Nicaraguan Gringa - John Keith

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here as a reflection of North Carolina castes and classes, blacks and whites, cotton mill workers and old Southern families. But still, she was different from my mother and my grandmother. Mother never really left North Carolina. She was sort of a perpetual visitor in Nicaragua, and my grandmother . . . well, Louisa was a whole other story. She tried to make everything she touched in Nicaragua British, from the furniture to the servants to the coffee finca workers, even to the garden. You’ve heard how she tried to plant an English rose garden.”

      “I’ve heard Don Martín laugh about it.” Sarah chuckled at the story, especially the way Martín told it.

      “Yes, just ask Martín about la Dueña Louisa. He was just a little boy, but he never forgot . . . Mary was different. Mary felt a kinship with this country, with the people, with the finca, with the birds, damn it all, even with the volcanoes. That’s why she wanted to be buried here, I suppose. She belonged . . .” George’s voice broke, and he sobbed.

      “Daddy, are you all right?”

      “Yes, yes, of course. You know, of all the things I’ve done in my life, what I’m most proud of is what we did in the village for the workers . . . the potable water, the electricity, the renovation of their houses, even moving Blanca’s family here. That was all Mary. That was her idea. Her passion. I only wish she could have lived to see it completed.”

      “I’m very proud of both of you. You know that.”

      “I know, Susi. I’ll miss you very much, but I want you to have a wonderful time in college, as I did, as your mother did.”

      “I will, Daddy; and I’ll miss you very much, too. You know that.”

      “I hope you’ll come back someday . . . to live; but if you find your place in North Carolina or somewhere else in the States or somewhere else entirely, that’s all right. You have to find your place where life takes you.”

      “Of course I’m coming back to Nicaragua. This is my home. This is where I belong.”

      Flora died in the middle of the night from a fever, perhaps typhoid, and Martín came to the front door of Quinta Louisa tapping softly and then speaking apologetically for waking them so late at night to tell them that his wife had passed away and asking helplessly like a little boy what he should do. Martín had always known what to do and told them what must be done at such times and so George Rutledge was flummoxed at first by his queries. George and Sarah had both noticed at odd moments over the past several days that Flora didn’t seem to be feeling well, but they were so preoccupied with their own concerns that they were distracted from inquiring seriously about her health; and Martín and Flora had not wanted to burden the father and daughter for whom they worked with their problems and pain.

      The next day Martín had asked George Rutledge if he could bury his wife atop the cliff beyond the forest close to Mary Rutledge’s grave, rather than in the village cemetery beside the little church.

      “Of course. Of course you can, my good man. Where we will all be together someday.” It was one of the few times that Sarah had seen her father weep openly in Don Martín’s presence, and she wished that he would reach out and embrace Don Martín, but they never touched, not even their hands.

      On the third day they buried Flora at the top of the cliff. The workers from the finca carried her casket though the forest, just as they had carried Mary Rutledge’s casket; and all the people from the village followed them. Father Richard Sims helped them with the service at the grave. They couldn’t find a Roman Catholic priest who was willing to come up from Managua for a campsina’s funeral. George said the Catholic priests couldn’t be blamed; it was estimated that there was only one Roman Catholic priest for every ten thousand of the faithful in Nicaragua. The people from the village and Martín and Guillermo and Julio and his wife and children seemed touched and grateful for Father Richard’s words and prayers in broken Spanish; but Pablo ran screaming back through the forest before the service was finished.

      “Mamí! Mamí! Do not let that foreign devil priest take you away!”

      For the first time in her life Sarah felt a loving tenderness for Pablo and wanted to take him in her arms and comfort him like a little brother, but she remained standing beside the grave as if some force beyond her control anchored her there while the women from the village chased after Pablo through the forest.

      Earthquake and Revolution:

      1972–1979

      Where Do You Belong?

      International flights from the United States arrived in Managua in the morning and returned in the afternoon so that anyone traveling beyond New Orleans or Miami would usually schedule a connection to arrive at a final destination late at night or else stay in one or the other port city overnight. Not only would George Rutledge need to schedule a domestic flight for Sarah after clearing customs in Miami or New Orleans, but she would have to change planes again in Atlanta before flying into Greensboro, where college officials would meet her. It would be almost impossible to do in one day. George pondered and fretted over Sarah’s itinerary. He wanted to accompany her, but it was a difficult time to leave the new coffee-processing plant unattended.

      After dithering for almost a week George decided to call an old college friend who lived in Miami to ask if he would meet Sarah’s plane and let her stay with his family and take her back to the airport the next morning. The telephone call took almost three hours to complete over the landlines from Central America through Mexico. “I know it’s a terribly lot to ask, but . . .”

      Before George could finish his request his friend had enthusiastically agreed to the plan. He was one of the few friends from George’s college years who had kept in touch with him and the only such friend who had sent condolences after Mary’s death. He seemed to be genuinely pleased to be able to do something to help George and delighted to be able to meet his daughter.

      Of course Sarah protested vehemently and assured her father that if she was old enough to go away to college she was old enough to change planes or even take a taxi to a hotel for the night, but secretly she was relieved that someone would meet her and take care of her. She had never visited the United States without one or both of her parents beside her. Her anticipation of going to college and leaving her father and Nicaragua both thrilled and terrified her, although she confided none of her feelings to anyone except Guillermo.

      It was raining when George and Sarah arrived at the airport, but the shower was typically brief. The sun came out and the sky cleared as the airplane rose over Xolotián (Lake Managua). Sarah had seen Momotombo and Momotombito from the air on previous flights; but looking down on them now she was shocked at how ordinary they seemed. Momotombito looked like a toy boat in the middle of a pond floating beside Momotombo like sloop moored on the shore. On their frequent drives home from Masaya, Momotombo always seemed magical looming ahead of them, as if the highway would crash into the base of the huge volcano with wisps of smoke blowing from its peak to complete the eerie effect. Sarah felt an aching desire to look up at them at sunset from the Masaya highway and wondered how long it would be before she saw them again. “Will I go to Masaya during my Christmas holiday?” she wondered and immediately swore to herself that she would. It seemed to be ages in the future, already in a distant land, the land she had just left.

      George’s college friend and his family in Miami were kind and solicitous as if she were some exotic bird that had flown into their patio. Their small talk was polite, but she found nothing of interest in their conversation. She struggled to remember the names of the two younger children and how to spell them, so that she could write the requisite thank you note prompted in her conscience from her mother beyond the grave. The officials from the college who met her plane in Greensboro were equally kind and polite and unmemorable, and Sarah began to wonder if her imagined adventure of college would continue to be pale and insipid compared to her life in Nicaragua.

      Then she met her roommate.

      “So you’re the foreigner they assigned to room with me” were the first words she spoke to Sarah. “You do speak English, don’t you?” were the second words out of her mouth.

      “Yes.

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