THE CAT - A Night in the Tropics

Everyone wanted to go into town that night. I didn't. So, the teacher driving let me out of the van at the fork. Like me: always the one to walk a different path. Although this night, I strode along a dirt, two-lane road back to my cabana. The crescent moon, close enough to catch but not bright enough to light my way, and a narrow-beamed flashlight didn't provide much assurance. Still I persevered, though that familiar tingling sensation--as a character in a horror film feels when she or he knows danger lurks but pushes on, danced on the nape of my neck. Soft beads trickled underneath my ponytail. The tropical heat hadn't abated at nighttime. Dampness filled the air so much that when I thrust my arms forward I felt I was pushing through a moistened sheet. I ignored the stickiness. Bits of dirt sprayed my legs. Yet, I continued. My heartbeat raced faster than my stride. For I knew on my left among the tall grasses abutting the jungle could be: THE CAT.

I've always revered, admired and studied the jaguar. Somehow, with all the large cats around the world, the muscular feline is my favorite. Yes, I also love the class car of the same name with its hood ornament now sadly extinct, and I have a preference for forest green chassis with tan interior. Which came first? I don't recall. As I walked along this simple, singular road between Placencia, the town (farther down the peninsula of the same name) and our accommodations, I reminded myself I'd always loved that cat and the eponymous car.

The green grass, jungle forest, beige dirt road all mixed to inspire the car, in my mind at least; anything to maintain courage. For having read about the jaguar, I knew it wouldn't hesitate to leap on me, take me down by the neck, strangling, cutting my aorta with its powerful teeth and then. . .No! You won't hurt me. My spirit is strong! Okay, that didn't work very well. Until, I recalled the one attribute about the beautiful cat with its pronounced head, proportionate to that long body, and muscled-tail: the jaguar is elusive. It avoids people, not because we aren't delectable prey, but it has a natural distrust. An instinct that has spared the jaguar from complete eradication, though not from being endangered, for the cat is an opportunist.

When it sees cattle, like many fellow human carnivores, the jaguar knows dinner awaits. Rangers, on the other hand, will shoot a jaguar without hesitation, as they would any predator trying to get their fill. Fortunately, there are animal activists, including an American businessman turned cowboy who bought a ranch in South America, who are providing alternatives to killing the magnificent feline.

That information I learned much later. However, if I'd known the above fourteen years ago, as I moved closer, walked faster toward my destination, knowing the jaguar had its human enemies wouldn't have helped. As much as I rationalized the cat's existence, the thought that the natural predator might be out there lying low in that familiar posture entered my mind more often than not. And of course a fellow teacher telling me the manager of our cabanas had heard a jaguar had been spotted in the area awakened my overactive imagination.

I could feel myself breathing harder, not because of the walk, no more than a mile, but the trees had begun to rustle. I was down wind. Then, I saw the lights of a restaurant on the roadside, connected to another resort only an eighth of a mile from our hotel. At least if I were attacked, someone would hear my screams. You're being irrational, Wendy. Maybe that last reassurance kicked out any more thoughts of danger from my mind, for the rest of the way I walked purposefully. I'd made it. No worries and what had I'd been thinking? Silly me.

When I arrived at our temporary dwelling, to call the place where we stayed a "hotel," or a "resort," would be to lessen the beauty, simplicity of the place, I sighed: happy and relieved.

I slept soundly that night. I'd overcome fear and outsmarted that marauder.
Until. . .

KNOCK! KNOCK! "Ms. Shreve, there's a scorpion in our room." I reasoned the boys, all seniors, had the physical strength and smarts to kill the bug (and I wasn't an official chaperone), but I threw on a robe, opened the door, and suggested they get the manager.

KNOCK! KNOCK! "Ms. Shreve, he won't do anything." "I have faith you'll take care of it," I hollered through the closed door.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! "Ms. Shreve, we killed it." "Great! Go back to sleep!" This time I yelled from my bed to the once again, closed door. I laughed with relief. I was and still am terrified of scorpions. I couldn't sleep the rest of the night worried that the creepy crawlies would scamper across my chest.

Copyright 2014 Wendy Shreve

DARK SEA, SEQUEL TO BOOK SHADOWWATER OUT NEXT WEEK. GO TO WEBSITE, www.shadowwater.net , FOR MORE INFORMATION.

EBOLA HAS ACCOMPLISHED WHAT TERRORISTS COULDN'T

Hate is the consequence of fear; we fear something before we hate it; a child who fears noises becomes a man who hates noise. 

