"Of course."
"I have some manioc and some juice if you'd like."
"No, really, I'm okay."
"What did you do today?"
"Oh, we met with the chief, had breakfast at his table, hiked back to the first village, got the boat, worked on it, set up our tent behind the chiefs hut, then waited for you."
"The chief liked you?"
"Evidently. He wants us to stay."
"What do you think of my people?"
"They're all naked."
"They always have been."
"How long did it take to get accustomed to it?"
"I don't know. A couple of years. It gradually grows on you, like everything else. I was homesick for three years, and there are times now when I would like to drive a car, eat a pizza, and see a good movie. But you adjust."
"I can't begin to imagine."
- " "It's a matter of calling. I became a Christian when I was fourteen years old, and I knew then that God wanted me to be a missionary. I didn't know exactly where, but I put my faith in Him."
"He picked a helluva spot."
"I enjoy your English, but please don't swear."
"Sorry. Can we talk about Troy?" The shadows were falling fast. They were ten feet apart and could still see each other, but the blackness would soon separate them.
"Suit yourself," she said, with a weary air of resignation.
"Troy had three wives and six children, six that we knew about. You, of course, were a surprise. He didn't like the other six, but evidently was quite fond of you. He left them virtually nothing, just enough to cover their debts. Everything else was given to Rachel Lane, born out of wedlock on November 2, 1954, at Catholic Hospital in New Orleans, to a woman named Evelyn Cunningham, now deceased. That Rachel would be you."
The words fell heavy in the thick air; there were no other sounds. Her silhouette absorbed them, and, as usual, she thought before she spoke. "Troy wasn't fond of me. We hadn't seen each other in twenty years."
"That's not important. He left his fortune to you. No one had a chance to ask why because he jumped out of a window after signing his last testament. I have a copy for you."
"I don't want to see it."
"And I have some other papers which I'd like you to sign, maybe tomorrow, first thing, when we can see. Then I can be on my way."
"What kind of papers?"
"Legal stuff, all for your benefit."
"You're not concerned about my benefit." Her words were much quicker and sharper, and Nate was stung by the rebuke.
"That's not true," he replied weakly.
"Sure it is. You don't know what I want, or need, or like, or dislike. You don't know me, Nate, so how can you know what will or will not benefit me?"
"Okay, you're right. I don't know you, you don't know me. I'm here on behalf of your father's estate. It is still very hard for me to believe that I am actually sitting in the dark outside a hut, in a primitive Indian village, lost in a swamp the size of Colorado, in a third world country I've never seen before, talking to a very lovely missionary who just happens to be the richest woman in the world. Yes, you're right, I don't know what benefits you. But it is very important for you to see these papers, and to sign them."
"I'm not signing anything."
"Oh, come on."
"I have no interest in your papers."
"You haven't seen them yet."
"Tell me about them."
"They're formalities. My firm has to probate your father's estate. All of the heirs named in his will must inform the court, either in person or in writing, that they have been notified of the proceedings, and have been given the opportunity to take part. It's required by the law."
"And if I refuse?"
"Honestly, I haven't thought about that. It's so routine that everybody simply cooperates."
"So I submit myself to the court in...?"
"Virginia. The probate court there takes jurisdiction over you, even though you're absent."
"I'm not sure if I like that idea."
"Fine, then hop in the boat and we'll go to Washington."
"I'm not leaving." And with that a long silence ensued, a pause made even quieter by the darkness that now engulfed them. The boy was perfectly still under the tree. The Indians were settling in their huts, with no noise except for the cry of an infant.
"I'll get us some juice," she almost whispered, then moved into the house. Nate stood and stretched his tender body, and slapped at mosquitoes. His repellent was in his tent.
There was a small light of some sort flickering through the house. Rachel held a clay pot with a flame in the center. "These are leaves from that tree over there," she explained as she sat it on the ground by the door. "We burn them to keep mosquitoes away. Sit here, close to it."
Nate did as he was told. She returned with two cups filled with a liquid he could not see. "It's macajuno, similar to orange juice." They sat together on the ground, almost touching, with their backs resting against the hut, the burning pot not far from their feet.
"Speak softly," she said. "Voices carry in the dark, and the Indians are trying to sleep. They are also very curious about us."
"They can't understand anything."
"Yes, but they will listen anyway."
Soap had not touched his body in days, and he was suddenly concerned with his hygiene. He took a small sip, then another.
"Do you have a family?" she asked.
"I've had a couple. Two marriages, two divorces, four children. I now live alone."
"Divorce is so easy, isn't it?"
Nate took a very small sip of the warm liquid. He had thus far managed to avoid the raging diarrhea that struck so many foreigners. Surely the murky liquid was harmless.
Two Americans alone in the wilderness. With so much to talk about, why couldn't they avoid divorce?
"Actually, they were quite painful."
"But we move on. We marry, then divorce. Find someone else, marry, then divorce. Find someone else."
"We?"
"I'm just using the pronoun. Civilized people. Educated, complicated people. The Indians never divorce."
"They haven't seen my first wife either."
"She was unpleasant?"
Nate exhaled and took another drink. Indulge her, he told himself. She's desperate for conversation with one of her own.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm not prying. It's not important."
"She was not a bad person, not in the early years. I worked hard, drank even harder. When I wasn't at the office, I was in a bar. She became resentful, then mean, then vicious. Things spiraled out of control and we grew to hate each other."
The little confessional was over in a flash, and it was enough for both of them. His marital debris seemed so irrelevant then and there.
"You've never married?" he asked.
"No." She took a sip. She was left-handed, and when she raised the cup her elbow touched Nate's. "Paul never married, you know."
"Paul who?"
"The Apostle Paul."
"Oh, that Paul."
"Do you read the Bible?"
"No."
"I thought I was in love once, in college. I wanted to marry him, but the Lord led me away."
"Why?"
"Because the Lord wanted me here. The boy I loved was a good Christian, but he was weak physically. He would have never survived on the mission field."