Family fights were dangerous. Things could go any way at any time, and in ways a police officer couldn’t predict. James Wohlmann didn’t seem like too bad a guy—no record—but Honorata had taken a risk by letting him off, by not telling the police what happened. Not one of the three had been cooperative. Tom didn’t know what had gone down. But Coral was right. The man was Malaya’s father, and he hadn’t known she existed. It didn’t look like her parents had been married, though. There was no record of a marriage.
Another strange thing that stood out: the housekeeper hadn’t been working there very long. None of the three knew each other very well. And yet, the two others, they were protective of her. It was just a feeling, but he and the investigator had both picked it up: how Honorata and James had each been careful of the housekeeper.
By the time she and Tom spoke, Coral knew what had happened. She knew what Tom and his colleague had sensed, and why. Malaya had knocked on her door the next evening, and again a few days after that. So Coral knew what Honorata had told Malaya, and she knew why they were protective of the housekeeper. She also knew a little about why James Wohlmann had come to the door, though she didn’t know if there had been a gun. Malaya had not said anything about a gun.
When it was all over that day—after the police cruiser had escorted Mr. Wohlmann out of the neighborhood, after the SWAT team and two of the patrols had left, after the young officer had started to take down the canopy and smiled at Malaya when she jumped up to help—Coral had walked with Malaya down the cul-de-sac. Before they got to the end, Honorata had come out running, and she and Malaya had embraced. They were both crying, and Coral thought about how difficult the last year had been for them, about Malaya asking to spend the night after babysitting so she wouldn’t have to go home, about Honorata saying that American girls didn’t listen to their mothers. It wasn’t easy raising a teenager, and maybe it was harder for Honorata, who was mostly alone and who had grown up somewhere so different.
Coral said good-bye to Malaya and gave Honorata a hug, and then watched the two of them walk into their house. She had been going to offer Tom a drink, but when she turned to go back to her house, she saw the small form of the housekeeper, waiting at the bus stop on the road.
“Tom, I’ll call you this week. Okay?”
“Sure. Thanks, Coral. You really helped us out. No days off for the weary, huh?”
“Yeah. Give me a school music program any day of the week.”
“Yep. This is one peculiar town.”
“See ya, Tom.”
And Coral had grabbed her bag from the kitchen counter where she’d left it hours earlier, eased her car out of the garage, and driven over to where Engracia stood, looking, from behind, like an old woman.
“Hello?”
“Yes?” The housekeeper looked startled.
“My name’s Coral. I’m a friend of the Navarros. Malaya was just with me, while you were in the house?”
The woman looked about anxiously. The bus wasn’t coming. There was no one around.
“Listen, I don’t want to scare you. I just thought you might want a ride home.”
“No. No, gracias. I take the bus.”
“Please. You’ve got to be worn out. You don’t have to talk. I’ll just drive you wherever you want to go.”
The woman hesitated.
“Look, it’s after six o’clock. The busses don’t run very often now. You could be out here a long time.”
Engracia looked at Coral, pulled her thin sweater together at the front, and then said yes, she would be grateful for a ride.
But Coral hadn’t taken her home. The woman, who said her name was Engracia, asked to be taken to the Catholic church, St. Anne’s, on Maryland Parkway.
“It’s close to my home. I can walk from there.”
So Coral took her to Saint Anne’s, and watched while she pulled open the heavy door and stepped inside the sanctuary. They’d said very little in the car. Coral had asked her if she could get her something to eat or drink, and Engracia had refused. Coral had explained that she was the choir teacher at a high school, had taught music at an elementary school before that, that she had known Malaya from the time she was a baby.
To this, the housekeeper said very little.
“Listen, what happened to you today. It might have been pretty traumatic. It might come back to you. And if so, you should talk to someone. The priest or something.”
Coral felt foolish saying this: it was none of her business, and she didn’t know why she’d said it. She just wanted to say something. It had to have been terrifying, and this woman seemed so forlorn.
Engracia looked at her strangely.
“Today?”
“Yes. I mean, I don’t know what happened, but—well, it must have been frightening.”
“Today didn’t scare me. Today doesn’t matter.”
It was a strange reply. Sad. Coral didn’t know what to say in return.
“Okay. Well, I’m sorry. I’m not prying. I wish you well.”
“Thank you for the ride.”
“You’re welcome.”
Coral still felt foolish, but she was glad she’d driven Engracia. The bus really might not have come for hours. And it was much too far to walk.
It wasn’t until the next evening, after Malaya had told her some of what had happened, that she understood what Engracia’s strange words had meant.
35
The man stood at the door a long time before ringing the bell.
He had walked up the steps quickly, with confidence. He had been about to push the bell, and then paused, his hand just inches from the button. He stood there, thinking, hesitating. And then he dropped his hand to his side and stared at the door.
Unless the person inside was watching for him, there was no way to know he had arrived. It took him a long time. More than five minutes. Maybe ten. His chest heaved slowly, in and out. Who knows what he was thinking. Whether he was afraid. The minutes, the years, he might have been reliving.
He rang the doorbell.
