“Where have you been, C.A.? I was worried sick!”
“I’m sorry, Angie. I went to find Luisa. She’s not home!” Carole Ann said, almost whining. “And why didn’t anybody ever tell me about her grandson?”
She followed Angie to the dining room table, where a pot of tea was steeping, and as the older woman sank with a deep sigh into a chair, C.A. lifted the pot and poured tea into two cups.
“I didn’t know you didn’t know,” Angie said with a shrug and a noisy sip of peppermint tea. “Anyway, Ricky only comes around when he’s in trouble and he only stays long enough for whoever is looking for him to stop looking for him.” And she shrugged again, dismissing Ricky with a heavy sigh and a look of sadness that alarmed Carole Ann, especially since her hands shook when she placed her cup on the table.
“Does he hurt Luisa?” Carole Ann asked, her own hands forming themselves into involuntary fists; and when Angie ducked her head and didn’t reply, she jumped to her feet and began pacing. “The little bastard! I can’t wait to have a little talk with him—”
“No!” Angie grabbed Carole Ann’s arm and pulled her back into her seat, the sadness in her face transformed into real fear. “Don’t say anything, promise me. You’ll only make it worse.”
“Make it worse how, Angie? What does he do to her?”
“Nothing, Carole Ann. Please believe me. She just doesn’t like him being there because he drinks and smokes and listens to that loud, stupid music and...and...he talks crazy.”
Angelique sighed deeply and her shoulders lifted and fell and she sank back onto the chair and crossed her arms over her bosom, and her legs at the ankles. Her eyes locked with Carole Ann’s for a brief moment before they began roaming. It was not, Carole Ann mused, an evasive or secretive action; rather, it seemed a true assessment of her surroundings. Angie’s eyes roamed over the furnishings in Grayce’s living room and Carole Ann could almost see her memory working, recalling when and where and why Grayce had obtained a table or a chair or a painting or a vase. Carole Ann could almost feel the older woman’s heart imagining a life without her old and dear friend, could feel it feeling how close tragedy had come to being a disaster.
“Angie—”
The older woman shook her head and the mane of burnished, thick hair swished. She met Carole Ann’s eyes. “I don’t want to talk about Ricky. Not now, Carole Ann. Not when there are truly important things to say and do.”
There were only two years of Carole Ann’s life, the first two, when Angelique Arroyo was not a presence; Carole Ann thought of Angie as always having been there. Angie was a known quantity, familiar and comfortable. Yet, in this moment, she realized that there was something about Angie that was unknown. Unknown because it was unavailable. Some place deep within, Angie was sad, and Carole Ann just recognized that truth for the first time. Perhaps because now
she had her own sad place. It takes one to know one.
“Then what about Luisa? Don’t you find it odd that she’s not here, today of all days? And where would she go?”
“It’s typical Luisa behavior, C.A. She’s always been a doormat for the lousy men in her life. Wherever she is, it probably has something to do with Ricky.”
“And that’s more important to her than Grayce?”
“He’s her grandson, Carole Ann. He’s family.”
“And we’re not?” Carole Ann’s anger at Luisa returned full force.
“Not to Luisa. Not like you mean,” Angie said, her lack of further interest in the subject proven by her pronouncement that it was her turn to watch Grayce and that Carole Ann could make herself useful by making some soup. Grayce needed nourishment, she said, and because her face and mouth were so swollen and sore, soup would be all that she could manage. And, like Roberta had done earlier, Angie left the room, left Carole Ann sitting at the table staring at the teapot, without, by word or gesture, acknowledging the events of the night before.
She sat there thinking, elbows propped on the table, her chin supported by her hands, until she realized she was nodding off. Gratefully she staggered to the sofa, stretched out, and drifted off into a deep, dreamless sleep. When she awoke, Roberta was sitting in the armchair, nodding, and she stirred when Carole Ann awoke, stretched and rotated her neck to release the kinks.
“I went to check on Luisa,” she said to Roberta, keeping her tone of voice neutral. “She’s not at home.”
