Ubaldo fought to keep his face void of emotion. He rarely took personal leave, and he’d paid the substitute from his own wages—as required. Teachers did it all the time. But then, Señor Ramirez had never liked him.
“Learning a new language is especially difficult,” Ubaldo said. “Studies show—”
He raised his hand. “I don’t care to discuss divergent methods. I’m interested in demonstrating the efficiency of our school.”
“As am I. Many of my students are falling between the cracks.”
“So send them to Señor Resendez. It’s his job to help them catch up, not yours.”
“Señor Resendez’ class is already full. I think I can handle—”
“Perhaps that is your problem. You think too much and follow directions too little. You have your curriculum. I expect you to use it.” The principal waved a hand. “You may go.”
Tension seeped from Ubaldo’s neck and into his shoulders as he walked down the hall. He returned to his classroom and waited for his next batch of students expecting to take a test. This time, he’d deliver, whether they were ready or not.
His cell phone rang, and he checked the incoming number. Alberto.
“Hola, my friend. How are you?”
“Ubaldo. Are you planning on stopping by the orphanage this evening?”
“I need to pay my parents a visit first. I have some medicine to give to my father.”
“Really? Then things are better between the two of you?”
“Hardly.” Ubaldo kneaded his forehead. “But he’s got an infection requiring antibiotics.”
“And you think you can convince him to take some?” Alberto paused. “Carmela is not feeling well. I told her to rest and allow me to take over today’s lessons, but thirty girls of varying ages is a lot to manage.”
Ubaldo chuckled. “Yes, it is. But you’ve done it before.”
“True, but I think the new girls need more attention. And quite honestly, I think I frighten Fatima. I hoped you could stop by to help. Maybe work with Fatima and her sister one-on-one.”
He reached into his pocket and fingered the handful of pills tucked inside a plastic bag. Seven day’s worth, purchased at the local pharmacy. His father needed that medicine before his infection became septic. “How about tomorrow evening?”
“Si. Thank you, Señor.”
He tucked his phone in his back pocket, asking God to watch over Fatima.
And his parents.
Chapter Forty-one
Brooke stood outside the stately, stone mansion with arching windows while she was being fitted her for sound. Other crewmembers gathered close by, cameras balanced on their shoulders, clipboards in hand. The producer barked orders and last-minute details. Caleb checked his reflection in the van window then sauntered over with an easy smile.
“You ready?”
She resisted the urge to chew her bottom lip, thus leaving her lipstick intact. “Honestly? I feel like I might hurl.”
“Really? I thought you’d be more relaxed this time. Does the possibility of a promotion increase the pressure?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Because this is supposed to get easier, you know.”
“I’ve heard. I may be the anomaly.”
“Let’s go, people,” the producer bellowed.
Caleb and Brooke moved to the front door then stood, waiting for their cue.
Caleb started them off. “Los Angeles, the City of Angels, with homes as luxurious as the lifestyles they represent. Today we’ll talk with couples who’ve not only achieved the American dream of homeownership, but who’ve pushed past the dream to create their own little slice of heaven on earth. They’re eccentric, privileged, and often uncouth.”
He turned to Brooke. “Rumor has it, while planning and building this massive structure, Mr. Gerard went through four architects and three construction companies.”
“I heard about that.” She read the teleprompter without shifting her eyes. “Didn’t he and his wife battle it out once or twice?”
“That’s an understatement. I think Mrs. Gerard even threatened to walk out.”
“Over the color of tile, right?”
“That’s what the tabloids said, but I’d love to hear the Gerard’s side of the story.”
“Then let’s find out.”
The camera crew shifted positions as Caleb rang the bell.
Mrs. Gerard, a woman with auburn hair set in corkscrew curls and tanned skin that held a slight orange tint, answered the door. Mascara clumped on her curled lashes and large sapphire earrings brushed against her neck. Her husband, an older man with silver hair and burgundy spectacles, stood behind her.
Mrs. Gerard pivoted to face the camera, flashing a beauty-pageant smile. “Good morning.” She made a grand sweep with her arm. “Welcome to our humble abode.”
Her husband moved aside and shoved his hands in his pocket while the camera crew filed in. They took various positions around the house. The tour began in the foyer then moved to the notorious solarium with its hand-painted tile, marble columns, and stained glass skylights.
Mrs. Gerard glided about like Vanna White, pointing out every vase, wing-backed chair, and potted plant. Each item evoked a longwinded story.
When she paused for breath, Caleb moved to the center of the room and stood in front of a large swirled pattern on the floor. “Tell me, is this the infamous tile I’ve heard so much about? The one that threatened the big D?”
Mrs. Gerard threw her head back and laughed. “Of course not.” She linked arms with her husband and batted her eyes. “The other tile was hideous. I made Ralph tear it out.”
He shrugged. “You know what they say about happy wives?”
Caleb tossed Brooke a prodding look. She swallowed and plastered on her best showman’s smile. “I do, Mr. Gerard. Happy wife means happy life.” A cliché, not the best line she wanted to lead with, but her brain felt stalled.
“Close,” Mr. Gerard said. “I was thinking more in terms of a reduced need for Valium.” His wife elbowed him in the ribs, and he coughed.
Caleb surveyed the floor with a raised eyebrow. “An expensive tension reducer, don’t you think?”
His wife gave a slight shrug. “What’s a few thousand dollars?”
“Forty,” Mr. Gerard said.
Brooke’s stomach soured as an image of El Salvadoran orphans came to mind, and the number of meals such money could buy. She shoved the thought aside and focused on the task at hand—adding zing to the show. “Impressive, and courageous. My kind of woman.” Such a lie. She needed to be more careful with her words. “I bet there’s a juicy story behind that one.” She planted her hands on her hips and gave the woman her most pointed Diva stare. “Spill it, girlfriend.”
Mrs. Gerard waltzed back into her tiara-style dramatics and launched into a story of temper tantrums, pouty faces, withheld affections, and clever manipulation tactics. All without a single blush or camera dodge.
She finished her tale and invited everyone into the gourmet kitchen. This led to more stories of extreme waste, fired contractors, expensive mind changes, and marital spats. The couple bantered back and forth like strutting peacocks, once again pointing out each appliance, custom cabinet, and brass handle. By the time they made it to the walk-in—scratch that—get-lost-in pantry, Brooke’s forced smile began to twitch.
Shelves stacked with enough to feed the orphanage ten times over stretched from floor to ceiling. Rows of organic, high-end jelly stood next to bottles of flavored olive oil and vinegar. Beneath these sat—Brooke blinked, taking a step back—bottles of Gatorade. Red, blue, purple—rows of every color imaginable.
When the cameras swiveled back to the kitchen, catching a tale told by Mr. Gerard this time, Caleb approached Brooke. “You okay? Because you look a little green.”
She nodded, swallowing past a mouthful of cotton.
Her mind flashed back to the first day she met Fatima, to all the drinks she’d given her—drinks that
quite likely had saved her life.
And if she hadn’t been there? She shuddered.
Doing her best to reign in her catapulting thoughts, she followed Mrs. Gerard out of the pantry and into a sitting room lined with oil paintings.
Six hours and three houses later, the crew completed their Orange County Home Show tour and gathered on the sidewalk. Brook sucked in the stifling-hot air and rubbed a knot from the base of her neck. Her emotions felt jumbled. With each home they toured, all she could think of was the sweet little orphans in San Miguel. And of those on the streets or working in the fields, slaving for a dollar or less.
The producer beamed. “I’d say that was a hit, folks.” He looked at Brooke. “And way to keep things lively. Classic candid expressions.”
Gary laughed. “No joke. Caught a few close-up face puckers.”
Her jaw went slack, heat flooding her face. “I … uh …”
Caleb came to her side. “Loved that rat in the mousetrap look. Great stuff.”
