today,
señorita
?”
“Just a small gutted chicken,
por favor
.”
As he prepares the meat and wraps it in the ubiquitous rough pink paper, Wendell and I introduce ourselves, comment on how fresh the food here is, how pretty the beaches, how nice the people. After the usual chitchat, I ask, “Don Ernesto, that
señora
who bought all those cow guts—what will she do with them?”
Don Ernesto’s expression becomes heavy. He shakes his head and mutters something incomprehensible.
“¿Perdón?”
asks Wendell.
Don Ernesto’s tiny eyes dart around and he warns, “Not something to talk about. Best not ask questions.”
Wendell and I exchange glances. Now doesn’t feel like the right time to ask about José Cruz. As Don Ernesto counts out my change, he grows more relaxed, his eyes flicking happily between us and his
telenovela
.
And then I mention that we live in the cabanas near Punta Cometa.
He looks up, alarmed, then blinks a few times and shakes his head. Handing me a few bills sticky with innards goop, he cautions, “
Tengan cuidado, muchachos
. Be careful.”
I want to ask him what he means, but now other customersare lined up behind us, and Don Ernesto has already moved on to them, appearing glad to end our conversation.
Wendell and I head down the street, past a few tourist booths selling cheap T-shirts and key chains and toys—all sea turtle–themed. Here and there, stray dogs follow us for a bit, attracted to the meat, until we wave them away. Wendell and I don’t say much—it’s as if the vendors’ paranoia has rubbed off on us, made us watch our words in public. We just shoot each other looks as we walk, limiting our conversation to the tasks at hand.
“What’s next?” Wendell says, nodding at the list in my hand.
“Bread, eggs, soap, fruit.” Then I add cynically, “And José Cruz.”
At each shop, after introductions and small talk, we ask if the vendors know a man named José Cruz who fits my father’s vague description. Everyone—the sisters at the bakery, the man at the pharmacy, and the lady selling plastic bags of eggs—has the same response as Doña Elisa and the fish guy: they joke about how many José Cruzes are in this town.
Apparently, José is by far the most popular boy’s name, and the custom is to give every child a second name, which is often used instead of the first. José Antonio, José Alejandro, José Manuel, and so on. Of course, we don’t even know if my José has a second name. To further complicate things, each person also has two last names—the father’s family name followed by the mother’s. And the Cruzes are a well-established family who’ve lived in the area for centuries. Thename is everywhere, like weeds sprouting between cement cracks.
The pharmacist chuckles, estimating that there are probably even about a dozen people with the last name Cruz Cruz. I suppress a groan. I’d guessed José Cruz was a common name in Mexico, but this is worse than I’d imagined.
On the way to our last stop, to buy fruit, Wendell puts his arm around me, comforting me. “Hey, listen, Z. You’re a seeker. Don’t forget it. You’ll find him.”
I force a weak smile. “Seeker.” That’s what the name Zeeta means. And so much of what I’ve spent my life seeking, I’ve found in this place—somewhere I belong, a true home. The only thing missing is my father.
We turn into the fruit shop, where we’re welcomed by a young vendor, round and cheerful in a tight yellow skirt and cherry-red top. Smiling brightly with rosy balls of cheeks, she fits in with the mounds of fruit around her—mangos, pomegranates, persimmons, guavas. She offers us a slice of cantaloupe, chitchatting as she weighs our bananas and pineapples and watermelon. In her chipper voice, she asks us where we’re from, how long we’re here, where we’re staying.
“The Cabañas Magia del Mar,” I say, watching her carefully. “Near Punta Cometa.”
Her eyebrows rise in alarm, and then
señorita
?”
“Just a small gutted chicken,
por favor
.”
As he prepares the meat and wraps it in the ubiquitous rough pink paper, Wendell and I introduce ourselves, comment on how fresh the food here is, how pretty the beaches, how nice the people. After the usual chitchat, I ask, “Don Ernesto, that
señora
who bought all those cow guts—what will she do with them?”
Don Ernesto’s expression becomes heavy. He shakes his head and mutters something incomprehensible.
“¿Perdón?”
asks Wendell.
Don Ernesto’s tiny eyes dart around and he warns, “Not something to talk about. Best not ask questions.”
Wendell and I exchange glances. Now doesn’t feel like the right time to ask about José Cruz. As Don Ernesto counts out my change, he grows more relaxed, his eyes flicking happily between us and his
telenovela
.
And then I mention that we live in the cabanas near Punta Cometa.
He looks up, alarmed, then blinks a few times and shakes his head. Handing me a few bills sticky with innards goop, he cautions, “
Tengan cuidado, muchachos
. Be careful.”
I want to ask him what he means, but now other customersare lined up behind us, and Don Ernesto has already moved on to them, appearing glad to end our conversation.
Wendell and I head down the street, past a few tourist booths selling cheap T-shirts and key chains and toys—all sea turtle–themed. Here and there, stray dogs follow us for a bit, attracted to the meat, until we wave them away. Wendell and I don’t say much—it’s as if the vendors’ paranoia has rubbed off on us, made us watch our words in public. We just shoot each other looks as we walk, limiting our conversation to the tasks at hand.
“What’s next?” Wendell says, nodding at the list in my hand.
“Bread, eggs, soap, fruit.” Then I add cynically, “And José Cruz.”
At each shop, after introductions and small talk, we ask if the vendors know a man named José Cruz who fits my father’s vague description. Everyone—the sisters at the bakery, the man at the pharmacy, and the lady selling plastic bags of eggs—has the same response as Doña Elisa and the fish guy: they joke about how many José Cruzes are in this town.
Apparently, José is by far the most popular boy’s name, and the custom is to give every child a second name, which is often used instead of the first. José Antonio, José Alejandro, José Manuel, and so on. Of course, we don’t even know if my José has a second name. To further complicate things, each person also has two last names—the father’s family name followed by the mother’s. And the Cruzes are a well-established family who’ve lived in the area for centuries. Thename is everywhere, like weeds sprouting between cement cracks.
The pharmacist chuckles, estimating that there are probably even about a dozen people with the last name Cruz Cruz. I suppress a groan. I’d guessed José Cruz was a common name in Mexico, but this is worse than I’d imagined.
On the way to our last stop, to buy fruit, Wendell puts his arm around me, comforting me. “Hey, listen, Z. You’re a seeker. Don’t forget it. You’ll find him.”
I force a weak smile. “Seeker.” That’s what the name Zeeta means. And so much of what I’ve spent my life seeking, I’ve found in this place—somewhere I belong, a true home. The only thing missing is my father.
We turn into the fruit shop, where we’re welcomed by a young vendor, round and cheerful in a tight yellow skirt and cherry-red top. Smiling brightly with rosy balls of cheeks, she fits in with the mounds of fruit around her—mangos, pomegranates, persimmons, guavas. She offers us a slice of cantaloupe, chitchatting as she weighs our bananas and pineapples and watermelon. In her chipper voice, she asks us where we’re from, how long we’re here, where we’re staying.
“The Cabañas Magia del Mar,” I say, watching her carefully. “Near Punta Cometa.”
Her eyebrows rise in alarm, and then
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