by Debra Mares
Then I stop, forcing myself to listen closer.
“Leave me alone!” she screams dramatically. Loud clicks from her heels, then swirling sounds come from the bed as screams muffle. But they sound like male screams this time. And I could be an expert on sounds of struggle. It’s all based on personal experience. One. Two. Three. Four. I count and count and count, keeping my eyes shut tightly.
The slaps and Spanish curse words the sex worker is shrieking at Señor Crazy finally brings me back into real time.
What do I do? I feel down to my pocket and feel the metal letter opener. I tighten my fist around it.
I hear a loud knock at the door and release my grip. I return to calm, hearing footsteps moving towards the door.
“Who is it?” asks Señor Crazy.
“The police,” yells a man in Spanish.
The door creaks open. “Good evening,” Señor Crazy says.
“Open the door, sir,” says the policeman.
I relax the tension in my body hearing the door open.
“Miss, do you need help?” the policeman continues in Spanish.
“No, no,” she says. I cringe in disbelief.
“Are you sure?” the policeman asks.
I want to scream. I can’t believe she’s not taking his help.
“Yes, yes, thank you,” she says casually.
“Did you call the police?” the policeman asks. “Look at the telephone,” the policeman says. I remember my last call to the police and leaving the receiver off the hook.
“I’m sorry. It was an accident,” she says.
“You don’t want him arrested?” the officer asks.
“No, no,” she pleads.
“Fine,” says the officer.
I stay silent, in the closet listening to the police officer leave. Then I hear Señor Crazy and the sex worker make their way out of my room. I come out of the closet, turn off the lights, and crawl back into bed. I drift off to sleep remembering all the times my mom and stepdad would make up with each other. It was like they were honeymooning all over again after a big fight. We’d always get to go to the seafood restaurant after they made up. We ate so many times at that place. It was my stepdad’s way of making it up to us.
This sex worker is no different. I called the police and she didn’t want him arrested. I pleaded for her not to go and she ignored me. I treated her wounds and she still left with him. How can I save someone when they can’t even save themself?
Two gunshots ring out from Señor Crazy’s room. And I go numb.
24
THE LETTER
Dear Señor Luis Santiago-Borges,
This might be the hardest thing I’ve done in a while, but it was such a pleasure to meet you in the Walled City. We were able to take care of what we needed to do. Dylan returned home and I am now traveling alone. Thank you very much for taking the time to meet with me. It means a lot to know that my mother had a true love. I always wonder if I will ever find love the way I imagined it to be. But it seems that love is what’s in your heart and dwells in your mind. Maybe it can be right in front of us. If you are too busy to stop and love those that love you, life and love will just pass you by.
After my mother returned from the Walled City, she had me and started dating my stepfather. I don’t know anything about my real father. I have my mother’s diary that I found and kept after she passed away. She married my stepfather thinking it would be the right thing to do; especially because she had me. She knew that you would never come to the States and she couldn’t go back to the Walled City, so she settled.
As best as I can remember, she and my stepfather had a violent relationship. He abused her. He hit her often. My mom never went to police but instead stayed with him.
One day it got so bad. He chased her throughout the house and she was screaming for me to call the police. I covered my ears and stayed quiet when I was hiding under my blankets in bed, trembling and crying, praying for it to stop. I felt frozen and paralyzed. He stabbed her twenty times and she died. My stepfather is serving life in prison. I have not seen him since his trial. I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again.
I blame myself over and over again because I could have saved her. I didn’t call the police. I didn’t help her when she came in my room begging. I’ve never forgiven myself for that. I hope you can. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t save her. Thank you again for your kind words, and I wish you a life filled with love and passion.
xo,
Gaby Ruiz
P.S. Thank you for putting me up in Mariposa Hotel my last night in the Walled City after the shooting.
25
FORGIVENESS DOOR
Beloved Gaby,
We have a big red door here in the Walled City. You probably walked right past it while you were here. It is called the Forgiveness Door. It is your responsibility to forgive yourself. This door reminds you that once you walk through it, you will be forgiven. But that is a myth, because it is not that simple. You must forgive yourself. It’s not your fault, you couldn’t have done anything.
It sounds like your mother stayed in a relationship that was dangerous and only she could have saved herself. In domestic abuse cases, this happens a lot. It’s a difficult thing to change. You must believe this. Your mother would not have wanted you to spend the rest of your life beating yourself up over this. You cannot realize your full potential in life, which I believe is much more than you know, until you forgive yourself.
Thank you for sharing what happened to your mother. I’m very, very sorry you had to experience this. And I can only imagine how hard it was for you to understand as a child. But the one thing that you can do to make amends with your mother is to forgive yourself. Please do this for yourself, the world, and the Universe.
Besos,
Señor Luis Santiago-Borges
P.S. I’m sorry once again for what happened at the historic hotel. This client and worker had a long history of problems before she killed him then herself. We believe she grew tired of the abuse. Domestic violence and sex trafficking is just as much a problem in the Walled City as it is in your own backyard. I hope it didn’t ruin the rest of your trip. It would be wonderful to see you and Dylan in the Walled City one day again soon. I would be delighted to know it was for your wedding. You make a very beautiful couple. Please send him my best.
