by Joy Copeland
In the building’s parking lot, Tina’s car looked like every other small white rental vehicle, except that Tina had added her own means of ID: a neon-pink pompom. Zoie spotted the fuzzy ball hanging from the car’s rearview mirror.
The Florida sun’s tropical intensity had heated up the car, even though it was parked in the shade of the building. She cranked down the driver’s side window to release the hot air. The car door felt as hollow as an empty sardine can. Definitely this car qualified as basic transportation when compared to Tina’s BMW, which sat idle in its DC parking space. Zoie turned the key in the ignition and set the air conditioner on full blast. After a few jerky stops, she steered the vehicle onto the main road.
The trek to Boca would be Zoie’s first time heading north from Fort Lauderdale. In her previous trips with Elliot, their destinations always had been south, down in Miami, and one time to the Keys. She followed I-95 North, rehearsing what she’d say to Carmen Silva when they stood face to face. From Regina’s description Carmen sounded like a kindred spirit, someone who took her job seriously, and whose recommendations and expertise might have been ignored. Zoie could hardly claim that her experience was the same. Since coming to work at the Foundation, everyone there had embraced her. Hadn’t she been made a member of the Foundation’s board? As far as she could tell, Ray and Milton had been bringing her in on significant decisions, but Ray had been patronizing. He wanted her involved, all right, in the way a parent wants a child to be involved—there to listen and follow directions, not to ask probing questions. Perhaps Carmen would understand and at least offer Zoie some insights on their work environment and maybe more.
Distracted, Zoie nearly missed her exit from I-95. Thank goodness that traffic was light. She steered the small car across two lanes, just in time to make the right-hand ramp marked Yamato Road West. Now intent on following her MapQuest instructions, printed two days prior, she performed several more maneuvers that put her at the gated entrance of Tara Palms.
Pulling up to the small guard shack, she found no guard in sight and the gate raised. She hesitated, expecting some uniformed person to appear, but then drove through.
“Some security.”
With red tile roofs and white stucco exteriors, the homes of Tara Palms were typical Floridian-Spanish style. These homes were not mansions but were larger than most, situated close to the street, dwarfing their small front lawns and extra-wide driveways. Zoie noticed that the neighborhood was immaculate. The streets looked as if they had been power washed—if not by man or machine, then by a torrential Florida downpour.
It was Saturday, a day when people were supposed to be home. Surprised, Zoie found the streets deserted. A few cars sat in their driveways. A little way down the street, a child’s bike equipped with training wheels lay ditched on a patch of thick lawn. The place felt like a ghost town, as if all its residents had been evacuated. Perhaps it was just that the residents knew better than to linger outside in the scorching heat of mid-day.
Zoie made slow progress, checking each curbside address while being vigilant to the possibilities that a child—perhaps the one belonging to the bike—might dash from behind a palm at any moment. Carmen Silva’s address was about three blocks into the development. A purple car, looking like a giant misplaced eggplant, sat in the driveway. The car gave her hope that somebody was home.
Zoie parked and sat with the engine still running. A remnant of the hangover shot to her right temple, the pain vanishing quickly over her eye. Perhaps the resurrected headache was an omen about the bizarre meeting about to occur. She slumped into the steering wheel, resting her head on its upper edge. Part of her wanted to pull away from the curb, to turn the car around, and to forget the wrongheaded idea that had brought her to this house. But she’d come this far. She would regret it if she didn’t go through with it.
The car’s air conditioner whined as it continued to pump out cool air. Zoie lingered in its breeze, reconsidering her little speech meant to persuade Carmen to talk.
Minutes ticked by. Perhaps the woman had already looked out her window and was wondering why this car had parked in front of her house. It was time to move. Zoie dreaded abandoning the cool comfort of the car almost as much as she dreaded meeting this woman without a reasonable explanation as to why. In a final step to prepare, she checked her hair and makeup in the visor mirror, grabbed her bag from the passenger’s seat, and entered Florida’s perpetual sauna.
At the residence’s double doors, she found the bell, rang it, and waited under the shade of a small overhang. It seemed as if many minutes passed before a woman—short and round, dressed in white shorts and a bright-pink top—opened the door.
“Yes,” the woman said, her face expressionless, her skin seeping a scent like bubblegum.
“Is Carmen Silva in?”
“She is. Who’s calling?” The voice was deep for such a small woman; her few words were laced with a thick Spanish accent.
“Mommy, who is it?” A younger woman said, preempting the older one from behind. This one was tall and had big dark eyes and short dark hair done in an attractive feather cut. “Mommy, por favor, check on Joey for me. I’ll handle this.”
Oh, thought Zoie. Already I’m something to be handled, and I haven’t even started.
The older woman didn’t respond immediately to the woman who was obviously her daughter. She stayed at the door for a moment, staring at Zoie before retreating into the cool darkness of the house.
“I’m Carmen Silva,” the younger woman said, stepping on to the walkway and pulling the door almost closed, thus denying Zoie a view into the house.
“Hello, Ms. Silva,” Zoie said, offering a hand and a perky smile worthy of a prize distributor working for Publishers Clearing House.
Clearly suspicious, the woman returned the handshake. “Look, miss, I don’t know what you’re selling, but right now I’m in the middle of something.”
Knowing that if she didn’t talk fast the door would be shut her face, Zoie said in rapid fire, “I’m not selling anything. I just need a few minutes. My name is Zoie Taylor. I work at Crayton Industry.”
At the mention of Crayton, the woman’s eyes went wide and then quickly narrowed. “Who sent you?”
“No one.”
“It’s the Foundation, isn’t it? The Foundation sent you.”