On a reality/bloopers off-location set, perhaps. But her less-than-professional persona wouldn’t fly for a news anchor. Reason number 238 she’d never get a better gig. Unless God did some major finagling. Red-Sea caliber.
***
Fatima propped her shovel in the dirt and wiped sweat from her brow. She took three long gulps from her jug of water and paused to watch the other girls uproot weeds and Alberto lug trash off their plot of land.
He studied her. “How are you feeling?”
“Bueno, gracias.” With a quickened pulse, she resumed digging.
He set his bag down and grabbed her arm, stopping her in mid-dig. She flinched. Braced herself for a slap to the face, but his eyes softened.
He lifted her chin until her lowered gaze met his. “I’d never hurt you, my child. You are safe here. I’m more concerned with your health than the progress of our garden.”
She surveyed the lot and the handful of girls working around her. Footsteps crunched on dry earth. The others spun around and took off running.
Toward what?
She turned to see Ubaldo approach, stepping over clumps of grass and mounds of debris.
Soon, giggling, hugging girls surrounded him. He laughed, tickled one of them in the ribs and knuckle-rubbed a few heads. Fatima watched him closely, studying his dancing eyes and easy smile. He glanced her way and winked. She resumed her shoveling but she watched the men from the corner of her eye, ears perked.
“What a pleasant surprise.” He pulled a rag from his back pocket and mopped his face. “I didn’t expect to see you until tomorrow.”
Ubaldo looped his thumbs in his belt loops. “I can only stay a moment, but you were on my way.” He surveyed the area. “What’s all this? You thinking of expanding?”
“We’re hoping to find a new way to bring in a little extra income. If we can turn this unused land into a garden, we could sell the produce in the market. Then we wouldn’t have to rely so heavily on donations.”
Fatima thought back to the fields that once comprised her world. This brought memories of Irma, Señora Gonzales, and the tasty morsels she always offered. Along with prayers and promises that one day Fatima would attend school. Today, Fatima proved those words true, having spent her morning in the orphanage classroom. As a student. She smiled. She had much catching up to do, but she’d get there. What would Irma say if she could see her now?
Ubaldo kicked at a large stone—one of many—in the dirt. “You’ll need to do a fair amount of tilling first. Remove the rocks.” He glanced at a stray dog nosing through a pile of trash a few paces away. “Turn the soil to get rid of any bacteria. Have you ever farmed before?”
Alberto shook his head.
Ubaldo puffed air through tight lips.
“But you have, which is where you can help me, no?” Alberto patted him on the back.
“With all your requests, it sounds like you need three of me.”
“Three, four, as many as we can get.” Alberto laughed. “Does that mean you’ll help? I know there is much to learn, but I have, as you say, a teachable spirit.”
“You’ve got something, I’ll give you that, but I’m not sure how much I can really show you. Farming doesn’t come by genetics. I spent most of my time in school, remember? But I will do what I can. Between my classroom responsibilities, helping you with the girls, and taking care of my parents, of course.”
“You approach sainthood, my friend.”
Fatima set her shovel aside to grab her water. The liquid soothed her throat, and a warm breeze stirred her hair.
She continued to watch Ubaldo and Alberto. The way they spoke with one another, to the girls—so different from her uncle and cousin. Different, in fact, from most men she’d met. Would they always treat her and the others this way?
During their morning prayer time, Alberto said his kindness came from God. He said the love others saw in him, and even in Carmela, came from the love God poured into them. Like they were an overflowing jug or something.
Approaching footfalls cut through her thoughts and she glanced up. Her stomach flipped as Ubaldo neared.
“Mind if I sit here?” He motioned to a patch of dirt beside her.
She shrugged and stared at her hands.
“Tomorrow, I get to be your teacher.”
Her head jerked up, and she studied his face for a second before refocusing on a torn fingernail.
“We will begin with letters of the alphabet.” He grabbed a twig and started to trace lines in the dirt. “A, Be, Ce.” He continued, smoothing the ground when he ran out of room. “Then we will learn words like soy, eres, es, and soon, I will teach you to read stories. Perhaps one day you will even write stories of your own, like how God brought you here, to us.”
