The Loss of What We Never Had

by Carolyn Thorman

  “Work can wait.”

  “I need the money.”

  Zak came over and cupped his hand over my shoulder. “What you really need is a man to take care of you.” His palm inched up from my shoulder to the nape of my neck.

  “I take care of myself, thank you very much.”

  Mozart let out a soft yip as he chased cats in a dog’s dream.

  Zak ran his fingers s around the rim of my ear. His touch was playful, warm. He loosened a few strands of hair and arranged them around my face, then stepped back to study the effect. “Hot.”

  My drink went down in one swallow.

  He undid the top button of my blouse. “Better?” He worked on the next one. “Better yet.” He undid the third. “What’s this?”

  “Called a slip.”

  “So that was the thing on my mother’s clothesline.” His finger outlined the lace. “This time we’ll close the door. Not like when Mozart got sick all over your carpet and—“

  “The kitchen doesn’t have a door.”

  “The bedroom does,” he said.

  I should not have followed him. But I did. The breeze sailed through the open bedroom window, where the sheer curtain billowed like a spinnaker running a rough sea.

  I reached for the zipper on my skirt. “Let me,” Zak said.

  I lay on the bed as he tossed his underwear into a corner. Cotton boxers, horses prancing on the seams.

  Tell him to leave. Now. Charming as he was, he possibly tried to kill me. In fact, it could be this entire seduction was a ploy to get me on his side and shut me up. “It’s no good,” I said to answer a question he hadn’t asked. His cool body eased over mine. The force, the pressure, the drive pinning me to the sheet.

  “Your knee’s in my way,” he said.

  “Sorry.”

  Dad on the grass with Doctor Castillo, the memory never far from my mind. Dad, eager to oblige. Subservient.

  “So tight. Not many visitors.” His voice low.

  Outraged, I struggled to sit up. He forced me down.

  His arms on each side of me, he raised his chest, his eyes never leaving mine, “You want me deeper. All of them do.”

  Kick this guy out.

  With one deft motion, he flipped me onto my stomach. “Don’t,” I said in a voice heard only by myself. A rake inside of me tore at snarled weeds I hadn’t known were there. I buried a scream in a pillow.

  “Move with me,” he gasped. “It won’t hurt as bad,”

  I gripped the edge of the mattress.

  Strangling in my own breath, I fought for air until Zak collapsed. Finished. So was I, but in a different way.

  I rolled to my side and said, “You have… power” was all I could think of.

  “Oh, yeah?” he said as if eager to hear more.

  My response was a glance at the pink stain on the sheet.

  Zak followed my gaze. “I didn’t mean to.” Slowly he took my face in his hands and kissed my eyelids. We lay side by side, Zak running his hand over my stomach, back and forth, the way on that summer day Dad stroked Doctor Castillo’s chest. Jorge Castillo watching me watch him with his leering eyes. Eyes can’t leer. But Castillo’s did.

  “Stop it.” I slid from his reach and swung out of bed. My slip lay crumpled on the floor. I shook out the wrinkles. My knees weak, I half-staggered to the bathroom. Something was wrong with the mirror. My face took up too much of it. Swollen? I splashed on cold water. Turning to leave, I saw a trace of my blood on the toilet seat. I’d investigate later.

  Zak was rummaging in his jeans’ pockets. “I only allow myself one cigarette, and that’s only when I’m through with the you-know-what.”

  “Don’t try to be clever,” I said.

  Zak lit a Marlboro and waved out the match, sat on the edge of the bed and watched me pull the skirt over my head. While the cigarette smoldered in the saucer on the nightstand, he smoothed the embroidery on the hem. “Reminds me of the Virgin’s robe in Perragato’s ‘Women in Attendance.’ Know what I’m talking about? The Madonna and the prostitute.”

  I nodded.

  “Amazing,” Zak said, “how he achieved the precise colors to capture the psyche of each character.” He handed over the blouse.

  As I buttoned the sleeve, a dangerous question crossed my mind. “What about me? Do you view me as the Madonna? Or the other one.”

