She shivered and whirled around, distancing herself from him and his hungry eyes. Her pulse quickened as she lengthened her step. Reaching the end of the widened path and the beginning of a stony trail, she cast a glance behind her and exhaled. For once, she was grateful liquor passed between the men of her house. It kept her cousin distracted.
But for how long?
Sun trickled through the branches above, dotted the forest floor with specks of light. Birds chirped, and a gentle breeze carried the scent of earth and jungle flowers.
Flies and mosquitoes buzzed around her feet and sweaty face. While she walked, she shook her head, her hair swishing like a horse’s tail. She slowed when she reached a cluster of boulders and low-lying branches, tossed her pails toward the stream, and stepped over stones and vines.
Then, grabbing her pails once again, she continued along the crumbling bank until she reached a small pool of water about four feet in diameter, dammed by stones, wads of cloth, and an array of branches. Unfortunately, the mud stirred by the recent storm thickened the water, but it was wonderfully cool and wet.
Giggling drew her attention to two pot-bellied children, maybe seven or eight years old, on the opposite bank. The boy and girl, they looked like siblings, skipped and jumped in a stone-dammed pool, their water buckets forgotten a few feet away.
She smiled, cupped her hands, and plunged them into the creek, splashing her face again and again until her skin tingled. A minnow zipped past her nose, and she jerked back. Then laughed. When she was little, back when her mother had been the one to get the water, she’d tried to catch every fish and frog that darted her way.
Branches crackled behind her and she turned around.
“Well, if it isn’t my sweet little chica.” Her cousin staggered toward her.
Fatima jumped to her feet. She backed against a nearby tree. “What do you want?”
“Oh, I think you know.”
Her heart thrashed as she scanned the ground for a weapon. Stones dotted the vine-covered ground and a twig lay at her feet, but they wouldn’t help. Her cousin would only use both against her.
“I must hurry. Your mother needs more water.” Her voice trembled despite her efforts to keep it steady. She turned slowly, grabbed her pails.
He grabbed her arm and whirled her around. A harsh smile spread across his face and a dark shadow fell over his eyes. “This won’t take but a minute.” He closed the distance between them. “Let me show you how a man treats a woman.”
He traced a finger along the curve of her neck, over her shoulder, and down her arm before twining his fingers in hers.
“No! Leave me alone.” She pulled back, using her body as dead weight, an anchor.
He cursed and yanked her toward him, latched a hand around her neck. His grip squeezed her vocal chords, her airway.
Trembling, she searched his dark eyes, hoping to see a hint of mercy. She was trapped. She wasn’t strong enough to fend him off.
She squeezed her eyes shut, gave a strangled cry. He tightened his hold on her neck.
“What’re you doing?” Irma’s voice caused her heart to leap with hope.
Her cousin’s grip loosened, but his hand stayed. “This is none of your business.”
Irma stepped closer. “It is so.” She picked up a branch.
He scoffed. “Am I supposed to be scared?”
She stood firm for three tight breaths.
“I don’t have time for pathetic little girls like you.” He let go of Fatima then shoved her back before stomping away.
Chapter Eight
Ubaldo shifted his bag of parcels, pulled a hand towel from his back pocket, and mopped the sweat from his face. He paused on the sidewalk and watched his niece and nephew chase each other in his sister’s yard. His sisters—three total—brother-in-law, brother, and father, sat in plastic chairs lined along the front of the house. A piñata dangled from a nearby tree. Blue, green, and red crepe paper draped from branches, fence posts, and the sheeted metal roof.
Ubaldo pushed through a wooden gate made from branches into his family’s yard. His father glanced up and narrowed his gaze before returning to his conversation with Ubaldo’s brother. His sisters offered an awkward wave, but remained seated.
“Mijo.” His mother stepped out from behind a large propane griddle and took his package. “What’s all this?”
“Some vegetables brought by one of my students and a gift for the birthday girl.”
