Sweet Mary

by Liz Balmaseda

  Although I had delivered a fugitive, my mission was far from complete. When I left the field office that day, I wasted no time in finishing the task.

  I drove to Tony’s house.

  Tony came to the door with his usual air of self-importance.

  “It’s past eleven o’clock. Would you like me to call the police?” he said.

  “Go ahead. There’s no restraining order against me,” I said. “I’ll tell them Victoria invited me. And then I’ll tell them the candidate’s crony, the shrink, has been allowed to drug my son—with the consent of his father. I’ll leak it to the Daily Press. I hear they just love Victoria.”

  Tony glanced off, angry.

  “We can do this the right way or we can do this the really embarrassing way,” I said. “I say you invite me in and we work this thing out, you and me. No judge. No guardian. No shrink. No wife. Just you and me.”

  Tony stepped out of the way and let me come inside. He was alone in the house. Victoria was out at a late campaign meeting and Max was at a summer camp sleepover.

  In the leaden quiet of his penthouse, Tony and I talked for a good while. I told him everything I knew about him, the financial records, the letter from Wharton, all the evidence that was yet to be presented to Judge Costello. He seemed distressed as he heard the litany of points I threatened to make against him, but more than this he seemed tired, particularly each time I mentioned Victoria’s name. I sensed something was going wrong between them, although I couldn’t pinpoint what it was, nor did I ask him. I wanted to keep the focus on our son. I had the feeling, however, that whatever was troubling Tony, it would work to my advantage. He didn’t seem as fixated on Max as he had been days earlier, when he had seemed to be obsessed with forming the picture-perfect, campaign-worthy family.

  Because I noticed an uncharacteristic slump in his shoulders, I didn’t argue when he said he needed a while to collect his thoughts. I didn’t push him. I left him in that lifeless penthouse to contemplate his options.

  When I left Tony’s house, I called Gina to check on Natalie. She was asleep, Gina said.

  “We made some popcorn and watched a little TV. She hit the sack early,” said Gina. “You coming home?”

  “Later,” I said. “Don’t wait up.”

  I hadn’t slept in three days and I smelled like a locker room after a football game. I could still feel the funk and dust of the road clinging to my clothes, the same pair of light summer pants and pale tank I had worn to Bad Mary’s house. The top looked a few shades darker than its original ivory tone. But despite my condition, I couldn’t go home without making one more stop. I took a drive to see Joe.

  I found him at the Rapture Lounge, working in his office, alone. I watched him for a long while before he glanced up to find me in the doorway. Without a word, he rose from his desk and swept me into his arms. In his powerful embrace, I felt as if my heart was swelling like a great balloon that could lift me off the ground. I pressed my chest into his, my forehead into his, then my lips into his lips. With soft, deep kisses, and without uttering a word, I told him everything that had happened since the night we parted in Key West. I kissed the corners of his eyes the way I used to years earlier. He brushed his lips along my neck in a way that always made my eyes mist.

  Taking my face in his hands, he gave me a look that told me he had something important to say. But I spoke instead.

  “I know. I need a bath,” I said.

  He laughed and took my hand.

  “Come on,” he said. “I want to show you something.”

  He led me around his desk and unfurled a blueprint for some kind of house or business.

  “What is it?” I said.

  “It’s a big surprise,” is all he would say.

  TV SCREEN—DAY 32

  A series of news bulletins flash on TV across the city.

  NEWS BULLETIN—CHANNEL 7

  A redheaded local TV anchorwoman narrates a breaking news story over silent images of Mary speaking at a press conference.

  ANCHORWOMAN: Drama in the suburbs! An international drug ring has been busted—by a Miami soccer mom, no less. Just weeks after being the victim of a wrong-house raid by the feds, Coconut Grove Realtor Mary Guevara hunted down the cocaine trafficker she had been mistaken for…

  NEWS BULLETIN—CHANNEL 4

  A dapper local anchorman broadcasts Mary’s story over several scenes of federal agents leading away handcuffed suspects.

  ANCHORMAN :…a domino effect of drug busts ensued! Arrested in the statewide operation were longtime fugitive drug kingpin Juan Cardenal, his son Francisco, and their partner Jaime Paz…

  NEWS BULLETIN—TELEMUNDO

  An aging national Spanish-language news anchorman offers his take on the story of the day over a Mary montage.

  ANCHORMAN :…y señores, aquí la tienen, la extraordinaria María Guevara, la humilde ciudadana norteamericana que derrumbó el imperio narcotrafficante de Juan Cardenal. ¿Como la ven?

  NEWS BULLETIN—CHANNEL 6

  A stylish local newswoman delivers the breaking news glowingly as images of a smiling Mary flash on-screen.

  ANCHORWOMAN : And here’s the remarkable kicker…On Thursday afternoon, Mary Guevara will be presented with a civilian medal of distinction by the very DEA agents who raided her home. And later that night, she will be honored by the PTA of her son’s school. Pretty incredible story all around.

  SEVENTEEN

  MARY’S HOUSE—DAY 38

  Mary, in sweatpants and a tank top, tidies up in the living room, fluffing pillows, straightening books, and plucking dead leaves off the potted plants. She moves quickly and energetically.

  I could hear my mother singing in the kitchen as I buzzed around the living room, getting ready for the big, special occasion later that afternoon. I had not heard her sing in so many years that when I caught the first strain of her liltingly melodic voice, a voice like a bell, I felt an old, sweet feeling wash over me. She was belting out a song I hadn’t heard in a very long time, one of the favorites at our noisy family gatherings and Sunday sing-alongs.

  Those were the days, my friend

  We’d thought they’d never end…

  Wafts of roasting delicacies drifted out of the kitchen and filled the house with familiar, comforting aromas. Through the window, I could see Daddy outside doing his best to trim the hedges as neatly as he could get them. Random branches and twigs jutted out as he passed them by without notice. He was doing a nice job, I thought. And even Fatty was there, making himself useful in the den. He was at my laptop—his ankle finally free of the tracking device, thanks to good behavior—loading new music into my iPod.

  “Gotta hear this joint, yo,” he said, bopping in a pair of headphones. “It’s gangster. Like you, my sis.”

  Gangster. That’s what he started calling me the moment he saw my picture in the Daily Press next to the story of my “heroic one-woman operation.” From then on, I became his idol, taking the place of that beret-clad simpleton in the pantheon of Fatty’s demigods.

  As I slipped on the headphones, a raw Cuban-style conga assaulted my senses. I hardly recognized Fatty’s voice on the track. He wasn’t just spitting out rhymes, as he usually did. His voice carried a depth I had never heard in him, the melodious tenor of an artist coming into his own.

  Sweet, sweet Mary, so misunderstood.

  Can’t find justice.

  Can’t find right.

  Got no choice. Gotta fight.

  Te busca la policia, Maria, te busca.

  Te busca la policia, Maria, te busca.

  Quien tu eres, Maria? Dimelo.

  Quien tu eres, Maria? Suenalo.

  Quien tu eres, Maria?

  Te andan buscando en las calles de Hialeah.

  I handed the headphones back to him.

  “Nice. Download some Toots and the Maytals while you’re at it,” I told him. “I’m gonna take my gangster behind upstairs to get ready.”

  I changed into a nice pair of no-
name jeans and a simple V-neck T-shirt, slipped on some flats, smoothed a little clear gloss on my lips, a little lotion on my elbows, and brushed out the layers of my hair. I had cut my hair in bouncy new angles, and at times I didn’t recognize my own silhouette in the mirror. Some days, I’d pass by and think, Who’s that smokin’ woman? But not that day. That day I was in a bit of a hurry.

  I dashed into Max’s bedroom and gave it a good inspection. Everything was in its place, toys stashed into their respective bins, Spidey sheets tucked perfectly into the edges of the bed, a dream team of basketball jerseys hanging neatly in the closet, the LeBrons next to the D. Wades.

  I was wiping a little smudge off the dresser when I heard the doorbell ring. I dropped what I was doing and bolted downstairs, the same stairs I had raced down that day the feds came.

  “I’ll get it!” I said.