“I work for the Foundation, but—”
“I knew it.” The woman backed into her door. This time the door was in motion and about to close.
“Wait! Please!” Zoie stepped closer as if preparing to use her body to maintain the door’s gap.
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“But wait, please!”
The woman hesitated long enough for Zoie to make her plea. “Give me a second, please,” said Zoie. “I came because I was in the area. I swear. No one sent me. I’m not here officially.”
Carmen waited, her head peeking from behind the door.
“I need to talk to you. Regina told me about you,” Zoie explained. “You remember Regina Bullock. She spoke so highly of you. Said you were a real professional.” It was Zoie’s half-assed attempt to follow her planned script, the one that was supposed to break the ice.
“Regina promised not to give out my address.”
“Ugh, she didn’t. Not directly anyway,” Zoie said with an apologetic shrug, hoping not to have to explain how she’d come to have it.
“Look, I left the Foundation because I was tired of talking. Talking with no one listening. I’ve done my talking,” Carmen said.
“I understand, but I swear that no one sent me. I just started at the Foundation this summer.”
“I bet they still tell stories about me, huh?” Carmen said, smirking as she clung to the half-closed door.
“No, not at all. At least not to me.”
“Then why are you here?” Carmen stepped from behind the door but still clung to it, prepared for a quick retreat.
“If you’d give me a few minutes, I�
�ll explain…”
From inside, Zoie heard a child’s cry. Carmen’s head jerked around behind the door. “Joey! Listen to Abuela!” Clearly anxious, she turned back to Zoie and gave a hard stare. “What were you saying?”
“I was saying that since I was in the area, I thought I’d come over to ask a few questions,” Zoie said.
“Ask me questions? Why?” Carmen was clearly irritated. “I don’t work there anymore. I’ve been gone from that place for eighteen months.”
“You’re right. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come.”
Zoie’s willingness to leave seemed to do the trick. The woman’s defenses relaxed as she thought for a second. Inside the house the child’s cries grew louder. She stuck her head back behind the door and called. “Mommy, que pasa con Joey?”
“I can see this is not a good time,” Zoie said.
“It’s never a good time,” Carmen responded, sighing. “I guess I have a second. Come in.”
“Thank you.”
The child had stopped crying. Carmen sighed again as if thankful for the silence. She ushered Zoie to a wide hall.
Zoie took stock of her surroundings. The home’s exterior had been deceptive. She wasn’t quite sure what she expected. Nonetheless, she was impressed. The entryway opened to a magnificent living room, offering a spectacular view of a lake through a wall of windows that were two stories tall. “Your home is lovely,” Zoie said with an admiring gaze.
“Thank you,” Carmen said, but as soon as she had spoken again, the silence was broken—this time the child was screaming. With a look of disgust, Carmen closed her eyes for a second to gain her composure. She didn’t go running to check as parents do when their children screamed. Zoie surmised that the event must happen often.
“I hope the child’s okay,” Zoie said, unable to keep from butting in.
“Please, wait here.”
Carmen disappeared into the house, leaving Zoie standing in the hall. Zoie wanted to wander into the living room but thought it would be presumptuous. Instead, she let the view of the lake draw her eyes from where she stood. The child’s wail not withstanding, the room had a palpable calm about it, a serenity she’d disturbed with her visit.
Carmen was gone for a good five minutes, returning only when the child’s crying had stopped. Noticeably less irritated, she apologized for leaving Zoie standing there.
Zoie followed her barefooted hostess across the beige tile floor and into a living room, where she was directed to one of two white armchairs angled with a view of the lake.
Carmen situated herself on an opposite couch and clasped her hands between her knees. “Sorry about that. My mother wants to use the old ways with my son. He’s only three. She wants to smack him on the bottom when he doesn’t do what she tells him right away. That’s the way my siblings and I were raised. But I don’t want to raise my son like that.” She looked bewildered, as if she was trying to convince herself that her way was right.
Zoie was silent.
“I didn’t get your name.”
“Zoie Taylor.”
“Ms. Taylor, do you have children?”
“Yes, a daughter. Nikki. She’s six.”
“Then you understand.”
“About discipline? Yes, I understand, though I wish my mother were around to help with Nikki. My mother and daughter never met. She died before Nikki was born.” Zoie stared off at the lake. It had been a long time since she’d discussed her mother with anyone, except her grandmother. From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Carmen’s face. The woman’s angry face had softened. Although Zoie hadn’t planned it, talking about her mother seemed to break the ice.
“I’m sorry to hear about your mother,” Carmen said after some silence. “I complain about my mother, but actually I don’t know what I’d do without her. We’re very close. My husband is a pilot, and she stays with me when he’s out of town.”
“I see. I really appreciate you’re taking the time to talk to me.”
“I’m sorry I’ve been so abrupt. It’s just that anything to do with the Crayton Foundation sets me off. That place was another lifetime—one I’d rather forget.”
“This is new for me. I’ve only worked there a couple of months. I’m still trying to figure the place out.”
“Good luck,” Carmen said with short snort, looking away.
“Ms. Silva, why did you leave?”
“Why did I leave Crayton? Why did I leave?” Carmen looked up at the two-story ceiling as if to call on heaven for the answer. “You want the official reason?”
“Whatever reason you want to give me.” Happy that Carmen was talking, Zoie didn’t want to pressure her.
Carmen sighed. “I don’t know what people have told you, but I left because my husband’s job relocated to Miami.”
“That’s the official story?”
“Yes.” Carmen was now wearing her poker face and keeping her hands folded in her lap.
Carmen was going to play coy or at least attempt it. