Searching for Che

By Harold Anderson

Searching For Che is about a mans quest to find a childhood friend
somewhere in Latin America. This novel follows a high school teacher from
school tragedy on the hallowed grounds of a New York prep school to the
remotest pueblos of Latin America. Will Dunlop is a high school teacher
at the end of his tenure. Distracted by his impending divorce, he takes the
blame for a tragic school shooting by one of his students. To save his career,
he must travel to Latin America to find a childhood friend: Amy Phipps.
Amy is the estranged daughter of a wealthy New England family. Obsessed
with Che Guevara, she ran away from home to follow the steps of the late
revolutionary figure. Using cryptic letters she sent her mother, Will travels
from Mexico to Cuba to Guatemala to Bolivia searching for the girl who
does not wish to be found. As he travels from pueblo to pueblo, he begins
to think hes being followed. Could it be the same person following the
Phipps girl in her letters? Or could it be the effects from the malaria pills
that have been giving him such strange dreams?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 6, 2012
• ISBN: 9781469144269

Book preview

Searching For Che

Harold Anderson

Copyright © 2012 by Harold Anderson.

ISBN:                      Softcover                      978-1-4691-4425-2

                                 Ebook                            978-1-4691-4426-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

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Contents

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PROLOGUE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

EPILOGUE

To my sister, Karen. It is great having you back.

The women’s magazines tell you nothing about raising a prince. That is one reason why it is hard. He is different. From the beginning he is raised with one goal in mind: inheritance. The expectation of inheriting property demands that one retain it. Do you see the dilemma of the man himself? He is owned by property.

Sophy Burnham, The Landed Gentry

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Harold Anderson was born in Alexandria, Virginia and grew up an army brat, traveling with his family all over the world. He discovered his love of creative writing in high school and pursued a degree in English at The University of Virginia. Since then he’s worked as a telephone solicitor, golf course mower, and investment banker. After several years in New York City, he took a trip to Central America that inspired him to write his first novel, Searching For Che. In 2002 he moved to Colorado to be closer to skiing and the mountains. He has an MBA and is a Chartered Financial Analyst but has found the starving artist profession to be better paying. He currently lives in Colorado Springs.

PROLOGUE

The border post would be closing soon. Will checked his wrist. Only the tan outlines of his Tag Heuer watch remained. He forgot he’d bartered it the night before. At the front of the bus, colorful streamers flapped in the breezy cabin air. A small fan blew from the driver’s-side dashboard. Next to it, a figurine of Jesus blessed the passengers. Out the window, hot Honduran pastures baked in the noonday sun as the bus weaved around potholes and the occasional cow. What was supposed to be a short, one-hour trip to the border had become three. Will was never going to make it.

After weeks of traveling in Central America, Will had gotten to know the schedules of the migración. Every day at noon, the border closed. All crossings ceased. For two hours, the border guards ate lunch and took their siestas, all in plain view of the hot, weary travelers outside. This happened every day, regardless of the amount of travelers and backpackers in line.

Will had experienced this first-hand. His daytrips had been ruined several times by the whims of the Central American border guard. Traveling up and down the Pan-American Highway, the road that stretched 30,000 miles along the spine of the two continents, he’d been waylaid several times. Delays were inevitable, as much a part of travel as early wake-up calls and passports. Spending countless hours in line under the hot midday sun, Will realized that the ability to harass travelers was a right border guards cherished above all else.

You headed to Anteeger, too?

An Aussie traveler rocked in his seat behind Will. He had stringy, blond hair. His bare, right foot held a surfboard lengthwise in place down the aisle. For the past hour, he and his fellow surfers had been sharing beers and surfing stories with anyone in the back who would listen.

Antigua? Yeah, Will replied. I just hope we can make it to the border in time.

Same here. This is our second bus today. We were down in Shayla surfing for two weeks until the swells died.

Shayla? I’ve never heard of it. Where is that?

Well it’s actually Huehuetenango but everyone calls it Shayla. You’ve never been?

No but I’ve heard it’s beautiful, Will said. I read they’ve got a great market on Sundays.

The bus pulled over and two girls jumped in. They wore full-length tee shirts and cowboy hats. One of them had flaming red hair and tons of freckles. They walked to the back, taking the remaining seats across the aisle from the Aussies.

Ah yeah. Shayla’s beautiful, the blond-haired kid continued. Best A-frames on the Pacific, mate.

Are you guys from Australia? the freckled girl asked.

Yeah! We’re from Sydney… the best city in all Australia.

We’re from Sydney too! Wow!

Small world.

Deefinitelee! Wow! What school did you go to?

Will followed the exchange from the pages of his book.

I went to Dunbar. I’m from Warson, he tilted his head in deep thought. Graduated in… ninety five. Aye?

I went to Christ Church! Wow! Watch we’ll probably end up being cousins.