“Please thank them for us.” She set the package aside, grabbed Ubaldo’s face, and kissed his cheek. Then she pulled away and looked into his eyes. “Sit. Relax.”
She glanced at her husband, sighed, then returned to her cooking. Two large bowls, one filled with an oil and cornmeal mixture, the other with mashed beans stirred with cheese, rested on a sheet of wood propped beside her.
Ubaldo greeted each family member, ignoring the contempt in many of their eyes.
Raquel, his younger sister, studied him with a raised brow. “I thought perhaps you’d decided not to come.”
“I stopped to visit a student and his family.”
“Tío Ubie!”
He dropped to one knee as his niece raced toward him.
Her black hair, tied in two braids, bounced on her slender shoulders. Pummeling into his open arms, she nearly knocked him over.
She wiggled out of his embrace and peeked into his paper bag. “Did you bring candy?”
“Candy? Why would I do that?” He tickled her ribs. “You’re getting so big already, my sweet Ana Rosa. What have your parents been feeding you? Fat juicy worms?”
She pulled away and wrinkled her nose. “No!”
“Then what? Rooster claws?”
“No.” She fisted her hands and stamped her foot. “That would be muy gordo!”
“In the United States, they would say icky.”
“Ihcky?”
His father snorted. “What do we care what they say in the United States? This student you went to visit, does his family go to that church of yours?”
“No, although I have invited them.” Trying to keep his voice smooth and steady, Ubaldo held his father’s gaze.
“Is he ill?” his sister asked.
“No. He says he needs to work instead of coming to school. I went to talk to his parents about other options.”
Dalmacio, Ubaldo’s brother-in-law, adjusted the brim of his hat. His shiny black hair curled over his large ears. “The boy—how old is he?”
“Twelve.”
“Then he is old enough to work.”
“Children his age should be in school.”
“You watch too much North American television.”
This was a pointless conversation. His family considered Ubaldo’s degree an anomaly. Nothing he said would change that. He looked around. “Where’s Marta?”
Dalmacio pushed a chair forward and motioned for Ubaldo to sit. “Out back.”
He nodded and glanced toward a metal outhouse partially hidden by a cluster of trees. “I want to talk to her.”
“About what?”
Ubaldo swallowed. He didn’t come to argue. But neither would he avoid this issue. His niece’s future was at stake. “About her studies.”
Dalmacio’s eyes darkened. “She is fourteen and wants to help her mother and me in the market. She’s learning to make things that will be of value. More schooling will not help her with that.”
“There’s life outside the market, you know. Don’t you want—” He clamped his mouth shut, thinking back to a time when they were children and his sisters enjoyed school.
A tendon in Dalmacio’s jaw twitched. “Don’t we want what? Her to have a better life, like you? Mr. Educated with the fancy clothes, you think we are beneath you? That our way of life is not good enough?” He stood, his chest puffed.
“I’m saying—”
His mother drew near and touched Dalmacio’s shoulder. “Please, do not fight. You are thirsty. Let me get you something to drink.” Th
en, to Ubaldo. “Come.”
He suppressed a huff and followed her around the house, past a bloated pig lying on her side, to a well dug into the ground and surrounded by stones.
“I’ll get that for you.” He took her pail and lowered it into the dark well.
“I know you’re proud of your education, and so you should be.” To their right, piglets grunted, sniffing through an empty trough. His mother motioned in their direction. “Can you fill that with water?”
He did as asked, returning to the well three times before filling the pail one last time.
His mother came to his side. “Dalmacio is a good husband and a good father. He keeps his family well fed.”
“I’m not saying he’s not. I’m only suggesting they encourage Marta to stay in school. To learn English and maybe even computer skills so she can have a better life.”
“This is not a good life?” She swept her arm toward the house—a structure made of salvaged sheets of metal and branches caked in mud. “Your sister and brother-in-law have much more than many others. Marta has never gone hungry and soon, she will marry. What will she need of an education then?”
