“You like animals better than people,” said Jule.
“People are assholes, as the story you just told completely proves.” Imogen took a packet of tissues from her bag and used one to wipe her forehead. “When have you ever seen a horse be an asshole? Or a cow? They never are.”
The driver spoke from the front of the car. “Snakes are assholes.”
“They’re not,” said Immie. “Snakes are trying to get by, like everyone else.”
“Not the biting ones,” he said. “They’re vicious.”
“Snakes bite when they’re scared,” said Immie, leaning forward in the backseat. “They bite if they need to protect themselves.”
“Or if they need to eat,” said the driver. “They probably bite something once a day. I hate snakes.”
“It’s a lot nicer for a mouse to die from a rattlesnake bite than, say, to be caught by a cat. Cats play with their prey,” said Immie. “They bat it around, let it escape, and then catch it again.”
“Cats are assholes, then,” the driver said.
Jule laughed.
They stopped in front of the hotel. Immie paid the driver in American dollars. “I stand by the snakes,” said Imogen. “I like them. Thanks for the ride.”
The driver pulled their suitcases out of the trunk and drove away.
“You wouldn’t like a snake if you met one,” said Jule.
“Yes, I would. I would love the snake and make a pet of it. I would twine it around my neck like jewelry.”
“A venomous snake?”
“Sure. I’m here with you, aren’t I?” Imogen slung her arm around Jule. “I’ll feed you delicious mice and other kinds of snake snacks, and I’ll let you rest on my shoulders. Every once in a while, when it’s absolutely necessary, you can squeeze my enemies to death while naked. ’Kay?”
“Snakes are always naked,” said Jule.
“You’re a special snake. Most of the time you’ll wear clothes.”
Immie walked ahead into the hotel lobby, pulling both her suitcases behind her.
The hotel was glamorous in a touristy way, very turquoise. It had greenery and bright flowers everywhere. Jule and Imogen had rooms next to each other. There were two different pools and a beach that spread out in a long white arch with a dock at the far end. The menu was all fish and tropical fruits.
After unpacking, they met for dinner. Immie looked fresh and grateful to be eating such a gorgeous meal. She showed no trace of grief or guilt. Just existing.
Later they walked down the road to a place the Internet described as an expat bar. The counter was a wraparound, with the bartender in the center. They sat on wicker stools. Immie ordered Kahlúa and cream, while Jule got a Diet Coke with vanilla syrup. The people were talkative. Imogen took up with an old white guy in a Hawaiian shirt. He told them he’d lived on Culebra for twenty-two years.
“I had a little marijuana business,” the guy said. “I used to grow it in my walk-in closet with lights and then sell it. It was Portland. You wouldn’t think anyone there would care. But the cops busted me, and when I was out on bail I took a flight to Miami. From there I got a boat over to PR, then from there took the ferry here.” He gestured to the bartender for another beer.
“You’re on the lam?” asked Immie.
He snorted. “Think of it this way: I didn’t believe that what I did should have been a criminal offense and so I didn’t deserve the consequences that were coming my way. Irelocated. I’m not running. Everyone here knows me. They don’t know the name on my passport, is all.”
“And what is that name?” asked Jule.
“I’m not telling you.” He laughed. “Just like I don’t tell them. Nobody bothers about stuff like that here.”
“What do you do for a living?” Jule asked.
“There’s a lot of Americans and rich Puerto Ricans who own vacation homes here. I take care of their houses for them. They pay in cash. Security, arranging for repairs, that kinda thing.”
“What about your family?” Immie asked.