What’s your name? the surfer asked.

My name is Lucy Poop. Do you know Sarah Gibbons?

Sarah Gibbons. No. Do you know Stevie Sewell?

Yeah! the girl replied. I know Steve! Wow!

Wait. What’s your name again? the boy asked.

Lucy Poop, the girl replied then realized the joke. Yeah. I know. Hahaha.

So where are you from? the red headed’s friend asked, touching Will on the shoulder.

Will looked up from his book.

I’m from the United States. New York.

American, cooool!

How long have you been here in Honduras?

Not long. I was just in Cuba for a week and now I’m heading to Antigua. Excuse me.

Will got up and walked to the front of the bus.

How far to the border? he asked in Spanish. They were coasting over washboard. Will had to shout above the violent shaking.

It’s right up ahead, the driver said.

Will stood in the front for a few minutes watching the driver negotiate the endless maze of potholes. With the skill of a white-water rafting guide, the driver straddled the shoulder, aligning his tires to ride right along the edge. But with all the maneuvering and the lining of the tires, the shaking got worse. The cabin filled with the dust. Will looked back and saw a line of vehicles following them. Cars, minibuses, RVs, and semis each following the one in front perfectly, like they were all one interconnected, dust-spewing snake.

There it is, the driver replied, pointing to three white shacks up ahead.

Will walked back to his seat to retrieve his pack. His knees cracked as he sat down in the rigid, ninety-degree seats of the converted school bus. Alongside, several kids hurried next to the bus with palms outstretched. Lush green jungle gave way to concrete shacks, their white-wash chipping off. The fleet of orange and red buses that would take him to San Pedro waited on the other side of the fence. He had five minutes.

Just before the bus pulled to a stop at the border post parking lot, several people from the back had already walked to the front. Will glared at the old lady standing above him, squeezing in close to the person in front with tiny half-steps. This happened every time.

He waited on the edge of his seat, his sweaty binder full of Amy’s letters on his lap, his knees jutting sideways. As soon as the last person in line passed by, he shot up, dislodged his enormous backpack from the rack above and hurried off the bus.

Give me peso, one toddler demanded with an outstretched palm.

Hey. Look. You buy.

You need córdobas? You have dollar? I give you thirteen forty.

The migración stood at the other end of a bridge, another thousand feet away. Will ran down the road, assaulted by the stinging sun and crowd of moneychangers, vendors, and beggars. The smell of rotting vegetation filled his nose.

Utilizing a trick he’d learned in Cuba, he scanned the road for the ubiquitous Latin American stray mutt. By watching the stray dogs, he denied the beggars and vendors the eye contact they needed. This trick also kept the potential thieves and pickpockets in his eye’s periphery.

He ran across the bridge, his canvas backpack flopping awkwardly against his back. The river was half-full and emptied out from the jungle. Far below, a crowd of villagers washed clothes in the river. A lone figure backstroked away from the crowd of waders and their eddies of soap suds, into the darker, greener part of the river.

Reaching the other side of the bridge, he trained his eyes on a girl sweeping a storefront. Tortillas steamed next to her as she unsuccessfully tried to shoo a dog away. With every kick of hers, the dog grew more animated… jumping around her and imitating her shouts with yelps of his own.

When he reached the migración, Will found it to be little more than a large, open-air room leading to several box offices. Faded, hospital-green tiles decorated the walls. A slick film of dust covered the floor. The officer at the head of the line had a pudgy face with cheeks and a neck that dwarfed the thin mustache resting above his lip. He wore an apathetic look on his face as he stamped passports and made change. Lying on the floor below him was a bitch stray. The dog wore the same apathetic look.

Next!

Will removed the backpack and placed it at his feet. Sweat had piled up on his lower back where the money-belt was.

As the guard flipped through one of the Aussie’s passport, Will noticed the countertop was covered with red stamp ink. Down below the booth, the stray dog watched Will with one ear cocked and legs splayed out in the typical stance for Latin American strays. Spread legs gave them maneuverability they needed to dodge thrown rocks and chicken bones. Life at the bottom of the beggars’ pecking order was a constant struggle for these unwanted, unloved, nuisances.

The clock on the wall inched towards twelve.

Did you hear what happened at Warson last year? the blond surfer asked one of the girls in line.

No. What?

There was a shooting.

Will felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Like a stone statue, he lagged behind them as the line moved along, looking like he was lost in thought.

Yeah. One of the kids took a pistol to class and opened fire.

No waaaaaay, the wide-eyed Australian girl replied. I didn’t hear anything.

Did anyone get hurt? Will asked from the back of the group.

The kid turned around.

Only one. The gun got jammed and the bloke didn’t know how to fix it. He tried a couple of times then took a seat and waited for the police to show up.

Lucky, Will said. That wasn’t quite the way it happened at my alma mater last year.

