Already Gone

– 50 –



The next day we drive into El Regalo and introduce ourselves to Oscar Guzman at the town market. He’s older than I expected, and he watches us closely as we talk, as if he’s expecting us to steal something.

It’s not until I mention Doug’s name that his eyes grow wide and he smiles, grand and welcoming, showing a thin scatter of yellow teeth.

“Mr. Doug?”

I take the letter from my pocket and hand it over. Oscar looks at it like it’s dirty and drops it unread on a stack of wooden vegetable crates next to his chair.

“How long?”

I look at Diane. “How long what?”

She says something to him in Spanish, and he answers.

“He wants to know how long we’re going to be at the house,” she says. “He wants to know if Doug will keep sending him money while we’re here.”

“Tell him I’ll make sure he does.”

Diane tells him, and Oscar smiles. He reaches out and shakes my hand, talking fast. I can’t understand a word, but Diane follows along without a problem.

She translates as she listens.

“He says the roof leaks in the front of the house, and not to use the outside shower.”

“There’s an outside shower?”

“He says it’s next to the porch, and it’s for rinsing off after swimming.” She listens. “And it’s broken.”

“We can’t go in the water anyway,” I say. “Ask him about the signs on the beach.”

Diane asks, and when she finishes talking, Oscar points west toward the water and shakes his finger in the air, as if scolding a child. “Natacion.”

I nod. “I know, the riptide.”

“Si.” He nods. “Tiburones.”

I look at Diane.

Oscar leans forward and slaps his hands together in front of me, one on top of the other. He laughs, then does it again, making a loud chomping noise each time.

I step back.

Oscar smiles, says something to Diane.

I wait for her to translate.

“He says the water will carry you out to the sharks.” She pauses, listens. “And he thinks he scared you.”

“He didn’t.”

She looks at me, her eyes reflecting the light. “You did jump.”

“I think he’s crazy.” I tap the side of my head, then point to him and say, “Loco.”

Oscar laughs, loud and rolling, then takes a brown paper bag from a shelf next to his chair and fills it with avocados. He hands the bag to me and says, in perfect English, “Welcome to El Regalo.”





That evening, I’m sitting on the porch watching the sunset when Diane comes out carrying a cardboard box.

“Look what I found.” She sets the box on the ground at my feet and opens the top flaps. “Books, lots of them, and there are three or four more boxes in the closet.”

I reach down and take one out. The pages are yellow with age, and the cover is missing. I turn it around and read the name on the spine.

“Day Keene?” I drop the book back in the box then grab a few more and read the names. “Fredric Brown, Ed Lacy, Horace McCoy.”

“Have you heard of them?”

“Some of them,” I say. “These are really old.”

“But they’re in good shape,” Diane says. “Readable, at least.”

I pick up another and flip through the pages.

“What’s that one?”

I look at the spine, say, “James M. Cain.”

“Do you know it?”

I tell her I do, then lean back and open to the first page.





For the next couple weeks, things are good. Diane and I spend most of our time sitting around the house, reading Doug’s collection of pulp paperbacks, or walking along the beach. The days are peaceful, my body is healing, and for a while I let myself relax and believe everything is normal.

We don’t talk about what happened back home, and I don’t push the subject. I still keep Doug’s .38 on the bedside table, and she doesn’t say a word about it.

Things have changed.

Sometimes I’ll catch her staring up at the sky or out at the water, lost in thought, and I’ll ask what’s on her mind. Usually she doesn’t answer, but if she does, it’s always the same thing.

She asks me if I think Gabby is looking for us.

I tell her he’s not, and I believe it.

Most of the time this helps, and Diane will come back from whatever dark place she’s in, and things will be good again for a while.

Other times it doesn’t help at all.

“How do you know?”

“If he was looking for us, he’d have found us by now.”

This stops her, and I see her struggling to find the words. “No one knows we’re here but Doug.”

“That’s right.”

“You said he wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“He won’t,” I say. “But Gabby is different. If he really wanted to find us, he’d find us.”

Diane turns away and walks to the glass doors. She looks out at the ocean, arms folded across her chest. “I don’t think I can take this much longer.”

“Take what?”

“Not knowing.”

I don’t say anything.

She looks back at me. “Will you do something for me?”

“What?”

“Call Doug,” she says. “Find out what’s going on, see if he’s heard anything.”

“I can’t,” I say. “I told him I wouldn’t call for at least a month. It’s only been a few weeks.”

“Please, Jake. I need to know.” I can hear the tears behind her voice, getting closer to the surface with each word. “Every time a car passes, my heart starts racing so fast that I think it’s going to explode.”

“And calling Doug is going to make it better?”

“I think I saw a pay phone up the street,” she says. “You can call from there.”

“If I call, I’ll go into town this afternoon and call from the market,” I say. “But I think it’s a mistake.”

Diane stares at me, then says, “Are you mad at me?”

I shake my head and tell her I’m not, but we both know it’s a lie.





I’m standing outside the market holding the phone against my ear with my shoulder while I sort through a handful of coins, dropping them in the slot. When I’ve deposited enough money, I dial Doug’s number and wait.

The phone rings.

It sounds a million miles away.

I start thinking about what I’ll say when Doug answers. Nothing comes to me, and I can feel myself getting more and more angry with each ring. I realize that Doug put himself at risk to help us, and that calling him now, just to make Diane feel better, could be dangerous.

That thought is all it takes. I hang up after the third ring. I stare at the phone for a while, then turn and walk inside the shop to buy some fruit to take home.

Oscar is arranging tomatoes in a wooden crate. He sees me and nods. “Hello, Jake. Just you today?”

“Just me.” I can feel my bad mood spreading, covering me like a cloud passing in front of the sun. “What’s good today?”

“Everything, my friend.” Oscar holds up one of the tomatoes for me to see. “You like?”

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll take a couple.”

He picks out a few of the best ones and sets them on the counter in front of me. Then he touches his forehead with his fingers and says, “I have something else for you.”

I tell him I don’t need anything else, that the tomatoes are fine, but he waves me off and disappears behind a curtain in the back of the store.

For a second, I think about leaving money on the counter and walking out, but I can’t bring myself to do it.

A few minutes later, Oscar comes out with a package. It’s about the size of a shoebox, and it’s wrapped in white butcher paper. He sets it next to the tomatoes.

“This came yesterday.” His voice drops to a whisper. “A private courier. It’s addressed to you.”

I feel something inside me drop away.

I turn the box around on the counter, and read the shipping label. I recognize the handwriting immediately.

“Are you okay?”

I look up at Oscar. “This came yesterday?”

He nods.

“Do you have a knife?”

Oscar takes a small paring knife from behind the counter and hands it to me. I use it to cut the tape away from the package, then I open the box and look inside. There’s a yellow Post-it note sitting on top. I pick it up and read.

“Something important?” Oscar asks.

I crumple the note and slide it into my pocket. “A gift,” I say. “From an old friend.”