  His burst of laughter was no answer.

  After he left, I sat on the balcony. The moon was behind clouds, but light trod water on the sea. Light from stars, or maybe the low voltage bulbs along the dock. Mozart sprawled on the chaise lounge, and I drew up a chair to wait for the Valium to cauterize my self-loathing. Why had I allowed myself—not for the first time—to be humiliated. Grant needed to do a line before we got in bed. The guy from the offshore rig looking for only a romp in the hay. Now Zak. In all fairness, the problem was me, not them. My internal avoidance-of pain-detector that kept men who might have been emotionally significant, sufficiently insignificant. An intuitive reaction that began that night so long ago, when like an ostrich, I hid my face in a pillow so no one would find me.

  The valium kicked in; my thoughts mellowed until a sudden beam of light shot from somewhere out at sea. It climbed the rail of the balcony and rested on the tangled wires overhead. Mozart scrambled from the chaise lounge. The harbormaster’s searchlight? No, seemed to come from farther out. The beam moved down from the wires, low, lower until it found my eyes. Almost blinded I flung myself into the living room. The beam circled the chandelier, then disappeared.

  I returned to the balcony door and double-checked the lock. Then crossed the living room and tested the dead-bolt. The room quiet now, so quiet—as if the light had been sound.

  18

  When I awoke the next morning, my first thought was, I’m tied to a stake while the crowd throws stones. The thugs in cop costumes, Alfonso with his gun, then some asshole with a spotlight. I went into the kitchen and filled the basket on the espresso machine Mozart licked the floor where I’d spilled coffee. “You’ll be awake all day, kid.” He then padded from the table to the refrigerator, then back to the table the way I paced last night. “You feel it too?” He stopped, looked up, then picked up his trajectory where he left off.

  My ribcage was almost healed, but the pain was worse. Imagination gone somatic. I fought the urge to crawl back into bed. Wallow in unproductivity. Veg out. In bed, I Stare at the ceiling and waste just enough time to trigger more depression, more pain, and a greater need to bury my head under a pillow. Get out of the apartment. Go somewhere, anywhere. The beach a good place, its bright umbrellas and the smell of sun-screen. The good beach in front of my apartment. But a perverse curiosity drew me to the bad beach where I had found the head. Maybe I needed what they call closure. A stupid word for a stupid concept. That the memory of an event, feeling, or person can be sutured shut and locked like the front door when you leave the house. I was curious to see if the police found the remains and if so if anyone raked the bloodstains from the sand. A quick visit to the scene wouldn’t hurt. I took Mozart’s leash from the peg-board and with my cheer-leader chant that drove him wild—“Are you ready? Let’s go,”—He jumped and spun in circles.

  At the turnoff from the service road to the hard-packed dirt track, a flock of tourists with cameras milled around the concrete overlook. Jockeying for a good shot, the tourists aimed their lenses at Gibraltar.

  The sun-bleached the world white. Objects appeared to break loose from their moorings and tremble in the creamy glare. The sun burned my skin through my thin cotton tee-shirt. Instead of denim, my skirt felt heavy as burlap. Mozart strained at the leash. “No way you
’re running loose.”

  The stalks of the pampas grass rustled in the breeze. A stork swooped gracefully onto the roof of the gas station across the highway, steadied itself on one leg, then folded its splendid wings. Atop a low dune, a teenaged couple sat on a blanket with an empty six-pack beside them. A tattooed lizard scuttled up the guy’s arm.

  “Hey look at the pretty Labrador Retriever,” the girl called in English, the words diluted by Corona.

  “Weimaraner,” I said.

  The guy cringed, and the girl laughed and said, “He’s scared of dogs.”

  I dragged Mozart from the edge of their blanket and onto the trail that led to where I’d come upon the head. Beyond the low branches, the clearing was a trampled mass of cigarette butts, Hagen-Das wrappers, and corrugated footprints—probably from the boots of the Guardia Civil. I stared at the exact spot where the remains had been. The memory of the tattooed face and the cruel work of the blade brought a mix of anger and resignation.

