What the hell has this to do with Jorge having a child?
“And?”
“The major—his name is Naylor—said that the boy’s mother went to his wife and told her and some colonel’s wife—they’re friends—about the boy.”
Oh, Sweet Jesus, please, Alicia doesn’t need this!
When Jorge—their baby and their only son—had died, Juan Fernando Castillo had to seriously consider getting institutional care for his wife. It hadn’t gotten that far, but she had been clinically depressed for more than a year, and she still had trouble at least twice a year, on Jorge’s birthday and on the date of his death.
“Sweetheart, Jorge . . . left us . . . twelve years ago,” he said.
“I know. I told you, the boy is twelve.”
“What does General Stevens want us to do about this? Alicia, how does he know, how can we know, that the child is Jorge’s?”
“Fernando, when I looked at the boy’s picture—his name is Karl—Jorge’s eyes looked back at me.”
That’s hardly proof of paternity.
Oh, sweetheart, I am so sorry. How could that goddamned General Stevens do this to you? What was the sonofabitch thinking?
“And what does General Stevens want us to do about this child?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean, does he want us to provide support? What?”
“He didn’t say anything about support. But if he’s Jorge’s son, our grandson, of course we’ll support him. What a question!”
Oh, shit!
“Sweetheart, listen to me. If this is true . . .”
“Of course it’s true!”
“We don’t know that, sweetheart. Wishing it so doesn’t make it so.”
“He has Jorge’s eyes,” she said.
Screw his eyes.
“What I’m asking you to do, sweetheart, is just take it easy right now. I’ll be home tomorrow and then we can talk about it. I’ll have a word with General Stevens, get all the facts..."
“I’m telling you, Fernando, this is Jorge’s child.”
“If it is, no one would be happier than I would. But we don’t know that, sweetheart. We have to be very careful in a situation like this.”
“Now I’m becoming sorry that I called you,” she said.
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning I’m sorry I called you,” she said. “You’re ruining this for me, Fernando. Sometimes you have a heart of ice.”
“Honey, come on. I’m thinking of you. Listen to me. I can probably catch a plane later today. When I get home, we can talk about it.”
She didn’t reply.
“Sweetheart, will you do me a favor?”
“What?”
“Ask General Stevens if he can come to the office—or if we can go to his—first thing tomorrow morning.”
The Citibank meeting will just have to wait. I simply can’t let her go off the deep end again.
Why the hell didn’t I bring the goddamned Lear? Because it’s throwing money down the goddamned toilet to use it to carry one man in a six-passenger airplane.
I wonder if I can charter one?
Slow down, for Christ’s sake. Nobody’s at death’s door. I’ll be there later today; that’s soon enough.
“If you like,” she said, coldly.
“I don’t know what flight I can catch, sweetheart. But I’ll be on the first plane to Dallas I can catch this afternoon. And I’ll have the Lear sent to Dallas to meet me. All right?”
“Do whatever you want,” Alicia said.
“And in the meantime, please don’t do anything, or say anything, you might regret later.”
For an answer, she hung up on him.
Juan Fernando Castillo calmly put the telephone back in its cradle.
Then he looked up at the ceiling. Then he raised his spread arms above his shoulders.
“Jesus Christ, God!” he cried. “Don’t do this to her! She has suffered enough.”
[TEN]
Passenger Lounge, Hobie Aviation Services Love Field Dallas, Texas 2005 12 March 1981
“What do you mean, it’s not here?” Juan Fernando Castillo demanded incredulously of the customer services agent.
For reasons known only to God, the Lear can’t go into Dallas-Fort Worth International, and after I shuttle all the way over here from Dallas-Fort Worth the goddamned Lear isn’t here?
“I’m sorry, Mr. Castillo. It’s just not here, sir.”
“May I please use that telephone?”
“Yes, of course, sir.”
He punched in a number from memory and a moment later heard, “Lemes Aviation.”
"Who’s this?”
"Ralph Porter.”