Roberta looked at her for a long moment, but, Carole Ann thought, didn’t really see her. Her next words proved the point. “Hector never really fit in around here,” Roberta said, going to the window and parting the draperies and staring out at the desolate playground. When she turned around, Carole Ann saw that she’d retreated to some distant and past place. Not the past that she, Carole Ann, shared with the four old friends, but a past of conflict and confusion that they’d deliberately kept a secret among themselves. The past that included Luisa’s husband, Hector, who, Roberta said, emerging from her thoughtful place, drank and gambled and fought and more than once spent a long weekend in jail. Unlike the other men of Jacaranda Estates, Hector Nunez did not mow his lawn or paint his house or build go-carts for his sons or playhouses for his daughters. Nor did he work hard or even often.
Luisa’s response to her husband’s behavior was to light candles and pray for him, and to envelop her children—two girls and three boys—in a protective and smothering love. The girls, both older than Carole Ann by several years and therefore not close friends, married right out of high school and moved away. They kept in touch with Luisa, Roberta said, and sent for her to visit on a fairly regular basis. But the girls had little or nothing to do with the boys, not one of whom “amounted to a hill of beans,” Bert said with a snort. Little Hector, Enrique, and Carlos.
“And Hector is the worst. You remember Little Hector, don’t you, Carole Ann?”
Of course she remembered Hector. Bright-eyed, happy, frisky, chubby Hector, six months older than herself. She followed him around, climbing where he climbed, running where he ran, jumping where he jumped, until her big brother Mitch called a halt. She surprised herself with the memory, and its clarity: Mitch calling the then twelve-year-old Hector a punk and sending him home, daring him to return. Hector, now serving a life sentence at Lompoc Penitentiary for rape and murder.
“Ricky is Hector’s son,” Roberta said. “A chip off the old block,” she added dryly.
“Angie said Luisa was a doormat.”
Roberta’s snort became a chuckle. “You must’ve really caught Angie in a melancholy mood for her to have said that. But she’s right. Big Hector treated Luisa like dirt and all she did was pray, even after he abandoned her and the kids. Little Hector and his brothers learned from their father and treated her worse than dirt and she kept on praying. And now Ricky, that little shit! I wish one of my grandkids would talk to me like he talks to her! I’d send ‘em to meet their Maker in a big hurry!”
Carole Ann disguised a giggle with throat clearing and quickly crossed to Roberta and gave her a hug before she could launch fully into her well-rehearsed discourse on how she would, if provided the opportunity, single-handedly transform the behavior of contemporary youth, and asked her what happened to Luisa’s other sons, Enrique and Carlos.
“Enrique is a professional gambler. Horses, dogs, roosters, cards, sports, the weather. If there’s odds, he’ll bet on it,” the older woman replied in a flat tone. “And Carlos is a drug addict. The harmless kind. Funny,” she said with a sad shake of her head, “how you change your perception of things. Imagine calling heroin harmless. But compared to that crack and cocaine stuff, a heroin addict is harmless. At least to other people.”
Carole Ann could not fathom a response and Roberta didn’t seem to expect one, so they sat quietly for a while.
“Anguilla,” Roberta said into the silence, and, to Carole Ann’s blank stare, she added, “That’s where Arthur Jennings lives now.” Carole Ann nodded thanks but kept the discussion on
track. “Angie also said Ricky ‘talks crazy.’ What does that mean, Bert?”
“Silly little bastard!” Roberta, already poised on the precipice, leapt into the breach, landing with catlike poise in the middle of her theory connecting discipline and respect. And with uncharacteristic restraint, she quickly returned herself to the matter at hand and revealed that Ricky Nunez belonged to a Mexican-American group that wanted to return California and Texas to the Mexicans.
Carole Ann stood abruptly and shoved her hands deep into her jeans pockets, as if hiding her hands could conceal the rage that suddenly had resurfaced and threatened to erupt. “Isn’t that some heavy-duty politics for a silly little bastard, Bert? It takes muchos cojones to carry a belief like that, to say nothing of acting on it and Ricky sounds like a midget dick if ever there was one.”
Roberta snickered and nodded. “He is. And I don’t know any more than what Luisa told me, which, knowing her, is just talk.” She paused for a moment, then shook her head. “If she even got it right what he was talking about.”
“But you know Ricky, Bert. Is it possible that he could be part of a political movement?”
