So Luz called Evan after work to ask if he could make chicken soup.
“It’s your lucky day,” he said.
“What, you actually have the ingredients on hand?”
“Nah, but I have an entire cupboard of cans—chicken noodle, creamy chicken, chicken with vegetables, with orzo, with stars, with rice. You name it, I can heat it up for you.”
Although she gave up after a couple of bites, it stayed down. And in the morning, she ate a piece of toast before shooing Evan out the door.
Her strength came back slowly. Afraid to screw things up by proceeding too fast while she was weak, Luz concentrated on her job and bided her time. Thursday passed, with no measurable progress, and Friday as well.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Luz?” Evan pushed aside the hair on her neck and whispered in her ear. “You awake?” He pressed his morning erection against the cleft of her buttocks. It responded instantly to her heat, but Luz swiveled her head as though avoiding a whining mosquito and wiggled out of contact.
“Not this morning,” she said, pivoting her feet to the floor. “I promised to bring Cesar some cookies. That’s going to take me every second until it’s time to leave for work.”
“Cookies, wow. Sounds like you’ve made a complete recovery.”
“You said that last night—the recovery part,” said Luz with a half-grin, impatience clearly overriding affection. She pushed him away and shuffled into the bathroom. Closing the door, she said, “Time to go.”
Their time together had awakened Evan’s memories of skydiving. Skydivers, they say, know why the birds sing. Skydiving isn’t falling; it’s the thrill of flying, all the while knowing you really don’t have wings.
Evenings with Luz began with banter spiced with innuendo—the plane’s anticipatory liftoff. One touch, another—the rush of wind. They’d kiss—and for unmarked time he’d soar, oblivious to all save the rhythm of their bodies, until the catch of a parachute and the gentle let-down. Then back on earth again, with Luz dismissing him and his world snapping back into place. Another day of waiting to fly again. Those exhilarating leaps into the void had become familiar. Familiar, but always breathtaking and exhilarating. Like Luz.
Evan reached his front door and let himself in. A dusty hush awaited him, as it had every morning for the past few weeks. Today, with thick dark clouds promising more rain, the gloom prodded him into action. He circled the living room, raising shades and cracking open windows for fresh air. Evan wandered into the kitchen. He rinsed his empty beer bottles in the sink. Then he tackled the cluttered kitchen table, sweeping last week’s newspapers into the trash, sorting through the accumulated mail, wiping away a fine layer of dust.
Finally, Margo’s sagging Peace Lily was the only thing left on the table. Evan took the neglected plant to the sink and set it under a drizzle of water. Immediately, two spoon-shaped white blooms detached and lay like ghostly corpses on the potting soil. Three blooms remained. One bowed its head lower and lower until it doubled over; then it, too, fell into the dirt. For the next minute, there was only the muted drip, drip from the faucet.
Shit, he’d promised to talk to the damn thing. Yet another black mark against him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You deserve better.”
The remaining blooms trembled in the air currents from Evan’s words. He leaned closer, holding his breath to avoid disturbing the delicate plant. Two knobs at the tips of stems indicated new growth, and the leaves still retained some of their former gloss. There was hope, then. “From now on, I’ll treat you right,” he murmured.
Luz was leaving Guatemala around Christmastime, she’d said. When she went away, his life would revert to the predictability of rising from his own bed, stretching, opening curtains to see the cloud-covered volcanoes, breakfast at the table by the back window. A prickling of anxiety. The lies—sins of omission, really, because Luz had never asked—were mounting. Evan set the lily gently in its saucer on the table.
Luz’s brush-off this morning still rankled. Evan’s hands twitched. He rubbed his bristly cheeks. A shower, a shave, and a change of pace. He would start a new project to take his mind off Luz.
Saturday again, two weeks since Luz had handed over the original note. Hoping for a speedy reply, she’d stopped at Juana’s stall every day except the one morning she’d been too sick. Nothing so far except dozens of sweet, juicy oranges. Luz always pocketed her change without counting it to keep Evan from seeing any note Juana might stash among the quetzales. Perhaps Juana would need to speak to her, though, so Luz had begun distracting Evan while she bought oranges. Forgot the bread. Could you get it? Watch out for the mess on the floor.