“Ralph, this is Fernando Castillo.”
“How can I help you, Don Fernando?”
“You can tell me where the hell my Lear is. I’m at Love and it’s not here.”
“Let me check a moment, sir.”
Check, my ass, you sonofabitch! With all the money we spend with you, you should not only have had the goddamned Lear here when I wanted it, but you should have known without checking why it isn’t and where it is.
“Don Fernando?”
“Yes?”
“It took off from Newark about an hour ago, sir. That should put it on the ground here in, say, two hours.”
“You don’t know what it was doing in Newark by any chance, do you?”
“Yes, sir. Doña Alicia took it there, sir. She said she had to make the six o’clock Pan American flight to Frankfurt and there was no other way she could make it except in the Lear.”
“Of course. It must have slipped my mind. Thank you very much.”
“Anything else I can help you with, sir?”
“No, that’s it, thank you.”
He put the telephone back in the cradle and then picked it up again and dialed another number from memory.
“Jacqueline, it’s me,” he said. “In this order, call General Stevens at Fort Sam and ask him where I’m supposed to go in Germany. He’ll understand.”
“Germany?” Jacqueline Sanchez, who had been his secretary for twenty years, asked.
“Germany. Then get me on the next plane out of Dallas -Fort Worth that goes wherever I have to go.”
“I don’t know what kind of direct flights there are from Dallas-Fort Worth to Germany,” Jacqueline said. “Why don’t you take the Lear and head for New York?”
“Because the goddamned Lear is on its way back from New York and won’t be in San Antonio for two hours.”
“Somehow, I sense that you’re displeased about something, ” she said. “Anything I can do?”
“Just get me on the next goddamned plane to Germany, Jackie, please.”
“Consider it done. Where are you?”
“I’m at Love, about to get in a goddamned taxi to go back to goddamned Dallas-Fort Worth.”
“Two ‘goddamned’s in one sentence, you must be angry.”
“Alicia is on her way to Germany to see who she thinks is Jorge’s son.”
“Oh my God!”
“Yeah, oh my God!”
“Call me when you get to Dallas-Fort Worth. I’ll have everything set up by the time you get there.”
“Thanks, Jackie.”
“Jorge had a child?” she asked.
“Oh, God, Jackie, I hope this kid is really his.”
“I’ll say a prayer,” Jackie said, and the line went dead.
[ELEVEN]
Haus im Wald Near Bad Hersfeld Kreis Hersfeld-Rotenburg Hesse, West Germany 1850 13 March 1981
The Jaegermeister at the gate would not permit the Lustrous Mercedes to pass until he had authority from the house. When it finally came, and they reached the house, Karl Wilhelm von und zu Gossinger was waiting for them on the stone verandah.
“Good evening,” he said.
“Hey, Karl,” Major Naylor said.
“I am sorry but Mother is not receiving,” the boy said.
&nbs
p; “We really want to talk to her,” Naylor said. “May we come in?”
“Of course.”
He opened the door for them and then followed them into the house.
“I don’t believe I know this lady,” he said when they were all inside.
“Karl,” Netty began, “this is your . . .”
“Karl, I’m your grandmother,” Alicia Castillo said.
“Oh.”
“If I had known about you, I would have been here much sooner,” Alicia said. “May I give you a hug and a kiss?”
“I would rather you didn’t,” the boy said.
“Jesus, Karl!” Naylor said.
“It’s all right,” Alicia said.
“Karl,” Netty said, “we would really like to see your mother for just a moment.”
“Mother is not feeling well,” the boy said.
“We understand, Karl,” Elaine Naylor said.
“She has had a good deal to drink,” the boy said.
“Karl,” Alicia said, “take me to your mother.”
He looked at her for a moment, and then said, “If you insist. ”
The room, Alicia was to remember later, reeked of cognac.
Erika von und zu Gossinger was in bed, on her side, and raised her head when the light from the corridor came into the darkened room.
