CHAPTER THREE
KATY
December 13
Katy gripped her armrest as the small plane shuddered on its final descent into the Guatemalan city of Antigua. Despite her apprehension over the soundness of the small-engine plane, her chest loosened with happiness at the sight of the hills rising up to mountains circling lush valleys. Little patches of farmland dotted the countryside.
She was home again.
Certainly, this wasn’t like her home in Manhattan, but her heart belonged to Guatemala and to its people.
She stretched and listened to the Spanish chatter of her fellow passengers, sensing their excitement. Katy wished she was more fluent in Spanish and the native Mayan language, K’iche, though she was actually pretty decent in both, picking up conversations here and there. When she’d come to this country as an intern, she’d vowed to spend most of her waking days in the country conversing with native speakers, unlike her fellow interns who hung out with other Americans and drank cheap cerveza most nights. By the end of the six months, she was fluent. It was too bad that she had forgotten a lot over time.
When she’d gotten the message Conchilla’s mayor had sent her before Christmas, asking if Katy could bring gifts for the children from the United States, she didn’t hesitate. She arranged to fly on the plane with the gifts, personally ensuring their delivery to Conchilla.
At least, if they didn’t win the million dollars, they could have Christmas gifts.
Her thoughts returned to Marcus James, the billionaire. The cold businessman who didn’t believe in Christmas. Katy didn’t regret confronting him, but she did regret that she most likely nixed their chances for the prize money. She was sure any chances Conchilla had in the contest had evaporated like a puddle on a hot day.
Well, let him pick a different cause. Let him lord from his penthouse suite and pick and choose based on speed-dating with a cause, billionaire style. She knew now that his philanthropy, his supposed generosity, was simply a sham.
She sighed inwardly. She was being petty. Other causes deserved support too. Conchilla wasn’t the only one hurting this Christmas. Whatever Marcus James’s intentions were for hosting a million-dollar contest, he was still doing the right thing. Even if he wasn’t going about it the right way.
Thinking of the holiday, her mood lightened. That was why she had decided to. She wanted to deliver gifts to the children. Her mother had objected to her being gone for Christmas, so she assured her she’d be back in time for the holiday.
She couldn’t wait to see the children’s faces when they opened the packages.
Fifteen minutes after landing she cleared customs and made her way to the general lobby of the airport. La Aurora International Airport was smaller than most airports she had flown into and held a bit of a rundown feel though she could see improvements here and there. The people were trying to put their best foot forward. As she expected, they already had Christmas decorations out. Nothing fancy. The tinsel looked faded and frayed and the ornaments a bit kitschy, but the Christmas season was there.
How she loved this country.
She felt her spirits lift despite the disappointment she’d experienced in Marcus James’s office.
As she waited for her luggage among other foreign travelers, she thought back to her mother’s reaction when Katy had told her she wanted to do charity work in this Guatemalan village.
“Why Conchilla?” her mother had asked.
Katy had a ready answer. “Well, they speak Spanish, so my high school Spanish should help, and they’re off the beaten path.”
Her parents had tolerated her interest until she started planning regular trips, especially ones that straddled Christmas. By now, thankfully, her mother had accepted that she was going to be gone over the holidays most years.
Katy lifted her quality, but well-traveled, purple suitcase from the luggage carousel, pulled out the telescoping handle, and made her way to the airport entrance. No one was meeting her. Not this time. She knew Papa Lando Paredes, her homestay dad, would have, but she didn’t want to bother him and his family. Plus, he never accepted gas money from her, so she decided a mini-shuttle would be just fine.
A shuttle driver in jeans and a washed-out polo shirt beckoned to her.
She nodded, and he hefted her luggage into the back of his shuttle van. Katy got in with three other people, Caucasian like her. Within minutes, the shuttle had filled with passengers, and they made their way down the roads to Antigua, about an hour away.
The winter in Manhattan seemed a distant memory. The weather here felt like spring, her light sweater almost too warm. The windows were open, and her hair swirled around as she peeked out at the ring of volcanic mountains that characterized Guatemala’s landscape. Banana trees dotted the foreground, and taller trees formed a lush backdrop along the highway. They passed women in their traditional traje clothing, colorfully striped skirts reaching down to their shins.
