Toward the Light

by Bonnar Spring

  Dominga placed her fan on a side table, her chins and upper arms wobbling with the effort. Then she steepled her sausage-like fingers and raised her hands to massage her upper lip. Dominga looked out at Luz over her hands and said, “I understand you enjoy reading out loud.”

  Yes! As Martin left the soccer field the day he’d attended their practice, he said—he grumbled—that his wife had become too weak to hold a book in her hands for long, and she’d recruited him to read to her every afternoon. Immediately, Luz understood this was a task he disliked. And one she could easily take over. She’d begun dropping hints.

  “Yes, indeed, Señora,” Luz said. “Of course, I read to Cesar, but at his age, I’m encouraging him to read for himself.”

  “There’s a book on the table. Do you know it?”

  Luz picked it up. Men of Maize, by Miguel Angel Asturias. A meandering allegorical novel based on traditional Maya legends, it was a story of unbearable loss and dramatic, magical rebirth. It had been a favorite of her mother.

  “No.” Luz refused to make even the slightest mental connection between reading to this beached whale and to her emaciated mother as she lay dying.

  Dominga nodded. “You may begin.”

  Half an hour later, the old lady’s eyes fluttered closed. Luz let her voice grow softer. She spaced her words. Slower and slower.

  Dominga’s eyes snapped open. “Return tomorrow. I’ll arrange for someone to watch Cesar.”

  Luz cruised through the rest of her shift on autopilot, giving Cesar extra time in front of the television and serving his dinner at the earliest possible moment. The second he finished his hilachas, a beef and tomato stew that was the only “mixed-up” food Cesar tolerated, she hauled him off to the bathtub. Tantalizing visions of torrejas, the custard-filled sweet that was the Central American equivalent of sugar plums, must’ve been dancing through his head, as Cesar had been alternately giddy and dreamy that long, long afternoon as Luz considered how to proceed.

  Point: Toño did not know about the bomb.

  Luz owed her life to Toño. Her cousin had not saved himself with the other evacuees that night but had remained a soldier in the mountains. Now he was the leader of a popular resistance. Or, Luz reminded herself, a leader of the resistance. Toppling the Benavides’ behind-the-scenes control of the political institutions and crippling their drug-trafficking network could propel the rebels into positions of real power for the first time in a generation. Their chance of success would skyrocket if they were on hand to direct the narrative—and to prevent those loyal to the Benavides from regrouping. But Toño did not know about the bomb.

  After their long talk in the mountains, Toño decided to send an emissary to the other two insurgent leaders. At the same time, he gave instructions to the young couple who drove Luz back to Guatemala City. Apparently, they had highly placed contacts both in the Benavides-controlled government and among official and unofficial U.S. government sources.

  Point: Toño estimated at least a week before all the questions would be answered to his satisfaction. Until she heard from him, she would do nothing.

  Point: But. In the two days since her return from the mountains, Luz had assembled the most important missing pieces. She had a key. Bobby would be home the next day. Soon she could steal the information Richard needed to neutralize him.

  And Dominga had invited her to read. Luz would have access to their private suite every afternoon. Although she hadn’t seen Martin today, he seldom left the apartment, and Dominga had called for him when Luz was leaving. She had the perfect setup to detonate the bomb.

  Even if Toño was unaware of the plan, it didn’t change her desire to obliterate Martin. The murderer of her father—and of so many others—deserved to die. Since her thus far futile mission to bury her mother’s ashes had had the inadvertent result of alerting Toño to the upcoming opportunity, Luz would give him as much time as possible to get organized.

  Richard needed at least a week to get the explosives to her. With the endgame firmly established and now in Dominga’s pudgy hands, she’d better get that part of the puzzle in motion.

  So, mission on. Luz wouldn’t wait for morning. She’d stop by Evan’s after work to give him the message for Richard.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The woman who answered the door was almost as tall as Evan. She had long hair the color of cinnamon twisted into an intricate braid and piled on her head. Before Luz could speak, the woman said in excellent Spanish, “No necesito nada, gracias.”