“Who’s that?” she challenged, in German. “Get out and leave me alone!”
“I’m sorry,” Alicia said. “I don’t speak German.”
“Who are you?” Frau Erika asked, not pleasantly, in English.
“I am Jorge’s mother, my dear,” Alicia said. “And I’ve come to take care of you and Karl.”
Frau Erika, not without effort, managed to sit up in the bed and turn the light on.
“You’re Jorge’s mother?”
“Yes, I am. My name is Alicia.”
Frau Erika put out her hand and Doña Alicia took it.
“I am so sorry I didn’t know about you and the boy,” Alicia said.
Tears ran down Frau Erika’s cheeks and she began to sob. Alicia put her arms around her.
V
SPRING 2005
[ONE]
Over the Atlantic Ocean Offshore, Savannah, Georgia 1520 29 May 2005
Five minutes out of the helipad at the Carolina White House, shortly after they had reached cruising altitude, Sergeant First Class DeLaney took a headset from a hook by the door and handed it to Major C. G. Castillo, who was now sitting down and properly strapped in.
Castillo put it on, found the mike button, and said, “Thanks, Sergeant.”
“Major Castillo,” a female voice said, adding jokingly, “this is your pilot speaking.”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Castillo, I was just thinking,” Lieutenant Colonel Messinger said. “I’m going off-duty when we get to Hunter. I could give you a ride into Fort Stewart, if you’d like, and grease you through the process of getting into the field-grade BOQ. I live there.”
Major Castillo had an unkind and perhaps less than modest thought: For female officers, keeping one’s indiscretions a hundred miles from the flagpole was even more important than it was for male officers. For unmarried female officers —and if Lieutenant Colonel Messinger lived in the field-grade BOQ she was more than likely unmarried—it was even more difficult to be discreet. If they didn’t opt for the chastity option, they had to be very careful. Castillo knew that every brother—and sister—officer wondered, not always privately, whom Lieutenant Colonel Messinger was banging.
Banging outside the bounds of holy matrimony was Conduct Unbecoming an Officer and Gentlelady. Banging a fellow officer, especially a married one, was bad. Banging a subordinate was even worse, a 6 or 7 on the Conduct Unbecoming Scale, and banging a married subordinate was a 10.
Helping a visiting fellow field-grade aviator, who was not wearing a wedding ring, through the often maddening process of getting into visiting officer quarters, after which he would naturally suggest having a drink and dinner, after which they would go to the BOQ together, was something else. No more than a 2 on the scale, or even a 1. Providing, of course, that loud cries suggesting intense carnal union were not later heard all over the BOQ.
“That’s very kind of you, Colonel,” Castillo said. “But someone’s meeting me at Savannah International.”
“Really? Then what you really need is a ride there?”
“Yes, ma’am. But I’ll catch a cab or something.”
“I’ll take you to Savannah. Not a problem. The terminal or the private aviation side of the field?”
“The private aviation side, please.”
“No problem, Major.”
“I’ll be coming out here again, Colonel,” Castillo said. “Can I have a raincheck?”
“I’m in the book: Messinger,” she said. “Call me.”
“Thank you, I will.”
There was no further communication between the pilot and Major Castillo while they were in the air.
But when she settled the Huey on its skids on the business aviation tarmac, Major Castillo went to the cockpit window and offered her his hand.
“Thanks for the ride, Colonel,” Castillo said.
“My pleasure,” she said, “and it’s Anne.”
“Charley,” Castillo said, and when she finally let go of his hand, he waved, then turned and started walking toward a sign reading PASSENGER LOUNGE.
When he pushed open the door to the passenger lounge— a large room furnished with chrome-and-plastic armchairs and couches, a wall of Coke and snack-dispensing machines, and a table with regular and decaf coffeemakers—a man sitting in an armchair and drinking coffee from a plastic cup called out, loudly,
“Hey, Gringo!”
The man was heavyset, almost massive—it was said he took after his late maternal grandfather—dark-skinned, and dressed in a yellow polo shirt, blue jeans, and well-worn western boots.