“Are those her only options, Mama? To sell handmade goods at the market or find a husband? What if she doesn’t wish to marry?”
“But of course she wishes to marry.” She started to head back toward the house.
Ubaldo held the water pail in one hand and hurried to support his mother with the other.
When they rounded the corner, Marta met them with a smile and a hug. “Tío Ubaldo! How are you?” She looped her arm in his and matched his step.
“I am well. I brought my curriculum to help you with your English. After dinner we can study.”
“Ubaldo.” His mother pursed her lips and shook her head.
“What? Surely she can spare ten minutes. At least enough to learn what all those North American T-shirts say that she buys in the market.”
***
Irma stared at Fatima, her eyes moist. “Did he?”
Fatima lifted her chin and smoothed her hair. “Nothing happened.”
“But it would have, had I not showed up when I did. Right?”
“I forgot my water pail.” She squared her shoulders, trying to hide the quiver threatening to buckle her knees. She turned toward the stream.
Irma grabbed her by the wrist. “Wait. Look at me.”
“What?”
“I know what your cousin was trying to do. I’ve seen the way he watches you.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“That’s not how it looked to me. You have to tell your mother. If you don’t, I will.”
“She’d never believe you. Nor would she care.” She quit doing that when Fatima’s father left. “They will throw me out. You know that. Then where will I go? What will I do? And who would take care of Dinora?” She slid to the ground, crying.
Irma knelt beside her. “You may be able to fight him off well enough, but what about Dinora? It’s only a matter of time before he hurts her.”
Fatima tensed. “No. I won’t let him.”
“And what about when you aren’t around? When you go to the fields? What then?”
“When I work, he works. When I’m home, he’s home.”
“And when you go to get water, or find seeds and twigs in the forest?”
“I’ll bring Dinora with me.”
“You cannot protect her, Fatima. Not always. No matter how you try, he will get to her. Unless you tell someone.”
Chapter Nine
Brooke sighed, her face still hot from her on-camera fiasco. Her stuttering, fumbling performance would likely negate another Home Haven appearance. Uncle Lester’s advice to “fake it until you make it” had failed.
Caleb shook Mr. Vernet’s hand. “Thank you for giving us the grand tour.” He glanced at an orange-splotched chair shaped like a geometric puzzle piece. “Your style is certainly unique.”
Mr. Vernet’s chest extended. “All originals. Most came from right here.” He tapped his temple, repeating the phrase he’d spouted on camera at least half a dozen times.
Brooke made a visual sweep of the room, from the diamond-patterned carpet to a multi-colored couch made from what looked like recycled seat cushions. Perhaps Mr. Vernet’s “creativity” came from a steady dose of narcotics. Or a previous head injury.
Caleb handed his microphone to the sound crew. “Let’s pack it up, guys.” He turned to Brooke. “You ready?”
She nodded. When would he let loose regarding her shoddy performance?
Once outside, she waited on the sidewalk while the camera crew loaded everything into the van. The producer glanced her way, lips tight, then lumbered into the passenger seat.
Caleb approached and flashed a smile. “Relax. You did great.”
“Really?”
He chuckled. “Okay, no. You stunk.”
Gary whistled. “No joke. Like big old rotten eggs.”
Laughter erupted, increasing the temperature of Brooke’s already enflamed face.
“But don’t sweat it.” Caleb pulled his cell phone from his pocket, slid his finger along the screen, then put it away. “Everyone bombs their first on-camera gig. Consider it your initiation.”
Her catapulting stomach started to uncoil.
So they weren’t going to throw her to the curb, find a more polished replacement? They must be desperate, or expect a rapid transformation—one Brooke would be sure to give them. A few more practice runs with her faithful web cam at home would make the next go ten times smoother.
“Her mess-ups weren’t anything our edit masters can’t fix, right, Caveman?” Gary shot Brooke a wink then tossed the last of their gear into the back of the van.
Caleb scowled. “Dude, for the hundredth time, lose the nickname.”
