Where the Dog Star Never Glows

Louis takes her hand. She lets it be for a moment, feeling his calluses, the sweat gathered in his lifelines, then pulls it gently away as if it is compelled to point out the small runway they are approaching. Dry grass and dusty palms speed by as the plane begins its frantic, bumpy landing.

Louis steps onto the asphalt, takes a deep, enthusiastic breath of air. “Dominica smells different. Like burning wood, doesn’t it?”
Jill’s sniff is polite, her mind elsewhere, wondering how she is going to keep up with such optimism, in this place where he’s invested so much hope.

With a map that looks like it came off a cereal box to guide them, they follow the single, unmarked road into the interior. The rusty, unkempt rental car creaks and groans, resisting the steep mountain climb. Louis adjusts quickly to driving European style, but Jill still feels they are on the edge of disaster every time he rounds the hairpin turns.

“Look at these mountains. Banana trees growing right up ’em. I never knew bananas grew that way.”

Jill stares out the window at the passing view. The jungle is dense, leaving little room for clearings or space. Banana trees of various size sprout from both above and below the paved road, bearing bunches that point upward, defying gravity. Some are encased in blue plastic.
The road levels out to a valley. Pastel-colored shacks, blanched a lighter shade from the tropical sun, settle on rock-strewn earth or bury their stilt foundations into a place that once held an ancient river.

“They grow gardens in cans here.” Jill eyes the tins arranged on front steps and windowsills. Some are painted with leftover house paint; some retain the original labels, peeling and pitted. “They look cheery. It’s like each flower has its own home.”

“I think we’re almost there,” says Louis. “Keep a lookout for a lodge.” Once again they are climbing. To her right, Jill watches a river meet up with the road. It continues to race alongside, clear and blue and frothy, rushing over brown-black boulders.

*

Facing the river, the lodge rests at the base of the rainforest. Phillip, the manager, greets them with a wide smile and “welcome drinks” of rum punch.

“Whew, this is strong.” Jill’s head swims almost immediately with the taste of tropical fruit and hard liquor.

“This is great. You arrive hot and sweaty, and they give you a drink. Great way to wind down.”

A red-throated hummingbird buzzes around the courtyard garden, from hibiscus bush to persimmon tree, from orchid to orchid. It passes close to Jill’s head in a frenzy of motion, speeding with such determination that she ducks against the loud buzzing of wings.

The room is damp, so she agrees to go with Louis to the Emerald Pool. They reach the tourist spot by following wooden boards laid down in a serpentine path through the jungle. The grotto collects the spill from the waterfall that empties into it. Jill strips to her bathing suit and wades into the warm green water, feeling her progress over mossy rocks. They are alone. Louis films her with his camcorder, an old model he bought for their honeymoon in Hawaii.

She wants to get to the falls, and reaching the feathery cascade, she turns to face him. Louis is speaking, but she can’t make it out. The falls are too ferocious to stand beneath, so she rests behind the watery curtain on a rock ledge carved into the cliff. She closes her eyes, imagines she is back in her mother’s womb—fertile, dark, mossy—the falls a protective barrier—against the outside world of human imperfection, even against the very mother who carries her.

The water-smoothed rock pillows Jill’s body, stiff from months of sleepless nights. She wonders about being alone again. After four years of marriage to Louis, even her feelings of fondness are beginning to be watered down, diluted with his seemingly baseless constancy.

She hears the change in water flow. Wet and grinning, he pushes his way through the edge of the falls.

“Nice cave you got here. Mind if I join you?”

She sees he is going to reach for her. She slides away, knowing he’s too trusting to even guess she’s avoiding his touch.

“It’s cold. You stay.”

“Hey, put the camcorder on me.”

From the bank where their clothes lie on logs, she turns the lens on his large, six-foot figure, now floating in the pool, the green tinting his white skin. She zooms in closer to focus on his face. Partially submerged, he looks far away. And with a start she wonders if she just assumes his thoughts. Where does he go, she wonders, when his mind travels away from her?