“Hell, no!” the older woman snorted. “What you said about people having strong beliefs is the truth. Ricky Nunez doesn’t believe in anything stronger than tequila and marijuana.” She shook her head back and forth. “Don’t pay any attention to that kinda stuff, C.A. It’s just talk.”
But Carole Ann now had heard enough to believe that talk of a Mexican reclamation of California had a basis in substance somewhere, if not with Ricky Nunez. But where? And were its advocates capable of action? Robbie Lee had called them loud-mouthed punks, and Roberta just called them silly little bastards—and both categories of people had the potential to be dangerous and lethal. But who were they? Students of martial arts, students of history, or juvenile delinquents who made sport of intimidating their grandmothers? And were her mother’s attackers last night part of that clique?
Memories of last night rushed back suddenly and forcefully. Every one of them had behaved the entire day as if the attack on Grayce was the only significant occurrence of the previous night. Perhaps for them, Carole Ann thought, that was true. And immediately after having that thought she annulled it; she knew better than to believe even for an instant that her mother or Bert or Angie or Luisa would ever minimize the severity of what had happened to Carole Ann as a result of what had happened to Grayce. And to prove the point, Roberta leaned over and took her hand.
“I’m really sorry about last night, baby. I wasn’t thinking that what we did—that what I made Angie help me do—could get you in trouble.”
Carole Ann was grateful for the strength and comfort of the older woman’s hand. “I know, Bert. I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know. I—”
“Don’t you think it’s strange,” Roberta asked, her nose crinkling as if suddenly a bad smell permeated the room, “that big cop, whatever his name was, knew where the body was? We’d barely had time to get back in the house and he’s at the door.”
“I think it’s more than strange, Bert,” Carole Ann replied, wanting to add that what she was thinking that it was chilling and terrifying and demoralizing. “And that’s why I’m not sure what to do. At some point I’ll have to turn myself in.”
“No!” Roberta grabbed Carole Ann’s arm, nails digging in and wounding flesh. “You can’t do that, C.A.!”
Carole Ann felt the force of Roberta’s fear but did not understand its source. “I have to, Bert, I’m an officer of the court. But I’ll be OK. The worse that can happen isn’t really so bad since I don’t practice law in California anyway.”
“But that’s just it, C.A.!” Roberta wailed, now shaking the arm she’d been maiming. “I need you to practice law here! I need you to help me.”
Roberta’s strange plea was interrupted by a shuffling motion and an intake of breath and Grayce entered, leaning heavily on Angie’s arm. Carole Ann jumped to her feet, followed closely by Roberta, and the three of them led Grayce to the sofa and spent the next few minutes arranging her amid pillows and quilts until some degree of comfort had been achieved.
“I know it’s a dumb question, Ma, but how do you feel?” Carole Ann said, still bending low over her mother, searching the battered face for signs of familiarity.
“I remember a saying my father had,” Grayce began, then grimaced and shifted around until she found a more comfortable position. “Whenever he got over feeling really bad, he’d always say, ‘First I was afraid I was gonna die, then I was afraid I wasn’t.’ That’s how I feel. That and hungry, which I suppose is a positive sign. If the fact that I’m not dying, therefore ending this misery, is positive.”
“It is, Ma. Trust me,” Carole Ann said dryly. Then, in a different, more hesitant tone, she said, “I’ve got to call Mitch, Ma, and tell him what happened.”
“No!” The word exploded from Grayce’s cracked and swollen lips and she winced in pain, but continued talking with more force than she should have been able to muster. “They’re on a vacation, C.A. You know that. They’re in Paris.”
Carole Ann sighed. “I know that, Ma. I also know my big brother and he’ll be furious when he finds out you were hurt and nobody told him.”
“Leave your brother to me. I’ll tell him when I’m ready,” Grayce said, indicating that the discussion was over.
“Fine,” Carole Ann said, barely concealing her irritation with her mother. “What kind of soup do you want?”
“Don’t want soup at all,” Grayce replied, demonstrating the health and well-being of her cantankerous streak. “I want rice.”
“You can’t chew rice,” Carole Ann, Angie, and Roberta replied in unison, and they all jumped in unison at the sound of a knock on the front door.