  Luz, her work clothes covered by a cheap vinyl poncho and carrying her straw shopping basket, had been mistaken for an itinerant vendor by this stranger who’d responded to the doorbell. Lights were on in Evan’s studio, and a jazzy piano piece played in the background. The woman held a beer in one hand, a magazine in the other. Jeans and an oversized sweatshirt. No shoes.

  Confusion and doubt warred in Luz’s head with the job she had to do. Her toes jiggled inside her shoes, itching to run away. She moved one step down, and the woman loomed even taller in the doorway.

  “I need to see Evan for a minute,” Luz said finally—in English.

  The language change startled the woman. Luz got the quick once-over, what kids in New Hampshire called the hairy eyeball.

  “What do you want?”

  “To see Evan. It’s important.” Luz thrust out her chin and stood as tall as she could.

  “Wait here.”

  She closed the door on Luz. In the last second before it shut, Luz recognized the sound of running water, the squealing pipes in Evan’s shower. The woman’s voice echoed on the other side of the door. “Evan? Honey?”

  Honey? Evan, you bastard. You cheating bastard! And I felt awful about lying to you, when I only pretended to have another man!

  Luz swallowed the hot taste of some emotion she didn’t want to feel. She stuffed it deep down, buried it with the rest in her cemetery of losses. Her stomach hurt from the strain, and she was so angry her eyes overflowed to create a world blurry with tears.

  The presence of the woman explained a lot, though. Luz revisited her memories of Saturday morning when she’d arrived unexpectedly. Evan’s obvious desire seemed mixed with … oh, respect or at least an unwillingness to pin her to the wall and unzip his pants. That was when it crossed her mind that Evan was getting too emotionally involved. He’d shown her his paintings. They’d talked. About art, about his neighbors, about running. She made the first move, tumbling onto Evan’s lap in that big armchair. They’d kissed. Again. And again. Evan’s hands moved under her shirt. He unhooked her bra and cupped her shoulders, pressing her breasts hard against him. Then his fingers traced the length of her spine. Lower, lower, until Luz gasped with pleasure. There’d been an awkward pause, both of them panting.

  The front door squeaking open returned Luz to her present problem. Evan stood in the doorway. His quick intake of breath was almost a hiccup. With a shaving cut on his chin and his hair plastered to his scalp, he, too, was a stranger.

  Luz looked over his right shoulder, not meeting his eye. Wary of being overheard, she pitched her voice low. “I have a message for Richard. I—”

  “Luz, let me explain.” He stood silhouetted by the soft lights in his living room.

  “Don’t interrupt. This is important. Tell Richard it’s time to get started.” Luz turned and ran down the street. The oblong of light from Evan’s living room cast her shadow in front of her as she raced away. In a few weeks, none of this will matter. I’ll be dead.

  A second shadow joined hers. Luz glanced back. Evan had sprinted down the steps. She couldn’t talk to him now. Talk, argue, listen to his lies, whatever—she couldn’t face it. God only knew what she’d say, and he’d see her tears and think she was upset, when she was just too furious.

  Luz had only about a fifty-foot head start. She bolted into a small alleyway beyond the line of attached houses. Evan’s feet slapped on the sidewalk. If he’d seen her turn, he’d spot her, so Luz pressed farther int
o the alley and ducked behind a short wall that concealed a line of trash cans. Evan clattered past. Luz remained motionless, hugging herself against the unexpected pain radiating from her chest.

  Evan would guess he’d missed her once he came to the end of the street—and he’d turn back. Unfortunately, the alley where she hid dead-ended in a brick wall, so waiting for him to throw in the towel was her only option. A light drizzle spattered on the cobblestones, and Luz pulled the collar of her poncho tighter on her neck. She knelt trembling in the dark.

  Her thoughts circled back to Saturday morning, how Evan had wrapped his arms tight around her after they kissed in his chair. He’d lifted her up as he stood. Now, to the bedroom … but they’d shed their clothes in the bathroom instead and screwed in Evan’s shower, a cascade of hot water bathing them as Evan hoisted her high, and her legs circled him.