  Mozart stopped panting. I turned toward the hillock of low scrub. Halfway up the slope, a red rubber band caught my eye. Spaniards sell wonderful rubber bands, strong and with plenty of twang. I leaned and picked up a tightly bound wad of euros. I unrolled the pack. Three one-hundreds. I lifted my head and looked around. Did it belong to the kids on the blanket? Ask them, and it certainly would.

  What do you do with money? I put it in my pocket.

  19

  The strains of Yo-Yo Ma’s cello covered the hum of the vacuum I was running under the bed. It took a minute before I realized the music was also almost drowning the knock on the door. I turned off the motor. Probably Casey—who else eight at night?

  I slid back the deadbolt and faced Zak holding Hamid in his arms. My first thought was that overnight Zak had aged. The tight black jersey bringing out the loose skin of his neck. My second thought was the memory of last night’s tryst and my decision to keep all contacts with Zak strictly to business.

  He looked down at Hamid, who was squirming and yawning. “Where can I put this little guy?”

  “Why are you here? Why is he here?”

  “Give me a minute.”

  I motioned to the sofa. “Make a cushion barricade so he won’t roll off.” I took a pillow from the easy chair. “Here, let me help. Why isn’t he at Saint Elias’s?”

  Zak lowered Hamid onto the couch: then as if he were ninety years old, he straightened with his hand on the small of his back. “It’s a long story.”

  Hamid sucked in his breath. His scream took decibel readings to a whole new scale. Zak lifted him halfway up, then laid him back down. “I’ve got diapers in the van. Stopped for a few things at Carrefour’s. Keep an eye on him.”

  “Leave the latch off for when you come back,” I called as he headed to the door. Leaning over the sofa, I ran my hands down Hamid’s flannel sleeper to check for a rogue strip of Velcro or a loose button. His little body is solid and warm. The screams diminished to strangled gasps. I ran my finger around the top of the diaper. Zak was right. Mozart sniffed the blanket, then moved his nose along the baby’s leg. “Knock it off.” He drifted away, and a minute later I heard the clatter of dog tags against his steel bowl.

  Weren’t babies supposed to be in bed about now? Before an uneasy suspicion came

  To rest, Zak called from the foyer, “I’m back.” He swung the door closed. In one hand he held a shopping bag with a pack of Pampers on top. The other gripped a huge box by its plastic handle. “Would you believe they make folding cribs? Bet the instructions are in Chinese.”

  “St. Elias’s doesn’t have a crib?”

  “Of course, they do—did.” Zak set the bag on the desk and propped the box against the chair. “The center’s run by the Sisters of Mercy, and—”

  “Why’s he here instead of there?”

  Zak slipped off his nylon jacket and draped it on the back of the chair. “It started to rain just when I got to Carrefour’s—”

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  He sat at the desk and drew a stuffed penguin from the bag. “Look at the crazy yellow feet.” He balanced the bird on his knee, and with his index finger, flapped the beak up and down. “Anyway, the nuns’ geriatric place isn’t, well, ready you might say.” He set the penguin on the floor and took out a package of teething rings. “Seems the diocese of Cadiz ran into a problem.”

  “Where are you taking him right this minute? Now?” As if I didn’t know.

  “Calm down.”

  “I’m calm.”

  “You’re not listening.”

  “Oh, yes I am.”

  Zak took a deep breath. “A problem with contaminated water so since you’re here with nothing to do except watch Kurt fix your dad’s house—” He paused. “Before you say no—”

  “No.”

  “Just until Sunday.” Zak held his hands about three feet apart. “He’s only this big.”

  “Fine. You take him.”

  “I live on a boat.”

  “Good for you,” I snapped.

  “You’re a doctor and a woman.”

  “Therefore, can be foisted upon.”

  “I’m not foisting,” he said.

  “You’re foisting.”

  Hamid whimpered, and Zak took the Carrefour’s bag to the sofa. “Hold on pal, I didn’t forget you.” He slid the wall of cushions aside and unsnapped Hamid’s pajamas.