It took Castillo a moment to locate the source of the voice, and then, smiling, he walked quickly toward the man, who, with surprising agility for someone of his bulk, came quickly out of the chair.
They embraced. Fernando Manuel Lopez effortlessly lifted Carlos Guillermo Castillo off the floor.
“How the hell are you?” he asked. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Out at the Carolina White House,” Castillo said when he had finally freed himself. “The president needed my advice on foreign policy matters.”
“I would say, ‘Oh, bullshit,’ but I never know when you’re pulling my chain.”
“My boss was out there,” Castillo said. “I was brought along to carry his briefcase and pass the hors d’oeuvres.”
“How long can you stay?” Fernando asked.
“I have to be back in Washington Monday at noon.”
“Oh, Jesus, don’t you ever get any time off?”
“Sure, I do. But . . .”
“I know, wiseass. ‘But I prefer to spend it in the company of naked women.’ Right?”
“That’s cruel, Fernando,” Castillo said with more than a hint of an effeminate lisp. “I can’t believe you think that of me.”
Fernando chuckled.
“If you need to take a leak, Gringo, take it. It’s going to be a little bumpy up there and I don’t want you pissing all over my new toy.”
“What new toy?”
“Take your piss and then I’ll show you. I may even let you steer it for a minute or two.”
“Pretty,” Castillo said several minutes later as he and Fernando walked around a small, sleek, glistening white jet airplane. “What is it?”
“A Learjet . . .”
“I can see that.”
“A Bombardier/Learjet 45XR, to be specific.”
“You said ‘yours’?”
“Ours,” Fernando said.
“You finally got Abuela to get rid of the old Lear?”
“Grandpa loved it,” Fernando said. “She wouldn’t admit that, of course. Until I finally wore her down. It was
the old ‘the wolf’s at the door’ rationale.”
“What did it cost?”
“Don’t ask,” Fernando said. “But Grandpa’s Lear belonged in a museum.”
“I know,” Castillo said. “But I know how she feels. It’s not easy losing another connection to your past.”
[TWO]
Hacienda San Jorge Near Uvalde, Texas 1740 27 May 2005
The Bombardier/Learjet 45XR did not exactly buzz the sprawling, red-tile-roofed Spanish-style “Big House” and its outbuildings, but it did fly directly over it and wiggle its wings at maybe 1,000 feet before picking up altitude in a sweeping turn to make its approach to the paved, 3,500-foot runway a half mile from the house.
Inside the Big House, Doña Alicia Castillo, recognizing the sound for what it was, raised her eyes heavenward, made the sign of the cross, laid down the novel she had been reading, and walked quickly out of the living room onto the verandah.
She loved all of her children and grandchildren, of course, and tried to do so equally. But she knew that the airplane that had just roared overhead held the two people she really loved most in the world, her grandson Fernando—the son of her daughter Patricia—and his cousin Carlos.
She didn’t like them flying at all, and she especially didn’t like it when they were in the same airplane and Fernando might be tempted to show off—which, in flying so low over the Big House, he certainly was.
She got out on the porch in time to see the Lear put its landing gear down as it lined up with the runway.
If I stay out here on the verandah, it will look as if I’m desperately waiting to see them.
Which, of course, I am.
She sat down on a couch upholstered with leather pillows.
Five minutes later, they appeared in the ancient rusty jeep in which Juan Fernando, may God rest his soul, had taught them both to drive when they were about thirteen. Patricia and Francisco, her husband, had been furious when they found out, but Juan Fernando had silenced them by saying they’re going to drive anyway and it was better that he teach them than have them kill themselves trying to teach themselves.
Juan Fernando had used the same argument, more or less, two years later when the boys wanted to learn how to fly. This time he said Carlos was going to fly, as his father had been a pilot even before he went in the Army, and what Carlos did Fernando was going to do whether or not anyone liked it. Or vice versa.
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