They looked at one another, communally dreading the possibility of a return visit by the police, but each aware in some level of her consciousness that the knock on the door was too polite for the police. Carole Ann draped herself protectively over the back of the couch, an arm across her mother’s shoulders. Angie stood in front of them. Roberta trudged to the front door as if to the gallows.
“Who is it?” she asked, all but snarling, and a wary surprise flooded her face at the response that none but she could hear. “From where?” she asked the door, suspicion heavy in her voice. And the reply brought a grin to her face as she released the three locks and swung open the door.
Carole Ann leapt to her feet and ran to the door. Tommy Griffin caught her up and swung her around before she recovered her composure. “Put me down, Fish,” she growled at him, after she kissed him on the cheek. Then she stepped away from him and into Warren Forchette’s embrace. They held each other for a long moment before she stepped away from him, too. “What are you two doing here?” she asked.
“Jake sent us,” they answered together, and both shrugged as if to indicate the implied sufficiency of the response. Then Warren moved quickly toward Grayce and knelt before her.
“Aunt Grayce,” he said, and took her hands.
“Warren,” she said to him, and smiled. “You don’t know how good this is for my spirit. I just might live after all.”
“No doubt about it,” Warren replied with a big grin. “Just wait ’til you see what all Tante Sadie sent to cure you!”
Then everybody began to speak at once. And to laugh. It felt and sounded like a party. Joy was in the room. Or perhaps it was only the absence of fear. Or perhaps the one was the definition of the other. Carole Ann introduced Tommy and Warren to Grayce and Angie and Roberta, even though they all knew of one another from Carole Ann’s stories; and because they knew of one another, they thought they knew one another, and behaved accordingly. They hugged and kissed like long-lost cousins. Roberta, mother to four daughters and mother-in-law to their husbands, hung on to Tommy’s arm as if he were the son she somehow misplaced years ago and just fou
nd. Angie looked from Tommy to Warren—looked up at them, for both towered over her—as if they were rare and ancient treasures.
They filled all the spaces in the house that, prior to their arrival, had seemed quite spacious. They both were large men, though different in their largeness. Twenty-six-year-old Tommy Griffin was six-foot-three and two hundred pounds of muscle. He was a happy man—exuberant and effusive and spilling over with good humor and goodwill. Warren Forchette was fifteen years older, two inches shorter, and twenty pounds lighter than his comrade. He was an introspective man, quiet and dignified, but not without humor and his own brand of quiet joy. He listened more than he talked. His clean shaven head and silver-rimmed eyeglasses gave him the look of a peaceful—though powerful—Gandhi.
Carole Ann was so relieved and grateful to see them that she almost forgot to feign irritation at Jake for sending them. She allowed herself to be fully embraced by the swirl of delight circulating about her, aware that her mother seemed to be feeling no pain; that Angie seemed to be relieved of her mantle of sadness; that Bert seemed relaxed and at ease.
Carole Ann busied herself in the kitchen, aided at one time or another by everyone present except her mother. When finally they ate, the feast was a wonderfully palatable sampling of the refrigerator, freezer, and pantry: Pasta and rice, chicken and tofu, carrot soup and spinach soufflé and collard greens and salad, sourdough bread and cornbread, and fresh fruit and yogurt and cheese. They drank red wine and white, and iced tea and lemonade. Carole Ann equated her feeling at this gathering with her feelings at the party last year in Louisiana that Warren and his family had for her, the party at which it was discovered that Carole Ann’s grandfather— Grayce’s father—was Warren’s father’s uncle. And understanding dawned: Her place was with people she loved and who loved her. Wherever those people were—D.C., L.A., New Orleans, Atlanta. Place didn’t matter. People did. Love did.
The rightness of her feeling was confirmed when, just as they had during the preparation of the meal, everyone shared in the preparation of the healing potions and tonics Tante Sadie sent from Louisiana to cure Grayce. Sadie Cord was Warren Forchette’s great-aunt and somewhere between seventy and ninety years old; Carole Ann didn’t know and knew better than to ask. Not that it mattered. What did matter was that the old woman knew about healing body, mind, and spirit.
Where to Choose Page 9