“Touchy.” Gary raised his hands in mock surrender. “Sounds to me like you can use a beer. What do you say? Want to hit the Hustler? Relax, build up some green?”
Caleb shrugged and looked at Brooke.
“I don’t gamble.” Especially not on her salary, although it seemed perhaps things were starting to look better. In fact, if she didn’t blow this new opportunity, she might even have enough to move out of her aunt and uncle’s by summer’s end.
But what about Aubrey? No, she couldn’t leave. Not yet. Not until Aubrey graduated high school.
“Smart girl.” Caleb moved aside to let the crew pile into the van. “I’m with you.” He motioned for her to get in, then settled into the seat beside her. “While you fellas burn your cash on a bunch of plastic chips at the Hustler, Brooke and I will relax at Whiskey Sour.” He turned to her. “You game? It’s pretty low-key. Laid back, with live music on Fridays.”
Gary cranked the engine and angled the review mirror, staring back at them. “You trying to get rid of us, Caveman?” He sugared his tone.
“He may not be, but I am.” The producer secured his seatbelt. “Drop me off at the station.”
“You got it, boss.”
“Come, Gary-boy.” Caleb shifted. “Just try not to embarrass everyone. No hitting on our waitress or telling ladies you’re a talent scout.”
“Easy for you to say, sitting next to Barbie.”
Brooke tensed and stared out the window.
“Actually, man, I’m broke.” Gary shot Caleb a lopsided grin and rubbed his fingers together. “Hoped maybe you’d spot me some green till payday.”
Caleb shook his head. “You’re such a mooch.”
After dropping off the producer and three crewmembers, Brooke and Caleb climbed into Gary’s truck—a flashy extended cab with flames painted across the sides. The two sound guys followed in a VW bug.
Thirty minutes later, they crawled down East Ocean Boulevard toward the waterfront. A red convertible packed with guys cruised ahead of them. The passengers hung out their window to whistle at a group of women strolling down the sidewalk.
“You paying for valet, Caveman?” Gary scanned the cars
lining the sidewalk on either side of him. “Or are we hoofing it? ’Cause there’s no way I’ll find curbbage in this mess.”
Caleb sighed and pulled out his wallet. “Like I said—mooch.” He tossed a twenty-dollar bill forward.
“I prefer to call it employee compensation. Gotta get something for hanging with you all day.” He pulled beneath a maroon awning and cut the engine.
A man in a red vest and black bow tie stepped forward and opened the driver’s door. He took the keys and moved to the side of the truck and opened Brooke’s door, offering her his hand. She stepped out, weaving around pedestrians, then stood alongside the building. Pulsating music blared from open windows of passing cars, merging with a kaleidoscope of sound.
Caleb joined her and they both watched Gary ogle a lady wearing a gold satin dress and four-inch heels. When the woman drew closer, Gary sauntered forward with a pronounced swagger. She grimaced, shook her head, then quickened her step.
“Fail.” Caleb laughed. “Haven’t even made it inside, and you’re already gathering rejections. Might hit a record tonight, bro.”
“Shut up.” Gary pushed past a crowd of people and into the nightclub.
Still laughing, Caleb led Brooke through the tinted double doors and into a loud and very crowded bar. Jazz drifted from the far corner where a handful of men dressed in crisp white tuxedos manned a small stage.
The sound guys arrived a few moments later, joining Brooke and Gary around a circular table. Caleb excused himself to make a phone call.
Gary leaned back in his chair. His gaze swept across the room before returning to Brooke. “You’re doing good, girl. Keep it up and you’ll be hosting your own show in no time. Course, Caleb isn’t the top of the heap, but he’s a start, right?”
She draped her purse over the back of her chair. “What do you mean?”
Gary gave a slow nod, his lips twitching toward a smile. “Right. Playing it cool. Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me. Not that you’re the first to charm their way to the top. That’s the way the game’s played, right? Got to do what you got to do. Otherwise, someone else will beat you to it.”
Healing Love Page 5