  I rushed to open the front door, and when I threw it open and saw who was standing there, I nearly lost my breath. He seemed a little more formal than I had remembered him, his hair somewhat shorter, his clothes brand-new and different. But in his smile I recognized everything I so desperately missed. I flung open my arms and Max raced into them, gripping me as tightly as he knew how. Max, my beautiful boy, was finally home. More than five weeks after the federal raid, I swept him up and into the living room, where my parents and my brother waited with more hugs and kisses.

  After a little while, I took Max up to his bedroom so he could change into his favorite jersey. After he had dressed, he took my hand and we plopped down on the floor together.

  “Mommy,” he said, “why did it take so long for you to bring me home?”

  I didn’t know how to answer his question, but I gave it a try.

  “I tried very hard to bring you home, but the judge said I couldn’t,” I told him.

  “So why didn’t you just go get me anyway? Like, with a light-saber?” he said. He whipped the air with a make-believe sword. “I could have helped you beat up the bad guys.”

  “You are the silliest boy in the world, you know that?” I said, wrapping him in a giant hug. I laughed to myself at Max’s superhero ideas, and I realized how hard I tried each day to live up to his grandiose image of me. Perhaps that’s why I went after Maria Portilla in the first place. Perhaps, on some level, I saw myself not as Mary Guevara, Realtor, but Max’s Mom, Superhero.

  We went back downstairs and joined the party. I was so stirred up with emotion that I had not even glanced at the guy who brought Max home that day.

  “Hello, chérie,” said Tony with an air kiss. “So nice to see you.”

  He seemed notably different than days earlier, when I had given him that ultimatum. He seemed meeker, remarkably grounded, albeit more pale than what is normal for him. It had taken every ounce of courage he had to go to family court and announce that he was no longer fighting me for custody, that he would observe our original custody agreement, that he would no longer take his son to therapy. The judge could have played hardball and tossed a few more obstacles into the process. But she didn’t. Judge Jane Anne Costello was more angry at her favorite child psychiatrist for hiding his conflict of interest from the court. She closed the case before any of the shrink’s political ties hit the press. I’m sure it helped that I also had some key factors weighing in my favor:

  A) The truth

  B) A resounding recommendation from Agent Green

  C) An equally glowing one from the countywide PTA

  D) The expertise and old-fashioned legal persistence of Elliot Casey

  E) The crumbling election campaign of Victoria Ramonet

  This last one was a doozy. In my brief absence from Miami, it came to light that Victoria had accepted generous campaign contributions from not one but three convicted felons, a trio of developers who had served time for embezzling public funds. Apparently, they were hoping for some plum construction projects to fall their way, thanks to a nudge from would-be commissioner Ramonet. And the scandal only got worse for her when the Daily Press published photographs of Victoria and one of the developers in the throes of a passionate kiss aboard the man’s yacht.

  I shouldn’t have to explain how the revelation sucker-punched a proud chap like Tony. He was devastated. The worst part of the story was that he was aboard that yacht, sailing the Greek Isles, the day the photo was snapped. He was on the other side of the deck, sipping a Kir Royal, contemplating the jagged limestone cliffs of Corfu. Shortly after the paper published those photos, Victoria plummeted in the polls. She was forced to drop out of the race. In fact, she was doing just that on the day I went to deliver my ultimatum to Tony. What I had sensed that day was the anguish of a man on the verge of getting dumped. You see, as Victoria’s political aspirations went out the window, so did her need for a ready-made family. She came home that night and packed up her jewels and her pantsuits and left Tony.

  I had spent the next few days with Natalie at home, oblivious to all the drama. She’d slept in Max’s bed and played with his toys, and at night she’d curled up on the sofa and watched movies with me. Her mother, I had told her, was arranging a trip for them into a great new neighborhood. The truth was that Agent Green had managed to arrange Maria and Natalie’s “disappearance.” As a valuable informant and witness to the crimes of the Cardenal family, Maria Portilla found an ally in the very federal agents who had sought her arrest.

  Natalie stayed for five days, until the day Agent Green showed up at my door with word that arrangements had been made for the mother and child’s passage into a “safe new place.” As persuasive as I tried to be, he wouldn’t let me escort the girl to where her mother was.