Then yesterday, Juana had gone out of her way to mention she wasn’t going to the country for the weekend. Would Luz be coming to the market as usual on Saturday? This morning, positive Juana would be bringing news, she had shooed Evan away early. But Juana had nothing for her except a dozen oranges.
Luz crammed the superfluous fruit into her shopping bag, a momentary fantasy of flinging them back at Juana and demanding—no, that wouldn’t help. She still had time. She’d made precious little headway on her tasks for Richard. Despite dropping heavy hints, no one had—so far—invited her into Martin’s apartment.
Access to Bobby’s briefcase remained elusive, too. His return the previous week, when he’d disappointed Cesar, hadn’t even lasted the day. Luz and Cesar were still out on the soccer field when Bobby, in a black silk suit, briefcase in hand, had stopped by for five minutes. The helicopter was being refueled, he said. He’d be back soon. Cesar had clung to him until finally Bobby snapped at Luz to deal with the child, for crissakes. He walked away adjusting his suit jacket. Bastard. The next time Bobby was home, Luz promised herself, she’d find a way to swap the thumb drives. She’d take care of him. For good.
Still, no news translated into nothing needing to be done now. It was only nine thirty, and Luz was experiencing a sensory high as her nausea subsided. She never should have rushed Evan out so quickly. Evan. Silky tingling became a ball of heat that spread throughout her body.
An hour later, the doorbell rang. Evan wiped his hands on a rag and padded to the front window. Luz stood on the top step, a covered plate in her hand. He pressed a clenched fist to his solar plexus. If only he’d gone for a run instead of painting. Gone out to lunch.
Luz rang the bell again. She spotted him by the curtain and uncovered her plate with a flourish, revealing a mound of cookies. Evan couldn’t leave her standing on the steps—and he could never explain her presence—but his vow to confine their relationship to her house evaporated faster than his earlier resolve not to get involved with her in the first place. He fumbled at the lock with shaking hands.
Luz scooted across the threshold and brushed her cool cheek against his. She must’ve settled the plate on a table for the next thing Evan knew she’d taken both his cheeks in her hands and slowly rubbed them. Then, going up on tiptoes and leaning into him for balance, she slid her hands around to knead the tight muscles at the base of his neck.
In the entire universe, there was nothing except Luz’s body and his body and rhythmic pulsing. “How’d you know where I lived?” he managed.
“The telephone book?” Luz made it a question. “Last name comma first name or initial, address? For a solitary McManus in a sea of Martinezes, it was a cinch.” She dug her fingers into the center of his trapezius and held them there. His muscle resisted, quivered, and finally submitted.
“I missed you after you left,” she murmured, “and then it didn’t take me as long as I thought to put the cookies together. I brought you some.” Luz finished with a toss of her head that brought with it the scent of her shampoo and body heat. Then she danced away from him and walked into the room.
“Ah, you’re working.” She stopped in front of his new project, a sketch of the Botanical Gardens which, after so little effort, didn’t resemble much of anything. Luz twirled, completed a three-sixty on her toes. “I expected more
, you know, stuff. Paintings. Art stacked on the floor. Drawings thumb-tacked to the walls.”
The paintings. Perhaps this wouldn’t be a complete disaster after all if he could amuse her for a while, show Luz his old work. “Then this is what you’re looking for.” Evan yanked a tarp off a neat stack of canvases along the side wall. Then he placed the tarp, with what he hoped looked like careless nonchalance, atop the canvas of Luz that stood in the corner facing the wall. Banished.
Evan was as nervous as a diver on the high board for the first time while she riffled through the pile, afraid she’d dismiss his art as completely as she’d dismissed him this morning or turn to him with a forced smile designed to mask her disdain.
“I like this one a lot.”
He’d done that painting last year in the hills above Chichicastenango, a romantic weekend getaway.
“This is what you meant about the light, isn’t it, Evan? What a beautiful spot!”