26
MAMACITA MASON JAR
Two days after sipping on red wine and dancing on my vacation, I rest my feet on my office desk waiting for Kiki. She’s bringing the applications for new girls who have signed up for The Mamacita Club. I close my eyes and drift back to the Walled City.
I jerk up from my seat when the dark-haired girl on the edge of the boat pops back into my head. The boat didn’t have any sails. It was stagnant. It was not sailing. It was sitting on the side of the waterway, like it was trapped. I start scribbling on a blank piece of scrap paper. Fear. What does this boat mean? Why does it keep popping into my life?
I unscrew the mason jar I have on my desk and toss in my scrap, seeing a vision of a ship behind the “Mamacita Mason Jar” label on it.
As Kiki walks into my office, I yell at her. “Shut the door.”
I open the side drawer of my desk and see the envelope I’ve collected with all the girls’ Mamacita Mason Jar notes. I grab the envelope and start pouring out all the crinkled pieces of paper. I watch them roll out onto my desk.
“What are you doing?” asks Kiki.
“Go through these with me. I need to see what’s on them.”
“Why did you keep these things? We told the girls that we were throwing them away. I thought the whole point was to write down stuff you didn’t want anyone else to know. Some of my stuff is probably in there. That’s embarassing.”
“I just hope something’s in here.”
Kiki sits down, I divide up two piles, and one by one we start opening them.
“Listen to this one. This has to be yours,” says Kiki.
“Dylan
is not that into me. I’m nervous about giving the class today. I hope I can make a difference for these girls,” Kiki says, laughing.
“I wrote that the night of the drive-by. I got what I wanted. He wants to be with me. And now I don’t know what to do. I’ve wanted so much to find love when all along, it’s been right in front of me. Why can’t I just love him back?” I ask.
“You love him, a lot, Gaby. Don’t forget that,” Kiki says. “You wanted him and you waited for him, but that was a long time ago. You gave him a chance. You might have moved on when you realized he wasn’t reciprocating the way you deserve. Don’t think for a second that men don’t regret their phobia of falling in love. Love will give him another chance, just maybe not with you. If he learned anything, he’ll grab it and embrace it the next time he’s faced with it. Hopefully, his experience with you taught him not to be such an idiot the next time he falls for someone,” she says.
“I just hate being that one girl that got away. We had a great time in the Walled City, but I’m not convinced it will last.”
“This is Christina’s writing,” I say.
I can tell by her curly writing. I would see her write things on the chalkboard in the Airstream.
“Threats and death stare me in the face. The same reflection as Laura’s mirror,” I read.
“Oh, my gosh,” I say excitedly.
“Look, here’s another one,” says Kiki.
“Mother, the Club, the Kiss of Judas... misplaced blame,” reads Kiki.
“What does that mean?” asks Kiki.
“Judas was the biblical figure for betrayal. Haven’t you heard of the Kiss of Judas? It represents a complete betrayal to someone,” I say.
“What do you mean?” Kiki asks.
“I don’t think Christina’s mom ever wanted her to join the Club. She had the same reaction as Laura’s mom. Maybe she thinks of it as a betrayal. I’m not sure, but that’s the only thing that’s coming to mind,” I say.
“That’s all I have here. What’s that one?” says Kiki curiously, pointing to one stuck under the envelope.
“These have to be Christina’s,” I say, unfolding two notes wrapped together. The first note is filled with Christina’s doodles.
I read the second note. Chills throughout my body set in.
Within twenty minutes of reading Christina’s Mamacita Mason Jar writings, Kiki and I walk through Lacy Park. This park is one of the most beautiful parks in Tuckford County. It’s one of the few that doesn’t have gang members flocking and graffiti decorating the walls. Rather, the homeless and drug-addicted population of Old Town color this park. If you look beyond the transients, the dogs they keep on leashes and their tents, you will see the beauty of the park. Lacy Park carries the feel of walking through Central Park in New York City. It’s amazing how many little gems there are within ten minutes from my office.
This park is my favorite place to ride my bike during lunch breaks. There’s a two mile loop around two lakes. It’s a good way to escape the heat. The lush trees and water keep it cool. Sometimes during the summer, the lakes have paddleboats gliding on them. On weekends, the park hosts things like a Mariachi Festival, summer nights, and music in the park.
I released Kanga in this lake. When I was six years old, my mom bought a duck home for me at Easter. Kanga was pooping all over our yard, so my stepfather took it out on my mom. I thought giving up Kanga would stop my stepfather from hitting her. But the beatings never seemed to stop.
It was during one of my lunchtime bike rides that my angels helped me find the murder weapon in one of my cases. A Native American maiden walked out and stopped me as I was riding. She was yelling out some word I couldn’t understand, “Mazawaka,” and pointing towards the lake. Riley later explained that the word meant “gun.”