  Natalie and I said our good-byes in the backyard, beneath a canopy of hot pink bougainvillea that spilled from a cedar trellis. She lay her head on my shoulder and cried for a long while.

  “Why do I have to move again?” said the girl.

  “After this time, you won’t have to move anymore,” I said, trying to comfort her.

  “But it won’t be home,” she said.

  There was such a depth of sadness in her eyes that I had a hard time coming up with the right things to say. She was too smart a child to be soothed by pat responses. Grasping for a language she might understand, I remembered something she told me the first day we met.

  “Remember the sea turtles?” I said. “Remember how you told me the mothers are the only ones who go to the shore?”

  “They are,” she said.

  “The mothers always go back to lay their eggs in the same beach where they were born,” I said.

  “I know. I told you that.”

  “How do you think they find it?” I said.

  “I don’t know,” she said between sniffles.

  “They find it because it’s home,” I said.

  “I don’t have a home,” the girl said.

  “You do. You know why that beach is home to the sea turtles?” I said. “Because that’s where their mothers went. They were probably looking for their mothers. Natalie, the beach isn’t the home. The mother is the home.”

  The girl embraced me one more time and then Agent Green took her away to the place where she would live with her mother.

  The girl drifted out of my life as a strange new phenomenon was drifting in. When I ventured from home after those days I spent holed up with Natalie, I came to realize something curious: I had become a local celebrity. All of a sudden, random strangers recognized me. They stopped me at the supermarket, waved to me in rush-hour traffic, congratulated me on my daring mission. Letters, phone calls, and invites streamed in from out of nowhere, some from people I hadn’t heard from in years.

  Some days after Max’s homecoming party, I received invitations to appear on Good Morning America, Larry King Live, and Oprah.

  I also received an interesting letter from Ida Miller, gorgeously handwritten on Tiffany blue stationery. My former boss heaped praise on me, her protégé. This is what she wrote:

  My Dearest Mary,

  Not a day go
es by that I don’t remember you more fondly than the day before it. When I read about your act of bravery, I whispered a prayer of gratitude for you. “Thank you, Lord,” I prayed. “Thank you for keeping my Mary safe. Thank you for having brought her into all of our lives.”

  Mary, how proud you have made your old friend! I always knew there was something extraordinary about you, from the first day you walked into my office and asked if I needed a receptionist. A receptionist, you said, not yet grasping the full scope of your talents. Do you remember that? You took a look at my bookshelf and asked if you could borrow my “Sales Techniques for Winners” tapes. I never told you this, but it was that very day that I placed the call to enroll you in the real estate course.

  I wanted to polish you the way one polishes a precious gem. But now I know I didn’t have to—you were always a sparkling diamond.

  I know we’ve been distant for a while, but please allow me to be the first to break the silence and ask: When are you coming back to work? Everybody misses you here. I miss you most.

  Please say you’ll come back soon.

  Warm regards,

  Ida Miller

  President

  Grand Realty

  I replied to her letter with a short, sweet handwritten note. Here’s what I said:

  Dear Ida,

  Thank you for your kind words. I miss you, too. Please give my regards to all my friends at Grand Realty. As for my work-related plans, I have decided to pursue other opportunities.

  All my best to you,

  In eternal gratitude,

  Mary Guevara

  Those other opportunities I mentioned in the note involved starting my own real estate–plus business. I found a decent-sized, Old Florida–style bungalow in Coconut Grove and set up shop there with Gina, whom I didn’t have to coax too hard. She quit her job at Grand as soon as I explained the concept behind the Take Me Home agency.

  I called it “real estate–plus” because that was the best term I could think of to describe its mission, which extended well beyond the sale of real estate. The truth is, I couldn’t open a normal real estate office because I was no longer the same kind of saleswoman I used to be. In the weeks that followed my return from Malabar, my life seemed to flow on a different kind of momentum. I no longer cared about outselling my real estate colleagues, or breaking commission records, or pitching the heck out of listings I knew were all wrong for the buyer. I no longer felt a need to work the pole. Instead, I made it my mission to help my customers find their special nook in the world, a place to truly feel safe. Perhaps this is because I had begun to attract a different kind of clientele, one less interested in property speculation and more concerned about longtime security.