Cyril Connolly

Rod Serling, the creator of the television series, THE TWILIGHT ZONE, wrote a classic episode that foretold what could come, arguably has come, to pass: "The Monsters Are Due on Maple Street (1960)." The essence of the story (SPOILER ALERT) is that after a power outage and strange phenomena, adults begin to believe a child's story about aliens causing these disturbing events and that the invaders disguise themselves as humans. Distrust sets in and neighbor begins to distrust neighbor, all the while real aliens are watching and waiting for humans to destroy one another, making it easier for the aliens to invade.

This frightening episode, like the quote above, provoked fear in me, but not what you might expect. I never worried about alien invasions. I actually thought the idea of extraterrestrial life landing on earth intriguing. No, what frightened me as a child and now angers me as an adult is human beings quickness to react, judge and then hate without rationale thought. It's as if homo sapiens return to their basest animal, predatory instincts to attack before thinking.

Since 9/11, we've seen examples of blatant discrimination and even deadly acts against Muslim-Americans in the U.S. I have to admit that when I sat on a PATH train to go to Hoboken, one year after 9/11, I saw a woman clothed in the traditional black hijab, and robes, carrying a briefcase as she waited for another train. For a moment, my anxiety kicked in until I studied her face and saw the weariness of a long day's work. Then, I felt ashamed for being apprehensive.

As analysts have discussed, instilling paranoia and uncontrolled fear into American psyche would have been the ultimate victory of terrorists, but overall, the attackers didn't succeed. Yes, security has stepped up considerably and individual rights have been curbed, especially during the Bush era. However, anxiety has rarely led to the panic I observed in the old TWILIGHT ZONE episode.

That is until Ebola arrived on our shores. Incidents of people, in Texas e.g., avoiding any African-American dressed in traditional African dress, have been reported. Students whose home country is Nigeria, for example, who have lived in Ebola-free countries for an extended period have supposedly been rejected by a Texas college. Cruise lines are banning anyone from affected countries in West Africa from boarding their ships. This last decision may be practical, but I wonder how much further the isolation of not only immigrants but citizens of color will become the norm: ostracized because of irrational fear.

According to multiple doctors in the U.S., the flu will kill more Americans this year than any communicable disease, the least being Ebola, which can only be caught by direct contact with the infected person's body fluids. In contrast, the entero virus has killed dozens of children across the country, yet there's little palpable anxiety among parents and more so the media about the quick-spreading illness. Many of us have already heard via social media the rash statements made by news media analysts, correspondents and pundits about Ebola.

Yes, there have been mistakes, the worst being not controlling the disease in West Africa when it first began to explode. Who's to blame? That's not my point. And, focusing on pointing fingers won't help control the hysteria and stop the disease. What will is individuals throughout our country being watchful but not reactionary. For if a national panic begins to spread like an uncontrollable wildfire, our "enemies" who are watching will be more than happy to take advantage.

Fear leads to hate. Panic causes untethered, reactive behavior. Among those who carry guns into restaurants and department stores in at least one state, some may shoot first. After all, fear and hate already go hand-in-hand when some law enforcement officers and neighborhood vigilantes see people of color.

And as seen in Rod Serling's brilliant commentary on society, "The Monsters Are Due on Maple Street," the monsters are not the aliens. They are the humans.

FINISHING REVISIONS FOR SEQUEL. . .

. . .so, this week I'll share aboriginal wisdom and a picture to keep my readers engaged. The stewards of our land have known for centuries what people today are only realizing:

The Great Spirit is in all things, he is in the air we breathe. The Great Spirit is our Father, but the Earth is our Mother. She nourishes us, that which we put into the ground she returns to us...

— Big Thunder (Bedagi), Wabanaki Algonquian

(Used as chapter heading for my sequel, Shadowwater: Dark Sea)

Photo: Copyright 2012 Wendy Shreve

BENEATH THE SPOTLIGHT

I knew an actress, once. Not comely, at least not at her age, except for bright, blue eyes. Intense charisma was her gift. She played the matriarch on a soap opera where I worked as an intern. My adventure began when in college I arranged a for-credit opportunity during a tour of CBS studios, on 57th Street in those days. The internship would be the usual gopher job, lucky to get as two other students from other colleges had been given June & July. The show had been that popular. 

