The Jaguar Man. Lara Naughton

to buy a tiny house here and if I could make it home.

      I’m thirsty. I have money, but there’s nowhere to buy water. The road to the dive shop stretches out longer and farther. I don’t know what time it is, but the air is cooling. I hurry. I consider maybe I should have listened when the diver told me not to walk. I want to spend every minute of the rest of this day with him but when I get to the dive shop I’m surprised it’s already closing. He left work an hour ago to be with me. He must have gone home on the water while I was on the road. My heart sinks, and I feel foolish. My cell phone doesn’t work in Belize so I call him from the dive shop office and tell him where I am. I laugh at the situation and apologize for not being at the cabana. I tell him I’ll catch a taxi and meet him in a few minutes. He says he’ll wait in the hammock on the cabana porch. He says he misses me.

      MYTH. The angry man’s father had a reputation for drinking. The angry man watched his mother take the brunt of it.

      The dive shop doesn’t have a taxi phone number so I go to the restaurant next door, and the bartender makes a call. I step to the road to wait for the taxi. I could stand outside the dive shop or the restaurant where there are other people mingling, but the buildings are set back from the road on a small cul-de-sac, and I don’t want to waste a moment returning to the diver. I want it to be easy to jump in the taxi and go. I remember the O. Henry story of the couple that had no money for Christmas presents. He sold his cherished pocket watch to buy her hair combs. She cut and sold her hair to buy him a chain for his watch. I think the diver and I are a little like that couple. He left early on the water to be with me while I was traveling the road to be with him. I think I’ll tell him the story when I see him. I think he’ll kiss me for that story.

      You have to learn to breathe from a regulator, the diver says. When you’re underwater you inhale and exhale through your mouth. Your nose is inside a mask so if you exhale through your nose you might create air space, which will cause the mask to fog up or allow water to clear. Then your view will be less.

      I’m impatient, where is the taxi? Each car that passes makes my heart jump in anticipation. Finally a reddish orange van comes down the road. The driver, a striking guy in his thirties, about my own age, stops.

      Taxi! he says.

      It doesn’t look like a taxi and there’s a younger man in the front seat, but taxis here come in all colors, makes and models, and friends or family members often go along for the ride. I don’t notice many of the details of this taxi. My mind is preoccupied with the diver. I respond yes! The passenger jumps out and walks quickly up the road, turning once to give me a piercing or maybe encouraging look; I don’t know how to interpret it. Later, on another day, I will wonder about that guy in the passenger seat. Did he suspect what was going to happen? Did he try to send a message with his eyes? Or was it nothing, just a look? I hop in the front seat of the taxi, which is customary. The driver pulls a U-turn and heads toward town.

      MYTH. The angry man’s mother loved to waltz. When he was very small, she used to dance him through the narrow space between the wall and the couch. He was proud to waltz with his mother, especially since his father had no rhythm. Then the angry man’s mother waltzed alone, while her boy and his father watched.

       FOUR

      I sit with my backpack on my lap chatting with the taxi driver. He has a distinct Mestizo look, seems out of place in this Creole village, an artist, I think, on the fringe. He reminds me of friends at home. I like the way he tied his red bandana over his long hair, notice the remains of red fingernail polish on his left thumb, and wonder why he painted his nails and if he has a thing for the color red. Maybe he’s a painter or a musician. Maybe he plays music on the beach—wine flowing, good food, a bonfire. I’ve never seen anything like that in the village, but maybe it’s because I hadn’t met him yet and didn’t know where they gathered. I wonder if the diver knows him though I doubt they’d have much in common.

      Underwater there are signs you use to communicate, the diver says. Okay. Up. Down. Slow down. Something’s wrong. Low on air. Out of air. Watch out for that big fucking shark!

      He seems like a friendly driver, and I hope for an interesting conversation, but I’m confused that he doesn’t recognize the name of my hotel in this tiny village. It’s one of the most popular places to stay. There are nearly a dozen cabanas on the property, which is located at the very end of the road, any farther I’d be in the bay. Why doesn’t he know? He mentions he was watching the soccer game with the guy who was riding with him, and the local team won. I’m glad because I know this will make the diver happy. I guess that the taxi driver’s been drinking and carefully explain where I’m going, using local references which gives me a slight twinge of pride to be in-the-know.

      I ask how much the fare is. He says BZ$20, but he’ll give me the ride for BZ$15 since . . . I can’t hear his reason or maybe he mumbles or maybe he doesn’t finish his sentence. Great, I think, a discount. I ask if he has change for $20 US, and he doesn’t. Again, I find it strange for a taxi driver not to have change, but it’s Sunday and things in this village are relaxed so I’m not concerned. I check my backpack and tell him I can either give him BZ$12 or I need to stop somewhere for change. It’s up to him. He says he’ll stop.

      MYTH. When the angry man was still young, his father died and his abuela grieved. After the priest gave the last anointing and said, “Amen,” after Abu covered her dead son’s face with the small blanket she had stitched so many years ago for his baptism, after she cried in private because he had never been a good boy or a good man, she took her grandson’s hand and led him to the trailhead. They walked the easy loop, careful of the sharp sprouts and with an eye out for animal tracks. They stopped to watch a Blue Morpho drink from rich mud and flit around the branches of a rotting log. As the butterfly flapped its wings, it seemed to appear then disappear, blue then brown, blue then brown, here then gone, son then no son, father then no father.

      Abu told him be still. He held his breath and froze.

      I can feel your papa inside the butterfly, she told him.

      Then with the magic of a grandmother, Abu suddenly caught the butterfly in her cupped hands.

      I think he’s apologizing, she told him.

      To you?

      Yes. And you.

      She handed him the butterfly. He took it in his little boy fingers, studied its blue side, brown side, body, and legs. Then he plucked off one of the wings. Abu snatched the butterfly, pried open the boy’s mouth, and crushed the butterfly inside. He gagged, spit out mangled pieces, slapped at his tongue with his hands, then sat on the trail, crying.

      Get up, she told him.

      It took him a long time, but she waited. Then Abu placed an open palm on the top of his head, bent down, and kissed both his eyes.

      You’re like your father, she told him.

      No I’m not.

      I love you, but you are.

      FACT. Blue Morphos aren’t really blue. They have tiny scales on their wings that reflect blue light, making them appear to be one thing when they’re really another.