A tear trickled down her cheek.
He turned her face toward him and wiped it away. “God has great things planned for you, my sweet child. All He asks is that you trust Him.”
Fatima chewed the inside of her lip, searched his eyes. Oh, how she wanted to believe him, but what if God changed His mind? Decided to be done with her? After staying here, having a nice place to sleep and plenty to eat, she wasn’t sure she could handle living on the streets again.
Chapter Forty-two
The smell of roasted corn flour and melted cheese tickled Ubaldo’s nose and caused his stomach to rumble. His family gathered around a steaming griddle while his mother added wood to the fire beneath. Laughter drifted among them. They moved their hands when they talked, as if sharing great stories.
Standing in the shadow of his parent’s mud-hut, Ubaldo thought of his childhood dinners, before anger forged a barrier between him and his father. If only he could go back to before their fighting began, back to when he’d idolized his dad, and had been treated as a treasured son. What might have happened if only he’d remained silent?
And now, how long would it take to undo all that had come between them?
He inhaled, exhaled slowly. Perhaps more time than his father had left, especially if he refused the medicine Ubaldo brought.
Branches and pebbles crunched under his feet as he made his way to the others. Today a large crowd gathered—his siblings and their children, his parents, Matteos and his family. Ubaldo huffed. No one thought to invite him. Or had Father forbid it? No. He’d never openly shun Ubaldo like that.
Heads turned as he approached, and the women stood to meet him.
“Mijo!” His mother limped over and cupped his face in her hands, kissing each cheek. “Sit.” She waved toward a platter of papusas. “Eat. There’s plenty.”
Raquel drew near. Her fiancé followed. She gave Ubaldo a hug. “Hola, mi hermano. It’s nice to see you.”
“You look well.” He offered Matteos a firm shake. “It appears love suits her.”
Matteos smiled. Moved aside as Ana Rosa barreled toward them. Ubaldo dropped to one knee and pulled her into a tight hug.
She wiggled away, her eyes expectant. “Did you bring anything sweet?�
��
“Something sweet?” He tapped her on the nose. “Is that all you think about my Ana Rosa?”
She nodded, licked her lips.
He took her hand and led her to where the others sat, talking among themselves. His father glanced up. For once, without a scowl, though his forehead creased. He trembled slightly, like one suffering from fever. Puss oozed from his wound, which now appeared to radiate around his arm in red, swollen flesh.
Ubaldo pulled the pills from his pocket and sat beside him. He leaned in and whispered, “Are you feeling all right?”
His father grunted.
“I brought you medicine. It’ll make you feel better.” Please, Lord, remove my father’s pride. Before this infection enters his bloodstream. If it hadn’t already.
His father held Ubaldo’s gaze, his face stoic, but a storm of emotions clouded his eyes.
Ubaldo handed over his bag. “Take one pill a day until they are gone. I’ll get you something to drink.”
His mother rushed to his side with water. “Here.” When she looked at her husband, the lines in her forehead deepened.
Ubaldo held his breath as the two appeared to engage in a nonverbal standoff, his mother’s face pinched, his father’s sallow. Everyone else grew silent, watching. His father took the cup. Ubaldo exhaled, his tense shoulders going slack when his padre swallowed a pill. His mother patted his father’s hand, the sparkle returning to her eyes. With a brisk nod, she shuffled back to her griddle.
As if all was now well. But that was far from true. The infection was spreading. Would the pills be enough?
***
Fatima hung back, watching the other girls dart about. Across the room, Carmela brushed Dinora’s hair and pulled it into two pigtails. When finished, she gave the child a squeeze before sending her off.
Dinora’s eyes shone as she skipped to Fatima. “Are you excited?”
She took her sister’s hand. “We’re going to the circus. What’s not to be excited about?” And yet, it was the first she and Dinora would leave the children’s home, the only place Fatima felt safe, since they’d arrived. The thought made her queasy.
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