Within twenty-four hours I had the Old Town Dive Team searching for the gun, but the water visibility was so low they couldn’t find anything. When I pulled favors from all my contacts to have the lake drained, there was a forty-five caliber Smith & Wesson sitting in the same spot the Indian maiden had pointed to. I later learned that nearby the lake, there was a former site of a Native American Indian tribe that lived on the land two thousand years ago. I guess their spirits had a message for me that day.
Kiki and I walk towards the picnic benches close to the beautiful lake and sit down to wait for Christina, who agreed to meet with us when I spoke to her just ten minutes ago.
“Have you heard from Dylan?” Kiki asks.
Kiki’s black hair shines from the reflection of the sun. Her dark skin glistens. It’s barely nine in the morning and the heat is already feeling warm against my tan shoulders.
“Yes, he texted me a little while ago,” I reply.
“Did you respond?”
“Not yet.”
“Why didn’t you tell him to come down here?”
“Remember he can’t, cuz of Christina being a runaway.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot.”
Christina, being a reported runaway, causes a huge liability when a police officer like Dylan makes contact with her. Police need to report runaways to social services and take them home or even to Juvenile Hall. I can do more for these girls by building a rapport with them and encouraging them to make better choices than by calling police on them. If I report them to social services, they’ll lose trust in me and run away, anyway.
Christina comes walking towards me from the passenger side of a white car.
“Hey Christina, thanks for coming to meet us. How are you?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” she says.
“Who’d you come with?”
“My mom.”
I don’t know which is worse, Christina hanging around with her mom or her bottom bitch.
Her mom, who sometimes stays with Christina’s grandmother at the Leafwood RV Park, uses drugs and tried to sell Christina to a man in the past.
“I thought you were supposed to be living with your grandma,” I say, before reminding myself to keep my mouth shut.
“I was, but I don’t feel safe at the trailer park anymore. That drive-by shooting really scared me. I thought I was gonna die. I’m strapped now, worrying what’s gonna happen next. You wanna see my gun?” asks Christina starting to open her purse.
“No, but thanks for telling me. I was afraid, too, that night. I was so relieved when I saw you get up. Why don’t you sit down? We wanted to ask you some questions about that drive-by.”
“Like what? Who did that to us?” says Christina, sitting across from me.
“Yeah. Stuff like that.”
“It had to be Clown.”
“But Clown was locked up. It couldn’t be him,” I say. “Look, I don’t know if you’re trying to cover for someone, but we need to know the truth,” I say.
“I am telling the truth,” Christina says adamantly.
“Christina, I read what you wrote in your Mamacita Mason Jar notes, that you were getting threats after what happened to Laura. Tell me about that,” I say.
“I don’t want to be involved.”
“Christina, Laura’s in a coma. She can’t talk. You need to tell us what you know,” I say.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” says Christina.
“Tell me who was threatening you,” I say.
“I don’t know who it was.”
“Why did you say Clown did the drive-by?”
“I don’t know. I’m thinking it has to be someone from Lincoln. They want to come and kill me.”
“Why do they want to kill you?” I ask.
“Someone was calling my cell phone and saying I better keep it out of my mouth. She called me a snitch.”
“Did she identify herself?”
“No.”
“Did she explain what she meant?”
“No.”
“What do you think she meant?”
“To keep my mouth shut about everything.”
“What’s everything?”
“Cl
own pimping Laura out. An officer she was messing with.”
“Tell me about the officer Laura was messing with.”
“Well, he would come by once in awhile and she took care of him. He never had to pay though. He would get favors for free because he had something worked out with Clown.”
“He never arrested Laura?”
“No, no way. He’d never do that.”
“Who do you think the lady calling you is?”
“Maybe Laura’s boss.”
“I thought Clown was her pimp.”
“He is, but more as protection. She has a boss lady. I know that for sure, she just never told me who it was.”
“Why do you think Lincoln’s shooting at us?”
“Because who else would it be? Laura wanted to leave the ring. Then that thing happened with her in the motel. She was taken care of and now they’re trying to take care of me. That’s how they play. Clown knew I was close to Laura.”
“Did you see who was inside in car?”
Christina looks down.
“No,” she says nervously.
“Christina, I know you were looking right inside the car when you were out there. Are you sure you didn’t get a look?”
“I didn’t. I couldn’t see who was in there. It happened so fast.”
“I know, but you were right there. I thought maybe you got a look.”
“I didn’t,” Christina says, putting her head down and shaking it back and forth.
“I swear, Miss Gaby, I couldn’t see,” Christina starts to cry.
I wish I could order her to answer my question, but I’m not in a courtroom and she hasn’t taken an oath to tell the truth. I’m out on the street, where court rules and judge’s orders don’t seem to matter. Life out on the street is hard enough for girls like Christina. They are just trying to get by day to day. They live by their own rules and if they don’t want to answer something, they don’t. They have their own safety to worry about.
The best I can do is appeal to Christina to do the right thing and tell me. Even though she knows more, I can’t force her to tell me, just like I couldn’t force Clown.