rope, the angry man climbs, branch by branch, up the tree until he is high enough. He stabilizes himself and the rough bark bites his bare skin. He ties one end of the rope around a branch, and tugs at it several times to make sure it holds secure. He wants a beer or another joint or a woman to calm him down, anything to distract himself from how the vibration of the frogs’ call carries the thought, again and again, of his son.
The angry man looks for Balam, but his perception is blurred like his thoughts, and he can’t focus past the trees. To see Balam, he has to penetrate behind and between the trees, above and below, through the past and into the future.
The angry man loops the free end of the rope around his neck and ties a noose. He positions himself, feet on the branch, knees by his ears, crouches like a two-legged creature about to take flight, wet with sweat and fear. He looks at the green around him, so much green, rolling walls of green and a hard green ceiling and floor.
Come out, he says to Balam, I’m ready to die.
He isn’t a man of hope. The regret of his life is constant. His knees ache in this contorted position. He runs his hand over his long hair, wipes it out of his face, and wishes he wore his bandana. He needs to see Balam before he jumps, hangs himself on the tree. Balam will give him final courage.
FACT. Jaguars are masters of stealth. They observe but are seldom observed.
The angry man senses Balam is watching him and peers down at the grave. Beside it, fresh jaguar prints, the size of a man’s palm. He is locked in his five senses, can’t get past them to find Balam, but he knows once he jumps Balam will eat his meat and leave his bones for the grave.
He spits at the belongings he left in the dirt. Spits at life. Spits at his ex-wife. At the government on his back. At his son. Spits like rain. Spits and curses Balam until he chokes and has to slide a finger between his neck and the noose.
The angry man crouches on the branch until his legs numb. He shivers with exhaustion. He is dizzy from holding his pose, and for a moment his mind blanks. He closes his eyes and sees jaguars. He opens his eyes and sees jaguars. Jaguars and jaguar spirits, two thousand jaguars suddenly populate the forest. He sees them between the trees, past and future, six feet tail to nose, some running, some still, jaguars with cubs, females in heat, outlined in mist, killing prey, drinking at the creek. Jaguars dot the basin like the rosettes of their fur. Their power makes him powerful. Their intense animal scent becomes his own. He feels strength in his legs.
He moves with animal grace and without thought. By instinct he unties the rope from around the branch and climbs down the tree. Balam stands next to the grave. Locking his stare on Balam, the angry man pulls his knife from the trunk of the tree, slices the loop of the noose, and lets the rope drop from his neck and the knife drop in the grave.
I’m ready, Balam, he says.
Balam will give him a death more honorable than the tree, and he is grateful for this new plan. He steps toward Balam, can hear the mighty cat’s breath. He closes his eyes and contracts his muscles, tightens his body for the attack. He is waiting and adrenaline, he is fear and sorrow, he is silence and fury, he wants to live and he wants to die.
Howler monkeys and frogs bellow. Balam, the jaguar king, stands at one side of the grave, the angry man stands at the other. His son had imitated a frog, his son had smiled; he loved his wife once; he wanted a life he could live. He opens his eyes, and Balam and every jaguar are gone.
FACT. Male jaguars are solitary, living and hunting in territories they aggressively defend.
The angry man revs, his blood like oil slicking an engine, revs so high his muscles collapse. He falls into Balam’s tracks, his hands where Balam’s paws had been, his feet in the grave. His cheek presses the soil floor.
He can’t start over. He can’t reclimb the tree or retie the rope. He can’t call Balam. Balam betrayed him—like everyone he’s known. Ants crawl over his arms, bite him with their scissor jaws, scorching pain. He wants a joint. He wants a woman. He wants to tear Balam’s head from the wild cat’s neck. He pushes himself up to get away from the ants. Standing in the grave, he has to choose his next move. He stands for a long time, until the wind shifts and the sky goes gray, then he pulls on his T-shirt, ties the bandana over his long hair, and tucks the empty red woven pouch into the waistband of his jeans. How is he going to get money? He can’t go on like this. He uses his knife to shovel dirt over the bottles in the pit.
When he’s finished the angry man slumps against the tree. He stares at the rope coiled like a snake that’s too tired and sick of itself to move. He wants his energy back. He wants someone to kiss this fear and anger away.
The canopy and clouds work together to block all light. Rainy season, the sky crashes and clangs, rain falls violently and soaks him with his own failure. He is cold and moves through extremes. He needs relief. Beer gives him backbone and spit, but he needs fire. He needs the heat of a woman, the only thing that ever warms him up.
He wants a sweet lick on his neck, a private moment to entice these demons, these million-pound ghosts off his back. Tomorrow he’ll deal with tomorrow. Tonight he needs hands, hair, thighs, and flesh.
After the heat of the day, after the sky clears and the afternoon sun is no longer scorching, I close my book, the one about the boy stranded in a lifeboat with a tiger. I read most of the afternoon, longer than I intended. I felt compelled to continue reading, even though I kept telling myself to put the book down. I only brought one novel and wanted to savor it, little bits each day, but I read as if I were hungry for what it could feed me, until finally the boy in the lifeboat had a change of heart about the tiger. Then I breathed deeply and felt I could stop.
My body is stiff from sitting, I think a walk will feel good, so I tuck the book into the suitcase in my cabana, put a T-shirt and shorts over my bikini, and position my straw cowboy hat over my hair in a barrette, cooler that way in the heat. I toss some things in a backpack, I like to be prepared: camera, sunscreen, a twenty-dollar bill, twelve Belizean dollars, and a fifty-dollar traveler’s cheque, just in case. I set off down the beach. When the beach gets swept up in waves, I move to the road. A few cars pass but not many. This is a sleepy village, people don’t go places just to go, why expend unnecessary energy?
MYTH. The angry man gets high on the beach under a coconut palm. He draws circles inside circles inside circles with a stick.
I walk and walk. It’s farther than I remember. I’m going to the dive shop where the diver works even though he told me not to walk that far. I did it before, on my first trip to Belize, and he brought me back to town in a boat through the lagoon, naming vegetation and birds along the way. Red mangrove, black mangrove, buttonwood, heron, hummingbird, pelican, swallow, osprey.
As I walk I think about the marathon I recently ran, 26.2 miles, and how distance feels good to my body. But I’m in flip-flops, the wrong shoes for this road, and need more cushion against the small stones. The sandal thong rubs between my right toes and hurts. When I arrive at the dive shop, I plan to ask for a Band-Aid.
Along the road are brightly painted beach cabanas amid tropical overgrowth, and I think about the house I’m renovating. I call it a small bungalow because it sounds charming, but really it’s a dump in need of total repair. It’s toward the top of an uphill dead-end alley, which is misleadingly named a terrace.
The renovations
