Over the Line

by Kelly Irvin

  An acute pain in her chest made it impossible for Gabriella to answer. She could only nod as the air whooshed from the small kitchen, collapsing the walls around her, allowing the memories to flood in.

  The December evening was cold. She decided to serve linguini with a bottle of Pinot Grigio. It was Paolo’s thirty-fifth birthday, and Gabriella wanted to make him a meal from his country. They gorged on linguini with clam sauce, bruschetta, salad, and tiramisu. His face flushed, his eyes shining, he insisted they open a second bottle of wine. In the mood to celebrate, Gabriella obliged. She’d personally filled his glass—twice. Three hours later, he wrapped his Jaguar around a heritage oak, killing himself and paralyzing Natalie.

  Gabriella gulped her tea, trying to wash away the sour taste in her mouth and the stone in her throat that threatened to choke her. Next Virginia would be saying the Bible said to forgive. Jesus said to forgive. Natalie seemed to have forgiven.

  So, why couldn’t Gabriella forgive Eli? Unlike her, he hadn’t killed anyone. She could pray for others. Like Tiffany Lockhart. But Eli? She held him to a higher standard. She needed to repent and be forgiven as much as he did—more.

  * * *

  Eli walked the dirt road slowly, kicking at stones, avoiding ruts, ignoring the desire to turn and run like a little boy trying to escape his punishment. He forced himself to look ahead, down the road. His father sat at a picnic table shaded by a chinaberry tree in the church’s side yard. He appeared to have shrunk, his wizened body a mere shell of the one Eli remembered from his childhood. He had a Bible open in front of him, yellow tablet filled with scribbles next to it. “Pops, it’s too hot to be sitting outside.”

  At the sound of Eli’s voice, he looked up. His joy was muted but still there. By the grace of God, still there. “Elijah.” He took off his thick black-rimmed glasses and laid them aside in a deliberate motion. He was the only one in the world who called Eli by his given name. The name of a prophet who was taken up to heaven in a chariot of fire. “How are you, m’ijo?”

  Eli strode through brown grass brittle with drought and dropped onto the bench across from his father. He gazed out at wild olive and Montezuma cypress trees with boughs sagging in the hot, dry breeze. “You were going to marry Jake Benoit?”

  “So this is business, not a social call.” Pops replaced his glasses and fixed Eli with a stare magnified by the lenses. He was famous for that stare.

  “A little of both.”

  Pops picked up his Bible and smoothed the worn leather cover with fingers knotted by arthritis. “I was considering it, but I had not made a decision. Jacob asked me to see him and his fiancée for some marriage counseling. They had an appointment Thursday, but they did not keep it. So it seems doubtful that I would marry them.”

  “Did Jake call you to reschedule?”

  “No. Why do you want to know this?”

  “He’s Gabby’s brother. She didn’t even know he was getting married.”

  “Then Gabriella should speak with her brother. How is it that you came to know about this?”

  “Have you met his fiancée?”

  “Sí, Mirasol Mendez. A silly young girl, perhaps too immature for marriage, but I hadn’t made that determination yet.”

  “You know that she’s a friend of Chuy Figueroa . . . and his cousin, Alberto.”

  “Claro que sí. His family attends our church here. I baptized his sister and she married here. ¿Por qué?”

  Our church. He always said that. Our church. As if Eli still dragged his feet behind him every Sunday morning when they’d trudged on the dusty road to the church at the crack of dawn. Eli had swept the sidewalk and checked the pews again—as if some slovenly elf had come in during the night and dropped bubblegum wrappers on the floor of the sanctuary while they slept. It seemed like a very long time ago. Eli studied the dirt road, still not paved, still filling the air with choking dust.

  This church was only a few hundred yards from the Rio Grande. A few hundred yards from another country where warring cartels waged bloody battles over drugs and guns. Somehow, it had never touched his family. Now it might.

  “There’s a chance . . . a chance that they’re not good men. That they are involved in something illegal.”

