskin-lined girth bands below their bellies and then back up through the silver loops securely fastened to each side of the saddle seat. His fingers danced over the tack with fluid ease, golden in the late afternoon light.

When everything was ready, he swung himself lithely into the saddle of a striking yet skittish dusky brown horse he simply called Black, and we went galloping off. Halfway through the ride, we stopped at a worn old farmhouse for cold drinks. As we tied our horses loosely to a tree, Miguel reached strong brown arms up into the branches and then presented me with a small yet perfect lime. It was warm from the sun, and I gratefully inhaled the breathtaking freshness of his gift.

During the return ride down a gently sloping hillside, the afternoon air was hot and heavy with the promise of rain. As we galloped, a fresh, damp clod of dirt careened up from Nuevo’s hooves and struck me in the face. I flinched and shifted, and almost fell as my foot slipped from the stirrup. Nuevo spooked through a puddle, and as we finally pulled our horses up, Miguel turned with his chocolate eyes laughing at my vividly mud-spattered jeans. He swung Black alongside and brushed the dirt off my face with gentle hands. I met his gaze, and amid the hot hills and pebble-strewn paths, a quiet heat flared between us and smoldered under the lowering sun.

On our third and last ride, we ascended the hillside’s swaying grass refreshed by a light but sweeping breeze. The sun painted the valley with lightness and warmth, and the tall mountain in the distance punctuated an otherwise unbroken horizon. After dismounting at the lime tree, Miguel reached up once again, pulled down a fresh, perfect fruit, and placed it in my palm. We walked together silently with our arms linked until he turned and gazed down at me. “I would like you to stay with me,” he said wistfully, as if willing it into being. “You would have a good life. Happiness everyday.”

I contemplated his words, awash in a forgotten feeling. Although we both knew the improbability of his wish, its quiet and comfortable intent fit like well-worn riding boots. I smiled as we continued walking, and then chose simple words, spoken with truth but without promise.

“I would like that.”

Back at Café Esmeralda, we drank cold beer as I pulled my eyes longingly over sleeping dogs, locals playing poker, horses tethered below in the coral, drowsing quietly in siesta. Then I turned and studied Miguel, his strong brown arms perched on the worn wooden bar, a simple yet sleek silver bracelet adorning his wrist. His dark eyes watched me admire it, and then without a word he took the bracelet off and slid it onto my lower arm. It stayed there throughout that last day and the next morning at the airport.

The plane taxied down the runway with a dull, plaintive roar, and as my eyes filled I wrapped my fingers around the smooth band so different than the previous one I had shed a lifetime ago during an empty and hopeless time. Somehow the silver felt warm with promise, and if I placed my fingers just so, a tiny pulse seemed to emanate from the center of its metal depths.

8 comments:

Hyacinth Girl said...

Hello, gentle reader! I would like to ask for your specific feedback on two parts of my essay: 1) Do I need the first and second paragraphs, or should I start with the third? 2) Do I need the phrase "during an empty and hopeless time" in the very last paragraph? Any feedback on those elements would be greatly appreciated and thank you!

Julie said...

I believe the "real" story begins with paragraph 3, so I would start there. The title is perfect! Great story, Trish.

Ronnie said...

There are elements of the first paragraph that I really like--mainly the way you use sensory detail (I feel like I could eat your writing or at least get a snack because you've made me hungry)! This is a beautiful line "peppering the air as limes dot a tree, washing the tentative breeze with the full, ripe promise of fruit." Could it be worked in elsewhere or added to a different piece? Julie's right, though, the story begins in the third paragraph. I'm not crazy about the phrase "during an empty and hopeless time", but I'm not sure why. It sounds vague, I think. But I'm not sure what would replace it and I understand why you feel you need to say that there. I do like the comparison between the bracelet and your wedding band because we know that you are not comparing the objects as much as you are the differences in the men, the relationships, how you felt, etc. Great symbolism. Love this line: "the silver felt warm with promise."

Ronnie said...

P.S. I knew there was something about Miguel... <:-)

Word Wand said...

It has been a treat to read your story again. The details bring me back to the Dominican. You have the eye of a romantic camera.
(A What?)
Writing about emotions is not the easiest thing, give most people a car or an pretty woman, but you have the chops.
Bring in the bracelet and we will all swoon.

JoAnne said...

I really like the lime image. With this and your other piece you have the makings of "Out of Africa." Continue the great work, Karen Blixen!

Julie said...

Okay, now that Ronnie brought it up...After I read your first piece, I thought there just might be more to the Miguel story. I yelled,"I knew it!" to my computer screen while reading "Two Lies and a Bracelet." You do know how to hook your audience!

Amy Hudock said...

I meant to add this to your comments on this piece. Consider sending this piece to SKIRT magazine for their Feb issue.

FEBRUARY: That’s Amore
Heart’s desires, grand passions, love, lust, temptation, broken hearts and mended hearts, wearing your heart on your sleeve, pouring your heart out, and letting your heart rule your head, the dating game, the mating game, unrequited love, self love.

http://skirt.com/2008_themes