Chapter 1

Becca

The school shooting at Stonecreek occurred on its 150-year anniversary, several years after Columbine and Virginia Tech. The shooting drew much regional attention but didn’t make national headlines like the other two. What most people didn’t know was that a smaller tragedy preceded the school shooting: the waiter’s accident that paralyzed Edmund Waddell from the neck down.

Stonecreek Prep overlooked the township of Pelham, New Jersey all the way down to the Pawnokee River. The campus took up a little over one thousand acres, almost a square mile of prime New Jersey real estate. A theological seminary butted up against its southwest corner, a loose affiliation that allowed it to avoid every threat of zoning since its inception.

The Stonecreek Sesquicentennial brought out signs and pennants of all shapes and sizes. Green and gold banners swayed in the late-summer breeze. Atop Penrose Hall, the first dinner bell rang out, announcing buffet dinner in the cafeteria.

Cliff Howe pulled up to the gate at Stonecreek’s south entrance.

Hello, Mr. Bump, he said to the security guard, his tan arm resting out the window.

Dad, just drive on through, Becca said from the back.

Becca was anxious to get to her room. Every year the secret society called the Etruscan Ermines picked two new members. They did this by leaving a figurine under each prospect’s pillow the first day of the year. This was Becca’s senior year, her last chance to join.

How’s the boy? Cliff asked.

Smiling wide and squinting, Bump approached the Mercedes.

Nice car you got there, he said.

Thanks, Cliff replied. We’re going to head up to Lefevre now. Gonna drop young Becca off then head home. You know my daughter, Becca, right?

Dad, can we go? Becca hissed.

I sure do, Bump replied. She’s one of the best students in the school. Always on the dean’s list.

Becca’s mom turned around, surprised.

Is there a… I didn’t know there was a dean’s list? she whispered.

Becca shook her head.

That is right, Cliff continued. And she’ll be going to Stanford next year so she won’t be causing you any more trouble.

Good luck to you, young lady, Bump said and walked back to his guard shack.

Cliff eased the shiny black Mercedes up the driveway. The two-lane road bisected the enormous, tiered front lawn. On either side, robins and jays zipped through the heavy air, patrolling the freshly-cut fields for insects. Ancient beech trees lined the road like stately sentinels, guiding the way up to campus.

Honey, I packed you some wasabi peas and dried apricots, Mrs. Howe said.

I don’t like dried apricots anymore.

Oh. Okay. Then you can give them to your friends. Is Melanie living in Lefevre this year?

It’s pronounced Le-fever not Le-feev, Becca replied as they reached the dorm, and I haven’t been friends with Melanie since we were roommates freshman year.

Really? Did you know that, honey? Mrs. Howe asked her husband.

Cliff shrugged.

You know what, Rebecca? Friends are the most important thing in the world. Your studies are important but books aren’t everything. Whatever happens to you once you leave Stonecreek, whichever road you take in life, these people you meet in school will always be your friends.

God, I hope not, Becca replied.

You don’t mean that.

Yes I do. And Melanie Crossman is the worst. She did nothing but ridicule me freshman and sophomore years. It wasn’t until last year when she found out Dad was on the Board at Stanford that she started being nice.

Were people like that when you went here? Mrs. Howe asked.

I made some friends but not many, Cliff said. Stonecreek is a great place and is full of excellent teachers. But it can be a charm school to some kids, mindless dilettantes like Melanie and that annoying Phipps kid. What’s his name, honey? Swoop? Sloop?

Mrs. Howe burst out laughing.

Scoop.

Cliff chuckled, shaking his head at such nonsense.

Who’s Scoop? Becca asked.

Don’t ask, her dad replied.

He’s Lizzie Phipps’s grandson, Mrs. Howe explained. I’m surprised you haven’t met him yet. He’s always at the alumni functions. In fact, I think he’ll be starting at Stonecreek this year.

Cliff reached the top of the hill where Penrose Hall stood. A quiet front yard with an iron bench gave the building a sophisticated, Norman Rockwell look. The oldest building on campus, Penrose housed the administrative offices. Because of its close proximity to the headmaster’s office, most of the students avoided the quiet lawn on their Frisbee golf games.

I’ve gotta check something in my room real quick. Could you guys start unloading? Becca said.

The tiny senior sprinted into Lefevre. The girls’ dorm was virtually empty. The halls had a sterile, antiseptic smell to them. Each dorm room door lay wide open, awaiting that year’s occupant. Becca ran down the hall into her room. In the middle of the bare mattress sat a lone white pillow.

Becca took a deep breath. The knot in her stomach felt like a thousand pounds. All week long the anxiety of becoming an Etruscan Ermine had been building. She was actually losing sleep over it. She grew up hearing about all of the secret societies to which her American dad had belonged. The Ermines at Stonecreek. The Betas at Stanford. She marveled at his hidden world of surreptitious cocktail parties and dinners, of initiation traditions so secret that he wouldn’t even tell his family thirty years later. Being a half-Chinese girl, she knew she had no chance of getting into these establishments but this made the challenge even more enticing.