Jimbo was wearing a suit. A very nice navy suit, with a white shirt and a narrow mustard-colored tie. His shoes were expensive, of course, and recently polished. He looked good. Not old and red and fat, as he had looked that day.
“Honorata.”
He handed her a bouquet of white roses and a box of croissants from Bouchon. He must be staying at the Venetian. She started to say his name, to say hello, but seeing him so soon after the way he had terrified her, even though she had invited him to come this time; suddenly Honorata didn’t trust herself to speak. She took the flowers and motioned him to come inside.
Jimbo did not look at the study as he passed it. He followed the line of her arm, directing him to the table in the kitchen. It was a sunny nook, and outside the bay window, the wisteria was thick with its violet blooms and the door to the backyard was open, so that they could hear the bees buzzing, delirious in their lavender nirvana. An old woman, very tiny, sat with her eyes closed and her face to the sun near the far wall. Rita’s mother. He set the pastry box on the table. Honorata opened a cupboard and found a vase.
“I’ll just put these in water.”
“Sure.”
“I’ve made coffee.”
“That’ll be nice.”
And he stood there, so large in her kitchen, too large for the narrow wooden chairs, and he didn’t seem to know what to do, whether to stand or to sit, what to say.
“Please sit.”
He looked around, perhaps wondering where Malaya was. Honorata did not say she was upstairs, probably listening.
“Here are some plates. And napkins. I’ll bring you coffee.”
Jimbo nodded his head, but did not risk speaking. He pulled out a chair and settled himself into the seat gingerly. Honorata’s kitchen made him feel like crying. There were embroidered curtains at the window over the sink and a red wooden frame where cups hung crookedly. A small ceramic tiger, made by a child, sat in the kitchen window,
along with a dusty popsicle frame surrounding the faded photo of a small girl. There was a set of brightly decorated canisters for flour and sugar and tea; there was a teakettle on the stove. The yellow-and-blue mat near the sink was folded under at one corner; Honorata straightened it with her foot while she clipped the ends of the roses.
It was everything he had wanted, everything he had hoped for, everything he had finally put aside that night at Caesars when this very woman had told him she never wanted to see him again. A wave of bitterness passed over him, a taste like bile, but almost immediately, he felt remorse. It wasn’t her fault. He knew this. He had known it a long time. But he had wanted a family. There had been so much loneliness. And when Malaya had found him, he had almost gotten them all killed. He wanted, suddenly, to be out of this kitchen, away from her. He pushed his chair back from the table.
“Do you want cream and sugar?”
He paused, about to stand.
“No.”
And too, there was the way she had yelled, “I hate you! I hate you!” over and over. All these years later. She still hated him. Had anyone ever hated him before? Jimbo wasn’t the sort of person people hated. Usually he was someone people did not notice. Old and fat and somehow unappealing; for as long as he could remember, he had sensed the way that he was slightly repellent to others. He didn’t know why. He kept himself very clean. He wore good clothes. He spoke respectfully. But it had always been there, like a pheromone that repelled.
“Thank you for coming,” Honorata said quietly. “I know you could have met Malaya without me. She would have gone with you.”
Jimbo said nothing.
“But my mother’s going with you tonight. You understand?”
“Of course. I’m glad she’ll come.”
“I was wondering what you’re going to do. Where you’re going to go with Malaya?”
Jimbo had given this a lot of thought. All he really wanted was a chance to see her, to listen to her talk, but he wanted her to enjoy it too.
“I thought maybe we would see Celine Dion tonight. Or Jersey Boys. Has she seen those?”
Honorata looked taken aback.
“You’re taking her out?”
Jimbo was equally flustered.
“I’m not taking my daughter out. I just want to do something nice. I’m sixty-six years old. I don’t know what Malaya likes.”
Upstairs, Malaya was startled. Sixty-six? She didn’t know anyone whose father was sixty-six. Courtney’s dad was almost that old, but Courtney was part of his second set of kids. Courtney’s mom had been friends with one of his older daughters when both girls were in grade school. That was pretty creepy if your mom had been your dad’s daughter’s friend. Courtney had to explain it three times to Dani, who just could not get it.
Well, whatever. Jimbo was definitely her dad. And after all this work, she was going to meet him. She looked herself over critically in the mirror and then started down the stairs.
“Hi.”
They hadn’t heard her coming.
Honorata was surprised to see her daughter looking so pretty. She’d brushed her hair long and straight, with a clip in the back, and she was wearing a buttoned shirt that covered most of that horrible tattoo. Her makeup was pretty too. A little mascara. Pink lipstick. Had she taken out her nose ring?
It had been a long time since Malaya had looked like this. Maybe as far back as that dance sophomore year, when she had worn the royal blue dress they found at the Fashion Show Mall. Malaya had actually whooped when Honorata agreed to buy it for her; she was so sure her mother would not let her have it. And then they had gone together to a salon to have Malaya’s hair put up and her nails done in a bright contrasting pink, and she had been so pretty, so happy.