  She’d misread the change she’d imagined on Saturday. Evan wasn’t in pain because he’d fallen for her. No, Luz was a short-term lay who—as far as he knew—was just passing through. He simply felt guilty for cheating on his girlfriend. And he wouldn’t fuck Luz in their bed. Evan had been spending whole nights with her, so the woman hadn’t been conveniently off shopping or at work that morning. The tall woman with the braid had been away. Now she was back.

  Evan’s footsteps echoed once more. Luz peered from the shadows when he passed, barefoot and shirtless in the rain, walking toward his house. Silence. As soon as the coast was clear, she would slip away, go home and get dry. Sleep. Try to forget. Luz peeked out from the side of the building.

  Evan stood in the center of the street, the glow of the nearest streetlight illuminating rain-slicked skin. He still blocked her retreat. Seeing him there provided a laser focus for pent-up rage to erupt. Liar. Cheat. Loser. Her sniffles retreated. She could damn well wait him out. The girlfriend was bound to call to him soon—and he would have some explaining to do. Luz doubted he was as good a liar as she was.

  Evan faced away from her, his words indistinguishable. Tracing a circle, he wheeled in her direction. “Luz, if you can hear me, please come out,” he called. “I have to talk to you.” He did it a few more times, turning and speaking to shuttered windows and locked doors, to a cat slinking along. He stuck it out longer than she expected, calling her name, saying he needed to talk. The woman came out once. Luz didn’t see her at first, but Evan stopped his slow-motion circling. She came into view and put her arms on his shoulders like they were dancing. Her lips moved. Then she left.

  Rain picked up, dinging on the hard stones and slate roofs and metal trash cans. The continuous jangling muted his calls. Luz was drenched. Anger faded and tears started again. Evan stretched his long arms, lacing his hands behind his neck. He swiveled his head once more, then walked away.

  Margo sat in the green chair by the easel. She’d gotten another beer. When Evan came back inside, she set it down with a thump that sloshed sudsy liquid onto his little lacquered table and said, “Time to talk to me?”

  “She’s one of Richard’s people,” he said quickly.

  Margo lifted an elegant eyebrow and cocked her head. “And that explains exactly what?”

  “And I wanted to paint her.”

  Margo turned to look out the window. “Paint her?” Leaving little doubt as to the verb she thought Evan meant.

  “Richard needed me to stay in touch with her, and then I realized she’d be a perfect model for a new project.” True as far as it went, but it felt like a lie because what mattered was impossible to sort out. The black-and-white of the truth on the outside had little to do with the knot inside. Even if he was nothing to Luz, she was a woman with a bleak future mired in a wicked predicament. She didn’t need him as a lover right now. Luz needed a friend—more than that, an ally. She was being disposed of. Richard’s arrogance, his complicity, in considering this a solution to Luz’s illness, shocked Evan.

  “So I begin to understand your distinct lack of enthusiasm at my return. How long have you been painting her? Ever since I left?”

  Evan hung his head. “Close enough,” he said to the floor. “But I’m not—” No, he was not going to explain why his relationship with Luz was over. Because it wasn’t. Not really. The honesty of sharing Luz’s private tragedy with Margo seemed more like a betrayal than any lie he’d tell, so Evan finished, “I never meant to hurt you.”

  “Of course not.” Margo tossed her head hard enough for a section of her hair to swing loose. She jammed it behind her ear. “You never mean to. It just happens. Like we just happened. Yeah, it was a thrill, snatching the extremely popular and talented Evan McManus, Mr. Eligible Expat Bachelor, from under the noses of those women in their garden party dresses and fuck-me heels. But you know what? That was the high point. You’re great with the grand romantic overture, Evan, but lousy on the follow-through. When was the last time we had a real conversation, one that wasn’t actually foreplay? Mainly, when I’m trying to, you know, communicate with you, you’re looking off in the distance.”

  Margo lifted her beer and took a long swallow. “You save all your emotions for your art. Painting her, that’s rich!”

