Moondogs Read Free Page B

been awhile ago. Benicio hadn’t spoken Spanish, nor heard it in the mouth of a real live person, since his mother’s funeral in January. He’d been the de-facto translator and guide for the members of her family who’d managed to get visas in time to attend the service. That included communicating with their hotel for them, shepherding the ill-prepared aunts to Macy’s so they could buy winter coats and ferrying them from the funeral home to the church. When they all boarded a flight back to San José they took Benicio’s Spanish with them. They even took it from his dreams, which were now like silent movies that lacked even a piano soundtrack. Since then Benicio had only uttered a word of Spanish if Alice asked him to. The two of themwould be on the couch, Alice flipping channels while Benicio stroked her pale, round knees. She’d linger on Telemundo sometimes and ask him to repeat what the announcer was saying. There were words that she liked the sound of, especially in Benicio’s Spanish voice, which she insisted was different from his English voice. Like a whole different person speaking. “Moribundo,” he’d say. She’d have him repeat it a few times before trying to sound it out with him. Festividades. Sueño. Pico de gallo. Nieve. Sabado Gigante.
    The dive shop on Barracks Road was small and packed with more gear than should have reasonably been able to fit through the door. Each of the walls was lined with multicolored wetsuits hanging from racks above deep bins of gloves, booties, mask and snorkel sets, dive lights and fins. Regulators and buoyancy control vests dangled from big plastic hangers suspended from the ceiling and Benicio had to navigate between pyramids of empty dive tanks and rusty magazine racks just to get to the service desk. Alice began to follow him but became distracted by a big fish identification chart stapled to the only scrap of bare wall space. Benicio watched her as she ran her fingers over the laminated names and fins of moorish idols and triggerfish.
    “Pickup or drop off?” the silver-haired man behind the service desk asked.
    “Pickup.” Benicio handed over a crumpled receipt. “For Bridgewater.”
    The man scrutinized the paper and disappeared through a door behind the service desk. He emerged a moment later, his arms laden with the tubes, hoses and chrome of Benicio’s gear. “The old Oceanic,” he said as he laid the gear out on the desk. He wrapped his fingers around one of the regulator’s hoses and traced it down to combination depth gauge and dive computer at the end. “Haven’t seen this model in years. An oldie but a goodie. Got it used, I’m guessing?”
    Benicio shook his head. “I’ve just owned it for a while.”
    The man seemed pleased by this. “Good for you. Well, she takes a round six-volt. I had to mail away to a third-party in Singapore just to get it. Came in this morning.” The man patted the back of the device with affection and handed it to Benicio for his approval. Benicio feltthe almost forgotten heft of it in his hand. He pressed the round black button below the screen and numbers sprang to life. His depth was zero and his pressure was zero. His nitrogen level was safe. “Go often?” the man asked.
    “Not really, no.” He became aware of the fact that Alice was standing very close behind him and glanced back to see her staring at the jumbled mess that was his gear. “It hasn’t been too long, though.”
    “Well, the battery should last your next trip, probably a few more after that. But if I’m in your shoes, I consider an upgrade. Especially if you’re serious about returning to our sport.” The man stepped sideways to an ancient-looking cash register. He continued speaking as his two bent index fingers worked ponderously over the numbers. Apparently the direct feed—which ferried air from the tank to the buoyancy control vest—was corroded and needed replacing, as well as his regulator’s dust cap and all of its O-rings.