My stint began August 1. Good timing as the assistant producer assigned me the welcome task of calling the RSVP list for the show’s 30^th anniversary party. Surprisingly, I rarely got an agent, a few assistants here and there. Some actors who had gone on to the big screen, greeted a shy, young woman with kindness. The producers also invited me to attend the anniversary celebration on The Peking (since decommissioned as an entertainment vessel) at South Street Seaport. I had special respect for the Executive Producer, Mary-Ellis Bunim who went on to produce the groundbreaking MTV reality series, The Real World. Ms. Bunim had a glass-ceiling assertiveness necessary to later succeed, and yet, she never raised her voice. I learned from her about resilience. Sadly, she died too young from breast cancer. What a future she had.

With all the glitz and glamor I encountered, and a couple of heartthrobs whose careers nosedived (or more tragically stopped in their tracks due to AIDS) I tried to do my job without showing my starstruck butterflies. Some more well-known actors, then, were Robert Goulet’s daughter, Nicolette, Cindy (now Cynthia) Gibb, and an actor, Christopher Atkins who starred with Brooke Shields in The Blue Lagoon,  Strange, how I remember almost every day, each person, including the staff.

But Mary Stuart—I never knew if that had been her stage or real name, so dramatic I thought at the time—had been the anchor of Search for Tomorrow from its inception. One of the producers introduced me to the cast during a weekly meeting, but Ms. Stuart didn’t attend. Being in college, I had become aware of just how popular daytime serials were as I’d never seen a show until I’d come back from class and our house television would be turned on to the latest, more popular sagas. When the opportunity arrived to learn the ins and outs of television, I jumped at the chance. Of course, I had to do my homework. After binge watching the show, we did have VCRs then, I felt prepared. Nerves aside, the only actress whom I had felt daunted to meet was Ms. Stuart. I don’t know why. Her age? No, other long-timers performed on the soap. What the actress had more than most: supreme confidence. No neuroses, at least that I heard of or saw. No bad habits or manners. Strangers who’d meet her sometimes seemed taken aback by her presence. Ms. Stuart demonstrated professional courtesy without sanguine stroking or ego-driven dismissiveness. Being true to herself kept Mary Stuart grounded.

One day, I went down to the CBS cafeteria for lunch. I couldn’t find a seat, saw Ms. Stuart sitting against the wall with a chair in front of her, and as I struggled to overcome my insecurities and said, “Hello, Ms. Stuart.” I heard a deep, strong voice reply: “Would you like to join me, Wendy?” Wow, she even knew my name. I couldn’t remember how many times I had to say my name to other actors, producers and crew during my tenure. Here sat the accepted queen of daytime soap operas (at the time) inviting me to sit with her. I sat down thanking her and smiled. Then, she returned the gesture. Those blue eyes sparkled with warmth; her coiffed hair looked softer in this light, and her perfect posture rounded at the shoulders. Mary Stuart welcomed me into her world. I dared not ask personal questions. Instead, we discussed the show and what I’d learned since I’d been there for two weeks. She kept the conversation going by asking me questions, whereas I’d stammer a few reverential comments: “Such an honor to work with you,” for example. Of course, the actress had had these talks with others, who could guess how many times; however, for twenty minutes or more, I believed what I had to say had worth.

In 2002, I read in the newspaper that she had died. I learned that she had worked for Warner-Bros. under contract for three years before television. She been in movies with Errol Flynn and Clark Gable! In fact, I just discovered her studio photo on the Internet, I hardly recognize her: beautiful, nonetheless, hauntingly sad—a caged starlet whose wings had been clipped. 

When I saw the obit in the NY Times, I recalled seeing the last episode of Mary Stuart’s show, for that’s what many called, Search for Tomorrow. A great flood swept Henderson and along with it most of the town. As Ms. Stuart huddled behind a sheltered barricade, I thought I saw tears, not raindrops, in her eyes. The daytime serial that had been her life was ending. She retired but returned to television, 1996, in another soap opera, working until her death. She also hadn’t sacrificed love for her career. Ms. Stuart found love, a second marriage, around the same time Search for Tomorrow ended.

So, why write about her at this point? Simple. For one moment, a woman of substance gave a young woman a nudge in the right direction. Nostalgia unexpected, as I hadn’t thought about the actress for a long time. She popped into my mind without a trigger. Funny how writing about the past clarifies the present. I have had many older women friends since I graduated the following year from college. Maybe that’s the gift the matriarch bequeathed me, reverence for a life well-lived. Thank you, Mary Stuart.