Lunch on a rooftop terrace, leisurely drive through the countryside. Sunset, luminous tendrils of mist rising from a wooded valley, turned gold by slanting rays of sun. Perfect.
“Yes,” Luz was saying, “you’re awfully good.” She replaced the paintings she’d moved aside and drifted toward him, her face flushed with giddiness and desire. It was the thrill of attaining this forbidden goal, he thought. She’d known damn well he hadn’t wanted her to come over. Perhaps the same recklessness also propelled her toward the thing with Richard.
He felt pretty reckless, too, having so effortlessly breached the line he thought could separate Luz from that other part of his life. She came nearer, stalking catlike, and all at once spilled onto his lap. Evan pulled her close. Finding her mouth, he kissed her hard as his hands lifted her skirt and traveled up the inside of her thighs.
Evan tried to paint again after Luz left for work. After an hour of slapping paint on the canvas and swiping it around, starting over, he admitted defeat. He found some chicken curry in the freezer. When he slammed his plate on the kitchen table, the last blooms of the Peace Lily dropped.
It had been a huge mistake to let Luz come in—worse, to make love to her here. Worst of all, though, he now knew she belonged here. Evan’s old reality had dissipated like the evening mist from the canvas Luz admired. That evening, the mist had turned from gold to gray, to deep charcoal. A flight of noisy birds, swooping among the tree branches, distracted him. When he’d looked again, the mist was gone.
Now only his static, painted facsimile remained.
It would be the same with the portrait of Luz. He’d drawn her leaning forward, her head turned slightly, mouth open, the red ribbon she often used to tie back her hair floating past her cheek—a pose creating the illusion of movement. But soon Luz, too, would be gone, leaving Evan to wonder what she would say if only those open lips in the painting could move, leaving him only the memory of her beauty and vibrancy.
Thank goodness Luz showed no lingering malaise from her brush with dysentery. It was funny she’d succumbed to some intestinal bug that hadn’t bothered him. At least it had come and gone quickly. And although it could be related to her occasional dizzy spells, he hadn’t noticed any episodes recently. There was that pill she was supposed to take twice a day—he’d snooped in her bathroom cabinet, of course.
Evan turned on his computer. He Googled riluzole.
Fifteen minutes later, Evan closed the browser and stared across the room. Luz’s presence lingered, less in the fragrance he now associated with her, but more as a parade of indelible marks, visible only to him, as clear as fluorescent paint in a black light. Today she’d left her mark on every surface she’d touched. Evan saw his paintings through her eyes, his old green chair, the tiny shower stall, the dusty tile floor, even his threadbare felt slippers.
The lines across his face grew tight as internal pressure built. A wordless cry arose, and with it, a hollowness that he’d likely meant nothing more to her than a friendly fuck, someone insignificant to her real life. She should have trusted him.
Trust him. And she should do that because he’d been so honest about himself—yeah, right. She’d as likely believe in the tooth fairy. And it was clear Luz didn’t believe in much.
When the phone rang, he picked it up absently. “Aló?”
“Hey, Evan. It’s been a while. What’s up?”
Shit. “Hi. Where’ve you been, Richard?”
“Out of town. On business. My secretary said it wasn’t urgent.” There was a hint of reprimand.
“It’s Luz. I had a question.” Suddenly, there were too many questions. He would start with the one at the root of it all.
“What is it?” The edge in Richard’s tone disappeared. He sounded curious.
“I met her at the market.” True as far as it went. “She told me a little about when she and her mother arrived in the U.S. She thinks you’re with the State Department. Resettlement.”
“You didn’t tell her different, did you?”
“Give me a little credit, Uncle Richard.” Heavy sarcasm on the seldom-used uncle. “If your job calls for her not to know, I can respect that. It startled me, though, and I wanted to check in with you. I wonder what else I should know. Or what else I need to keep quiet about.”
Evan waited out the throat-clearing that was his uncle’s way of buying time.
“Background,” Richard began. “Luz’s father was Emilio Concepcion. Concepcion’s her real last name. Emilio, like Martin Benavides, was an early opponent of the junta. A lawyer by trade, not a military leader. Very charismatic. He was a major reason the insurgents had such popular support.”