  His father smoothed the pages of his notebook. “Not good men? Your tía Naomi called. She told your mother she had seen you here downtown. With Gabriella. She assumed we knew.” His tone was only faintly condemning and hurt.

  “Gabby’s at the house now, with Mamá. And I’m here now, Pops.”

  “You have reconciled?”

  “No. She’s here because her brother is in trouble. The men I mentioned may have something to do with that trouble.”

  His father wouldn’t be distracted. “She is a good woman. She loves you. You love her.”

  “I’m well aware of that.”

  She loved him, but she didn’t trust him—for good reason. He didn’t deserve her trust. Somehow, he had to earn it back. But to do that, he had to find a way to tell her the truth about his past. And their future.

  “Are you trying to reconcile? Have you begged forgiveness? Have you sought counseling?”

  Each question pierced Eli’s skin like nails to a cross. The truth that gnawed at him every time he looked at her. Would she understand? Would she want to help carry his complicated burdens? “I’m trying,” he whispered. “She is very hurt.”

  His father smacked him on the shoulder with the notebook, his strength surprising. “Try harder.” He stood. “We must go eat. I can’t answer questions on an empty stomach.”

  During the walk home, they talked of other things. News of his siblings. Family matters. Whether the Astros or the Rangers were a better team this year. At the lunch table, Eli tried again to extract the information gently, but his father wasn’t having any of that. He focused on Gabby, drilling her with questions about her restaurant, Natalie, and the kids between praise for Mamá’s cooking. “You should serve pollo con calabaza in your restaurant, Gabriella. Your customers will want the recipe.”

  “I might make it my Thursday night special, but these law enforcement types are more into beef than chicken and squash.” Gabriella smiled. She never hid the fact she loved his parents, sometimes more than she loved Eli. “I admit to pilfering Virginia’s recipe for pastel de tres leches. It’s a best seller with Mexican hot chocolate on cold winter days.”

  Tres leches cake was also one of Eli’s favorites.

  “Pops, Alberto attended youth group at the church.” Eli handed the basket of homemade corn tortillas to Gabby. Her smile didn’t waver. Eli forced himself to smile in return. “According to his girlfriend, he was recruited to act as a straw buyer by his uncle Manny Figueroa. He then recruited other members of the group. They’re college students. They need money. It’s easy. They’re easy targets.”

  “I catch anyone doing this in my church, I will kick their behinds all the way across the river myself.” Xavier laid his napkin on his plate, still laden with food. “These boys went to our youth group, vacation Bible school, and they played kickball in the church parking lot. It’s hard for me to reconcile them as hoodlums.”

  They would always be Pops’ sheep. If they didn’t stay on the straight and narrow, he had failed in his job. He would want to bring them back into the fold. “Beto was trying to make amends when he was killed. He was working with Gabby’s brother to bring down the operation.”

  “God bless his soul. I’ll go see his parents tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Do you think you’ll be asked to perform his funeral?” Virginia tugged the napkin from his plate and nudged it toward him. “You have to eat.”

  “His parents didn’t attend our church. I suspect Father Oliver from Sacred Heart got that call.” He once again covered his plate with the napkin. This time he stood. “I must get back to the church. The trustees are meeting to discuss repairs. The youth have their Bible study. Life goes on despite all the ways of a fallen world.”

  “Pops, wait.�
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  “You have eaten nothing.” Virginia picked up his plate. “You’ll be hungry later. I’ll keep it warm for you.”

  She cast a warning glance at Eli. He subsided. No one made Xavier Cavazos talk if he chose not to do so.

  A bang told them the front door had closed. “He hasn’t been eating. You give him indigestion with this third degree of yours.” Virginia scowled at Eli. “A strong wind and he blows away.”

  “Is something wrong?” Fear crawled through Eli. He stood and went to the kitchen window to stare out. “Is he sick? Has he been to the doctor?”

  “You know him.”

  Eli did. A team of oxen couldn’t drag Pops through a doctor’s door. A tradition Eli carried on.

  Something else to worry about.