  Evan swallowed hard. His cheeks burned. Damn Margo. He’d always loved her Emperor-has-no-clothes skewering of others’ foibles. Now that she’d turned it on him, he saw his plan to care for the dying Luz through Margo’s eyes: wishful thinking. His hope to rescue her from Richard’s plot another pipe dream.

  “These days, even when you’re here, you’re somewhere else in your head. And—” Margo hiccupped.

  Evan mentally upped the number of beers she’d consumed. She teetered to her feet and lurched toward him.

  “And,” Margo repeated. But then she stopped halfway across the room. She gnawed on her lip, indecisive. Then her hands flew to her hips, and she glowered at Evan.

  “And let me tell you one other thing as long as you’re standing there, pretending to pay attention, imagining you’re earning points for taking it like a man—your fucking duty, your obligation to the woman scorned. Let me tell you. Your irreproachable Uncle Richard is involved in some really sketchy stuff. And if your little friend is a friend of his—she’s up to no good, too.”

  Margo came close enough for Evan to see her quivering with fury. Her hands came off her hips and curled into fists, which she held close to her side like a boxer ready to jab. “Do you remember the last time Richard was here? That night we were talking about civilian casualties in rural areas? And I said our medical staff was stretched too thin, and I hoped something was finally being done to reduce civilian bloodshed because I’d heard General Osambela had been called back to Guatemala City for talks. And Richard was, like, ‘Osambela, who’s he?’ My God, Evan.” Margo’s hands clapped her cheeks. “If he hadn’t said it right then—that very second—the next words out of my mouth would’ve been, ‘Did he say anything to you about the talks?’ Because I’d seen them having drinks together at the bar in the Sheraton the night before, laughing and talking—your Uncle Red-White-and-Blue and the Army commander directing the forces against the guerrilla opposition.”

  Margo’s expression was half outrage, half pity, one hundred percent disgust. “He’s playing a deep game—and you, you’re just playing. I don’t even know which one of you is the bigger manipulator. My two cents,” she tossed over her shoulder as she walked away. “You can sleep on the couch tonight.”

  The bedroom door slammed shut.

  “I don’t have a couch,” Evan said to the door.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Luz sat exhausted and alone with her coffee. She’d been drenched by the time she got home from Evan’s but so tired she could only wrap a towel around her sopping hair and crawl under the covers. She lay half-awake, unable to block the stream of images that flashed against her eyelids—Toño laughing in the mountains, Cesar laughing as he outran her on their soccer field, Evan by streetlight, Martin cuddling Cesar while they sang, the tall woman calling Evan “honey,” Dominga on her high hospital bed, E
van in her bed … She woke to a stiff neck, snarled hair, and deep lethargy.

  Luz pressed the steaming coffee cup to her cheek. A distant sun, too far away to warm her. Why bother. It had been like this after her mother died, after she’d completed the flurry of tasks that death in the civilized world entailed. Exactly like those weeks after she got sick and before Richard offered her the opportunity to shine—however briefly—and go out in a blaze of glory.

  What once sounded simple had become complicated. The images that defeated sleep rolled again: Evan outside her gate, bereft; Toño, questioning and suspicious; Cesar hunched in his window seat, alone. The clock on her wall ticked; its rhythm counted down each passing minute of the total allotted to her.

  Perhaps it was the same for everyone. For her father, who accepted death, but surely hadn’t anticipated its arrival that quiet evening while they sat outside their tent finishing dinner. Her mother knew, too, but she was buoyed by belief, sure she was going to meet her beloved in a better place.

  Luz believed in oblivion. You had one small period of time to live, then—poof. Her poof would remove the possibility for her to do any more. But she should be feeling happier about ending the reign of drugs and corruption that was the legacy of the Benavides.

  Ya basta. She’d given Evan the heads-up. The rest was in his hands. In Richard’s. And in Toño’s.

  That left the problem of her mother’s ashes. Once again, she considered skipping the market, but if Juana had information about going to the waterfall, Luz wanted to know. She’d have to avoid Evan today. She was moving too slowly, physically and mentally, to spar with him should he turn up. Which, she feared, he would. He’d wanted something last night. To explain about his girlfriend? Perhaps he merely had a message from Richard to deliver.