Richard explained how Emilio’s group briefly joined forces with Martin Benavides, but they clashed over strategy and policy. And in the ’90s, when the Benavides’ forces became ascendant, Emilio led the opposition to them.
Richard cleared his throat again. “Deep background. U.S. military interest in the outcome of the civil war meant we had observers on the ground. I was monitoring the Benavides’ radio transmissions from nearby the day Emilio died.”
When he realized what was happening, Richard said, he called in a chopper to evacuate as many women and children as possible, including Luz and her mother. The State Department did take care of their resettlement, but because the CIA had questions about the extent of Josefina’s—Luz’s mother’s—continuing involvement, Richard was tapped to become their liaison.
“As it turned out, we were wrong. Josefina came to the U.S. and put that part of her life behind her. Losing Emilio was a blow she never recovered from. Neither Luz nor Josefina was ever aware I’d had anything at all to do with the fighting in Guatemala.” Richard pounded each word home. “This stays between us.”
Richard rolled on with heavy affability that relegated Evan’s acquiescence to a foregone conclusion. “And how is the lovely Margo?”
Evan looked around—and saw only those abiding images of Luz. Not Margo reading by the window or deftly shuffling pots and pans in the kitchen or brushing her hair by the bedroom window. Not Margo at all. Like a magician’s razzle-dazzle to keep attention focused elsewhere, he’d been pretending the object was to avoid Richard’s ire at muddling his courier work with extracurricular fooling around—when he was only fooling himself that being with Luz amounted to a little vacation fling.
Your chickens, his grandfather had been fond of saying, will always come home to roost. And here they were: The complications, the consequences he’d tried hard to finesse. The lies.
Shit. Evan swallowed and said, “Margo’s fine. She’s been in Honduras for the past month, a medical conference and then training the new public health nurses hired by her NGO.”
“Will she be home by the time I come down to conclude this little mission?”
The bottom fell out of Evan’s stomach. “You’re coming? When?”
“That depends entirely on Luz. When she’s ready, she’ll give you a package, and I’ll bring the rest of what she needs—and, Evan, that transfer is the only reason for
you two to have any contact.”
Whoa. That last frosty crack sounded like Richard suspected something. Evan was in too deep to survive a pointed interrogation, so he’d better forget about asking the rest of his questions. Admitting Luz had told him about the Benavides would open a huge can of worms, and he definitely shouldn’t know about the pills Luz took.
“Oh.” Evan’s gasp was little more than a loud inhale into the too-lengthy silence.
“Is there something else, Evan?”
“No.” He had to get off the phone before his uncle had a chance to pry. Evan had just put two and two together: Luz, whom he now believed to be seriously ill, was taking—stealing?—something from the head of Guatemala’s largest drug cartel. That was already horrible, but afterward Richard was bringing something to her. Luz would be going back in.
After the men said their goodbyes, Evan, chin cradled in his palms, stared out the window until the light faded and the sky turned inky black.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The man wore jeans and a Houston Astros warm-up jacket. A machete scar disfigured his left hand and wrist. When Luz headed home after work, he got on the bus behind her, with a crowd of others. He got off at her stop, only the two of them, stepping down at the last second as the bus rumbled away from the curb. It was out of sight now, brake lights disappearing in the distance.
Although her colonia was a moderately safe neighborhood, her antennae vibrated an alarm. It was nine o’clock, pitch black, streetlights too widely spaced to brighten the gloom. Everyone was inside behind their locked gates, watching TV, talking and drinking. If anyone heard her shout, they’d probably turn up the TV. No one would venture out.
She had to shake him off, but to get to a commercial area with people around, she’d have to zig and zag through a grid of streets that offered no shelter, not even parked cars to hide behind or under. No, Luz had to go to the one place where she had a key. If she got to her gate, she could unlock it, run in, and slam it shut behind her. All this went through her head in the few seconds it took her to orient herself. It could be a coincidence, that the man lived out here, too. Luz knew she was fooling herself. In the time she had hesitated, so had the man. He was waiting for her to move.
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