  * * *

  “Your dad hasn’t lost his touch.” Gabriella pushed against the porch’s wooden floor with her chancla. Swinging created a tiny breeze in the sweltering South Texas air. The afternoon temperatures blistered the ground. Crickets mused in the distance. A mourning dove cooed from its perch in a fragrant eucalyptus tree in the front yard. It could almost be a simple Sunday afternoon. Almost. “He’s got to be in his eighties, and he’s still the best preacher I know.”

  “Eighty-six.” His back to her, Eli stuck both hands on the porch railing. “Mamá is bringing out the homemade ice cream in a few minutes. She wants to know if you want chocolate syrup or butterscotch topping.”

  “He chewed you out, didn’t he?”

  He turned to face her. “When I got shot, I lost you.”

  Gabriella stabbed her foot against the floor and brought the swing to an abrupt halt. “Are you trying to blame your infidelity on me?”

  “No. Whatever you think I did is on me. But it’s like you suddenly realized that this law enforcement thing is for real. Up until then you understood the concept that I could get shot, I could die, but it was just an abstract concept. Until it happened. You withdrew into the restaurant. You were never around. You even stopped showing up for the counseling sessions.”

  “Once, okay, twice, but a pipe broke and the kitchen was flooded. I had—”

  “A broken pipe was more important than fixing our relationship? We were engaged to be married.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the railing. His face deserved a place on Mount Rushmore. “You left me, not the other way around.”

  “That’s bull.” He was right. He was so right. Sitting there at the hospital, waiting for a surgeon to tell her whether Eli had lived or died, she’d come to a horrifying realization. If he died, her world would die with him. The restaurant, the house, the animals—everything would be a gray void where he’d once been. “And if you felt that way, you could’ve said something instead of cheating on me.”

  “Right.” He wore the masculine man-of-few-words like a crown. “You bailed.”

  “No. No!”

  “You know, I’ve seen a few cops get shot over the years. Their wives and girlfriends always cling to them, so relieved they’re still alive, that they’re afraid to let them out of their sights.” He walked over to the swing and plopped down next to her. She inhaled his musky scent of bitterness. “You . . . I had to order carnitas to see you. Even then you barely came out from behind the kitchen doors.”

  “You’re exaggerating.” Not really. She couldn’t explain it. The terrible icy fear that encased her every time she’d looked into the fathoms deep of his eyes and thought about how close he’d come to death. She’d lost her parents to divorce, almost lost her sister. Then Eli. Her instinct had been to run, to save herself, to leave him before he left her. In the end she’d been right. He hadn’t died; he’d just found someone else. “I was trying to run a restaurant. Alone.”

  “I was the one alone. I don’t do alone very well these days.” He took her hand in his and rubbed his thumb across her knuckles. The hair on her arms stood up. “You, on the other hand, seem to do it very well. I’m trying, Gabs. Can’t you see that?”

  “I do see it. I know how hard it is for you. I’m trying to decide if it’s too little too late.” She couldn’t fight the image of his fingers touching another woman’s skin. “Are you still . . . Do you still . . . ? I’ve heard you still see her.”

  His hand dropped. “You really want to go there?”

  “I want the truth.”

  He laughed, a bitter, grating sound. “I tried telling you the truth before. All it got me was a lonely apartment.”

  Gabriella tucked her hands under her thighs. “I’m an attorney. I know how to do background checks, and I know people who will do them for me. She runs an escort service. How could you get involved with a call girl? You’re a police officer. How could you?”

  “If you’ll park your high horse for a minute, I’ll tell you. I met her when I worked vice, long before I met you. Long before we got engaged. We’re not involved. We see each other . . . as friends.”

  For some reason she’d allowed herself to hope against all rational thought, that it was just a big misunderstanding. Her throat was scratchy, her tongue swollen. The words stuck on her lips. “How much do you pay her for her company?”

  His fist smacked against the swing’s wooden arm. The swing vibrated as he shoved himself to his feet and stomped down the steps. He whirled, hands fisted. “You have no idea who or what Lily is to me.”

  Gabriella shot from the swing, marched down the steps, and halted within inches. “And you wonder why I can’t take you back.”