As they got closer to Antigua proper, little colorful vehicles came into view. They were tuk-tuks, Guatemala’s unique public transportation, made up of a motorcycle-like engine encased in a small pod open on both sides with a front row for the driver and a passenger riding shotgun, and the back bench for more passengers.
She paid the equivalent of twelve US dollars in fare, and the driver dropped her off in front of a cheery lime-green house along a row of pastel houses on a street.
As she got out, she had to watch her step. The ground was uneven from all the earthquakes they’d experienced over the decades. Even as she stood there, a little ribbon of smoke curling from one of the volcanoes in the distance—fittingly named Volcán de Fuego or Volcano of Fire——was visible, reminding her of the constant threat of volcanic activity. Not to mention earthquakes, as Guatemala straddled an actively shifting fault line.
Guatemalans were crazy to live here under those conditions, but Katy could totally understand why. This was their land.
Mama Muni, Papa Lando’s wife, came out of the lime-green house, her brown face splitting into a warm grin. “Katy Stevens,” she said in a melodious voice. Then she wrapped her arms around Katy.
Katy hugged her tightly. “Hello, Mama Muni,” she said. Her homestay mother smelled of onions and charcoal. Katy lifted her nose into the air and caught an aromatic smell of meat cooking. “Are you making tamales?”
“But of course.”
“This early?”
“Just for you.”
They went arm in arm into the house, where the children, Filipo and Kotil, ran to hug her. Mama Muni’s husband, Papa Lando, came out too, enveloping her in his burly embrace.
They brought her out to the sunroom in the back, where their yard faced a modest but private clearing surrounded by banana trees and animal pens. The yard was dirt but clean and graded. In some spots, puddles had formed from rains.
Mama Muni insisted that Katy sit down and relax, and as she did, the children swarmed around her. They spoke a little bit of English, but they mainly communicated in Spanish with Katy, who did her best. She didn’t need any translation when she took out a foam ball for Filipo and a pocket doll for Kotil. The children beamed, hugged her, and then ran off to play with their new toys.
Once they were gone, Papa Lando launched into a desultory conversation about his new plantings that year, his new tuk-tuk, and news from the neighbors.
Katy felt her cares melt away. She could barely hear traffic outside, just the occasional putt-putt of tuk-tuks and Christmas music piping in from a scratchy radio somewhere nearby.
No malls, no glitzy parties, no gaudy decorations for the holiday. Here, they emphasized the birth of Christ. The true meaning of Christmas.
Mama Muni whipped out a plate and, with flourish, set a tamale wrapped in banana leaves on a small table by Katy. “Eat, mi hija,” she said.
Katy unwrapped the tamale, steam still coming from the cornmeal delicacy. She cut into it with a fork, blew on it a little to cool it off, and took a bite.
Just the right texture, and not too spicy. “Mmm,” she said.
Mama Muni beamed.
Later, the children ushered her to the bedroom they’d prepared for her. During her homestay years ago, she had lived with the Paredes family. They had taken her in like their own daughter. Despite the language barrier, Mama Muni managed to communicate, especially with offerings of food. Her intent was always clear when she motioned for Katy to join them around the table.
Worn out from jetlag, Katy shut the door to get some privacy. There would be plenty of reunions later with some of the people she’d known in Antigua. For now, she smiled at the simple comforts conjured up by the sweet Paredes family. A small bed in a metal frame with yellow sheets, a pillow, and an embroidered cushion. A towel and bar of soap on a shelf. A chair and a table by the window that overlooked their yard.
She thought of her younger siblings. She hoped they would want to come with her to Guatemala someday, or at least follow in Katy’s footsteps, traveling to another part of the world. They could see for themselves that simple living like this could give your heart a jolt of joy.
Unpacking her sneakers, she changed into them from her ballet flats so she could comfortably walk on the cobblestone streets of Antigua. Fortified with a fresh tamale in her belly, she was ready to set out.
Her phone beeped. At the airport, she had changed SIM cards so she could access local wi-fi. She’d received a text.
It read, “I just landed at La Aurora. Where can I meet you? ~ Marcus James”
Katy couldn’t believe her eyes. Marcus James, the billionaire, was coming. For one moment, she was paralyzed, thinking of what that implied.
He would consider Conchilla. He was coming to see it in person. He would join Katy. She’d have the job of showing him around.
Her heart pounded. She had one chance to get this right.
“Meet me at Plaza Mayor,” she wrote back.