Panama by Shelby Hiatt Page A

I don't know what he wants from me. "It's incredible," I say.
    He looks out over the scattered glowing embers and says, "I love it."
    "Why?"
    "It reminds me of home."
    I go quiet again and look at the blackened landscape. Can't quite imagine what he means. There's an occasional pop or breaking sound. The workers move along the periphery, black silhouettes striking at flaring spots along the edges and speaking to one another as workers do during the most common workday.
    Federico stands.
    He holds his hand out to me, not like a parent this time.
    I reach for him. His grip is soft and he keeps his eyes on my face.
    We start walking but not in a rush. He holds my hand gently. It makes me forget what we've just seen. I'm seventeen. Still in school. I'm on another planet.
    We pass other couples and workers along the way. When we're at the meadow in front of the Tivoli, he stops and we look back at the glow of diminishing fires.
    "It's beautiful," I say.
    He moves me against him and holds me. I feel him, his sex, between us and I don't pull away. He holds me a long while—it seems very long—and I embrace him, embarrassed at the pounding of my heart that he must feel, embarrassed at not being more sophisticated.
    To the side is the gazebo belonging to the Tivoli but overgrown in disuse. The sagging structure stands a few yards off the path, almost hidden by weeds and completely abandoned. He leads us inside, pulls me to him again, and presses us together.
    He begins to reach in my clothes and I help, unbutton and unhook and he pulls me against him over and over. His breathing gets heavy and he lays me down and caresses me and makes love to me, trying to be gentle but needing it so much that toward the end he pleads softly, "Hold me ... hold me."
    I'm overwhelmed and my emotion is so powerful, I don't feel any discomfort of my own—there must be some. I'm only holding him and feeling how much he needs me.
He needs me.
Then I lie quiet in his arms and he shudders a last time, still holding me against him.
    I can't think of anything to say until I'm aware of the warm streak between us and think there might be some correct behavior about that.
    Finally he lifts himself and says, "Are you all right?"
    "Yes..." I take a stab at the right thing: "Are you?"
    A soft laugh comes out of him. "Yes." He wipes his shirt across my belly.
    "I know ... I know what to do," I say. A desperate attempt at sexual savvy.
    "You do?" He doesn't believe me.
    "Yes, don't worry." But I don't know what to do or how to behave—I don't know anything.
    We put our clothes back on and pull the weeds and grass from each other's hair and clothing—sexual camaraderie, like old friends. We stand and he runs his hands down my arms.
    "I'm all right," I say.
    We make our way through the vines that cover the gazebo and walk slowly along the track until we're at the steps to my house. He seems disturbed and says, "You have to be careful."
    "I will be."
    He leans in and gives me a kiss on the cheek and embraces me again. He needs to say something—I see him searching.
    "Bring me books tomorrow?" is what he finally says.
    Books.
"Of course," I say, trying to sound like nothing is different and I don't come from a sheltered life and I'm not naive or in an outrageously heightened state.
    I go up the steps, affect a business-as-usual manner, and from inside the porch look down at him through the screen door. I raise my hand and he gives me a little nod, then turns and walks away.

It Is a New World
Fifty-One
    I sit with Mamie Lee Kelly, the best known of all Americans on the Isthmus. The local madam. And I've done my homework. My diary is full of thoughtful entries on my new life—what I have to do, have to learn, how to proceed.
    Miss Kelly comes from New Orleans and runs the Navajo, a brothel on I Street in Panama City. She's lusty, large, and voluptuous, and she appears to be very capable. This makes me confident.
    "Hell yes, honey, I can tell you a