  The woman’s name was Liliana Chacon. She came from a family of drug dealers and extortionists and shadowy mafia-like figures. And he called her Lily. That should’ve been somebody short and a little chubby, who liked soccer and grape Fanta. Not a woman who looked as if she’d just walked off the set of a Victoria’s Secret commercial.

  Tears would’ve been a relief, but none came. They’d dried up six months earlier.

  “Not everything is about you.” He dug car keys from his jeans pocket. “Tell Mamá I went to the store. I want a root beer float.”

  Cigarettes, more likely. He wanted to escape. To walk away as usual.

  A man in dirty gray work pants and a dirty wife-beater pelted down the road toward them. “The church’s on fire.” Panting, he slammed to a halt behind the Charger. His gaze swung wildly from Eli to Gabriella. “They firebombed the church.”

  Chapter 31

  Sirens screamed.

  God, no. Pops.

  Eli took off like a gangbanger running from the cops. Running for his life. Running for every regret and every hurt and every disappointment. He outdistanced Johnnie, the gardener-slash-custodian, even though the other man was younger and more agile.

  The block to the church seemed to stretch until it became miles. His sight dimmed. His legs turned to rubber. He stumbled over curbs, rocks, and weeds.

  Fire trucks and ambulances screeched to a halt in front of the building. Firefighters emerged. Hoses unrolled. Voices shouted.

  Smoke and flames billowed from the broken double doors that led to the sanctuary. Eli slammed to a halt. “Pops? Pops!” The yell came out a croak.

  He bolted toward the doors.

  A firefighter grabbed his arm. “Whoa, whoa.”

  “My dad’s in there.”

  Three firefighters in full gear raced past him.

  “We’ve got this.” The firefighter gave him a gentle shove. “We’ll get him out.”

  Eli fought him off and lunged for the door.

  The guy wrestled him back. “Stop, stop.”

  The doors burst open. Gray-and-black smoke billowed. The stench of burning wood, rubber, and plastic assailed him, along with intense heat.

  Eli stumbled back.

  Two firefighters emerged, Pops’ limp body propped up between them. His head lolled. His glasses had disappeared. Burns, holes, and black soot stained his white shirt, once crisp and starched. Blotchy burns on his chest and arms showed through.

  His legs dragged behind him.

  “
Papí! Papí?”

  “Get the EMTs over here!” The firefighters lowered Pops onto the water-sodden grass. “He’s breathing. We’re going back in.”

  They disappeared back into the smoke and flames that consumed a place central to Eli’s life his entire childhood. Even now as an adult, his backup plan, his go-to place. The place where he could always find his father. And his Father.

  He fell to his knees. God, please, don’t take him. I have so much to tell him. So many secrets I’ve kept from him. He can’t go yet.

  Ugly red blisters pocked Pops’ face under soot and water.

  “Papí, I’m so sorry.” Eli touched the sparse, rumpled gray hair on his father’s head. He looked so vulnerable. So hurt. “This is my fault.”

  Pops groaned. His eyelids fluttered, then closed again.

  “Out of the way, sir.” EMTs lugging a gurney barreled down on him. “Let us get a look.”

  They knelt and began to work on him. Fighting to breathe, Eli stumbled back. A hand touched his back. He turned. Horror in her eyes, Gabby stared up at him. His mother, both hands to her mouth, sank to her knees next to Pops. “Xavier? Xavier!”

  “Please stay back, ma’am.” The EMT glanced up, then went back to setting up an IV. “Are you his wife?”

  She nodded.

  “Does he have any medical issues we need to know about?”

  “High blood pressure. High cholesterol.” Mamá took Pops’ hand and kissed it. “He had a slight heart attack three months ago.”

  “Mamá!”

  She shook her head. “Not now, m’ijo. How is he? Is it bad?”

  “He has numerous burns. Smoke inhalation. Shock. We’ll get him intubated, start oxygen in the ambulance. We need to transport.”

  The EMTs gently hoisted him onto the gurney and rolled him away. Mamá trotted alongside.