Had Honorata actually worried about that dance? Worried about the boy and the party bus and the group of friends all dressed up, posing for photos in the park? It was so innocent, compared with the friends Malaya had found the next summer, compared with the way she had started dressing after her job at the movie theater; after the boyfriend, Martin, who was so thin it had to be drugs, with his shaved head and his chains and those ridiculous boots. “Mom, you don’t know anything about who’s nice and who’s not!” Malaya had yelled at her. “You don’t have any idea what kids are like!” And Honorata had remembered how distressed her own mother had been when she kept disappearing with Kidlat, and so she had not put her foot down, but she should have. She should have stopped Malaya; at least she wouldn’t have that tattoo.
Jimbo thought he had never seen a more lovely girl. She was taller than Honorata, and her face was a bit like his mother’s. His eyes watered. He wanted to say hello, but he was trying very hard to stay composed. He stared at her and then looked down. He was helpless.
“Malaya. This is Mr. Wohlmann.”
Everyone seemed uncomfortable, and still Jimbo could not bring himself to look up. This was terrible. He was the man. He was the father. But he didn’t want to lose control. He didn’t want to embarrass her.
“I’m glad you came.”
Her voice was familiar, from the message she’d left on his phone. He had played it over and over, but he had not called her back. He had been afraid to chase her away, without ever getting to see her.
He took a deep breath and stood up.
“Hello, Malaya. It’s an honor to meet you.”
He was funny. An honor. And he looked like he was crying. Which was sort of embarrassing. But it was nice to think he cared that much. That he really wanted to meet her.
“Malaya likes movies. And she’s very good at dancing.”
Her mother was so awkward. Malaya was annoyed that she had said this.
“Not really. I mean, everybody likes the movies. And I just take dance lessons. It’s not like I’m going to be a dancer or something.”
Honorata was surprised. Malaya always said that she was going to be a dancer, whenever she told her daughter that this was not a job, not a career, not a practical plan for a smart girl.
“I’m sure you’re a very good dancer.”
This was the first thing he said to his own daughter. And it came out oddly. He knew what Honorata thought of him: that he was some sort of sex monster. Which was about as far from the truth as something could be. But he was going to make it all worse. He didn’t know what to say to this girl, to this very young girl in front of him. He felt sick.
“I like science too.”
“Really? What do you like?”
“Chemistry. My chemistry teacher’s pretty good, and everyone thinks she’s too hard, but I like that it’s hard. And I like being in the lab. I might study chemistry in college.”
Honorata did not recognize this daughter. She had said she hated chemistry and that Honorata should not be surprised if she failed, because the teacher was a witch.
“I studied chemistry in college,” Jimbo offered.
“You did?”
“Yes. I’m a chemical engineer. Or I was. I started my own company a long time ago.”
Malaya didn’t say anything.
“Do you want some pastries?” Honorata asked. “Mr. Wohlmann brought some.”
Malaya shook her head. And they all stood there, uneasy.
“Do you want to take a walk?” the girl asked. “Just down the block?”
Jimbo looked at Honorata. He saw her freeze, and he knew that even now she was afraid. He was about to say no, to tell his daughter he’d rather stay in, when Honorata spoke.
“Stay in the neighborhood, Malaya. Just walk around here.”
Malaya nodded, and Jimbo said, “Yes. Yes, I would like to take a walk.”
Honorata felt lightheaded as she watched the two of them walk toward the front door. Jimbo wasn’t frightening now, the way he had always seemed in her mind or the way he had been just weeks before. If she were meeting him for the first time, she would notice how self-conscious he was, how his hands trembled, how his voice was too high for his size. She would notice that he kept his
head lowered slightly, as if anticipating a blow.
How could he have once been terrifying? He was rich. He looked rich. And he was big. But he was the opposite of frightening. He looked like someone who would always have time to read at Sunday Mass, to help with the ushering, to replace the bulletins in the pews. When she lived with him—it was amazing that she could have that thought without fear—when she lived with him, he had talked and talked and talked. So many words that washed over her, that she could not remember, even then, even an hour after he stopped talking, and she thought now that he must have noticed she did not remember, that she did not pay attention, and this hadn’t mattered, because—and how could this be the first time she had realized this?—because nobody ever listened to him. He was used to being ignored.
It didn’t change what he had done. It didn’t change the horror of what her uncle had done, of those months in Chicago, of all the memories that had played over and over again in her mind all these years, but it did somehow relieve her. The money she had won, the daughter she adored, her whole life: it was connected to this. To Jimbo’s loneliness. To the way he seemed as if he thought he were about to be struck. This was an idea that surprised her. That Malaya had come not from violence but from sorrow.
Coral backed out of her garage slowly. There were people walking in the street, and she looked down at her phone, to see if she had any messages, while they walked by. She clicked through the list—Ada’s riot of emoticons and a cat video from Isa—and then she backed her car onto the street.
It was Malaya walking. Malaya and an older man, quite large. They were straight ahead of her, and in her rearview mirror, she caught sight of Honorata standing near her mailbox, watching the two. Something about her pose alerted Coral, and she looked again. Was that Malaya’s father?
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