Screw it, she said and ran her hand underneath the pillow. When she brought it back up, it held a tiny Etruscan helmet and a note.

In keeping with the mission of the Etruscan Ermines of promoting wondrous acts of benevolence, we encourage each prospective member to perform one outrageous, daring act in the next two weeks, something they would never do without serious prompt or dare, which positively promotes the reputation of our illustrious school.

Becca knew just what to do.

Chapter 2

Will

Leaving the oily warmth of the New York City Subway, Will Dunlop rose to the street-level. The crisp autumn air bit his cheeks. Cooking olive oil and baked bread smells filled the packed sidewalks. Young professionals talked in windows over plates of pasta. Music played from a hole-in-the-wall internet café. In the side streets, white, red and green streamers stretched across the quiet avenues. Houston Street came alive as early afternoon turned to evening.

Will walked to Umberto’s Clam House with the confidence of a seasoned New Yorker. He hadn’t lived in the Big Apple for a while and had forgotten how self-important the city made you feel. Every café and bar beckoned to you with promises of new friends and a new life. The Big Apple was the beautiful culmination of the American experiment, where dive bars shared the block with swanky, Euro-style eateries.

Excited at the prospect of living in the Big Apple again, Will took a right on Mulberry Street. He’d spent the entire morning handing out his resume to some of the off-Broadway box offices. Even though he’d skipped his duties in the registrar’s office to do it, he didn’t care. He’d be quitting his job anyway. He had a feeling Sara was going to ask him to move back in with her.

All summer she’d been telling him how hard her new job was and how she missed their old lives. She’d even hinted several times in her spur-of-the-moment fashion that he should move to the city and take up writing for some of the off-Broadway theater houses. Will had laughed it off as another of her half-baked ideas but now that he was quitting his job, maybe he would take her up on it.

Sara waved to him from the back table. She rose, looking amazing in a black V-neck shirt, a wide smile on her face.

Hey stranger, she said. Have a seat. I already ordered your favorite, calamari and clams.

Thanks, Will replied. How’s everything?

Going well but forget about me. Tell me everything. How did the interview go?

Will took off his blazer and put it behind his chair.

With York Prep? It went okay but I didn’t get it.

What happened?

They asked me about Hemingway, Will said.

Your nemesis, Sara replied knowingly.

True.

"You couldn’t just lie and say you liked The Old Man And The Sea?" Sara asked.

I thought about doing it. Honest to God, I did. If they had asked me about any other author, I would have but I just couldn’t with Hemingway.

I did get to talk a lot about T.S. Eliot. The York Prep English teachers are big fans of his.

Sara smiled as Will delved into the genius of Prufrock. His musings on the works of the greats never got old or stale. Although Sara was a math nerd, Will had taught her the beauty of the perfect turn of a phrase.

I did get a little carried away towards the end, Will said. He smiled and held his forehead.

What did you do?

I did something I told you I’d never do.

What?

When they asked me why I taught, I froze up. I couldn’t think of anything.

Oh no, Sara said.

I finally said that cliché I told you I’d never say, ‘If I could just reach one kid, than it’s worth it.’ Except when I said it, I said, ‘If I could touch just one kid.

Sara laughed into her wine.

You said ‘If you could touch just one kid? she repeated.

Yeah. And I let it hang there, not realizing the implication… that I wanted to touch a kid. I let it hang there like an idiot.

Will smiled at Sara over the plates of steaming seafood. No one else would have gotten that anecdote but her. He poured fresh lemon juice over the hot calamari. With two spoons, he transferred a mound of the squid onto Sara’s plate.

They said they would call me this week with the news. I think I got it. I don’t think they were interviewing anyone else. At least I didn’t see anyone.

Sara dove into her squid.

I talked to Claire the other day, she said. I’m sorry I missed their party, by the way. I got tied up with my sister and her issues. What’s going on with Tom and Claire?

Tom’s got some serious problems. Apparently he’s losing money daily at work and clients have been jumping ship. I don’t know if this is just him assuming the worst but he told me the board is thinking about firing him.

Really? Sara said. No wonder Claire reached out to me.

I think things are pretty bad. I really wish I could help him. Can you imagine all this happening while your mother has cancer? She’s been distraught about Amy.

Amy’s back in the picture?

Yeah. Just recently she’s been sending letters, strange letters, to Lizzie. Amy’s always been her favorite which I think has been putting a strain on her relationship with Tom.

Sara and Will ordered their dinner with a bottle of red wine. They caught up on each other’s jobs, avoiding the topics that got them into trouble in the past. When the check came, Will grabbed it