  “Let your lackey, Kurt, take him.”

  Zak looked up and snapped his fingers. “Great God, why didn’t I think of that? An old German alcoholic caring for a baby. Perfect.”

  He resumed peeling the wet diaper from its Velcro. The sharp smell of ammonia stung my eyes, and I stepped back. Zak lowered his face until his nose touched the baby’s forehead, and they both laughed. Impressed, I watched him inch the diaper out from under and slip it into a disposable bag.

  “Where can I put this?” he asked

  I took the bag into the kitchen and dropped it into the metal can, Mozart sniffed the lid. “Don’t.” With my foot, I shoved the can into the pantry and closed the door. When I got back, Zak was working on Hamid with a handful of baby-wipes.

  He rummaged in the bag and came up with a can of talcum powder. “Hold this,” he said while he reached for a clean diaper.

  My heart softened as I saw how gently he lifted the tiny legs, restrained the waving arms.

  “Ready for talcum,” he said.

  “Looks like you know what you’re doing.”

  “With four younger brothers, you get the hang of it.”

  Why couldn’t I get the hang of it? Take temporary care of Hamid? Chief reason was, I didn’t want to. The mess, the noise, the responsibility, the disruption of my routine—Still, I needed a better rationale. The one I came up sounded feeble even to myself. “Problem is, I’m leaving Spain as soon as I get my passport,” I said.

  “Just keep the little fellow short-term while I find another solution.” Zak glanced up, then resumed stuffing Hamid’s arm through a sleeve.

  “It’s not, well, convenient. Besides, I don’t want to. Let me explain. If men can be househusbands, and if people can marry same-sex other people, why can’t some women refrain from going gaga over babies? I ask, because I’m one of them. The latter, I mean.”

  “Interesting.” Zak’s tone so polite. He put Hamid’s clothing in order, gathered the used wipes, and took them to the kitchen. When he returned, he brought an opened bottle of rioja and two glasses which he placed on the desk. Some nerve, raiding my cupboard. Then I remembered this was the Navarro he bought.

  With his thumb, he pried
the cork from the bottle. “You’re refusing because it’s inconvenient. What about me? You hadn’t told Tony where Hamid was because you don’t want him turned over to the police. So instead, you got hold of me assuming, correctly, I was affiliated with the Knights, and we would want the kid back. I’m supposed to do the heavy lifting.” He held the bottle over a glass. “Say when.”

  “More.”

  “And you would only tell me where the kid was on the condition, I figure out how to place the kid with a Spanish family—”

  “Doesn’t have to be Spanish.”

  “Hear me out. For you, I upset the entire original plan, which pissed off the Archbishop. I had to twist his arm to agree to place the boy when this is over.”

  I shrugged as if to say no big deal. Except it was, of course.

  “When the kid isn’t given back on Sunday, the Jihadists will go bat shit, and I’m on the receiving end.”

  Hamid lay on one end of the sofa gurgling softly. “Don’t forget I did the Delegates a favor,” I said. “They have their hostage back.”

  Zak agreed after a minute. “You’re right. This isn’t about a hostage. It’s about protecting the faith.”

  “It is? Could have fooled me.”

  “Protecting the statue of the Virgin when it’s unveiled. The statue is a symbol. It’s, well, think of it as Spain’s Statue of Liberty.”

  I sat back, amazed by his convoluted logic. “The Statue of Liberty’s the exact opposite. It welcomes the world. The Knights’ statue says, ‘screw you if you’re not Christian.’

  Zak nodded quickly. “Exactly why America has problems.”

  “You are making no sense at all.”

  Undeterred, he said, “When you told me where Hamid was, you, or some voice inside you took a stance. In effect, you joined the Knights.”

  “Oh, I did not.”

  “You, a psychiatrist, and that’s all the insight you have?” He lifted his glass and rubbed the ring of moisture with the heel of his palm and set the glass on the same place. “I’m sticking my neck out for you.” Then he added, “References to beheading explicitly intended.”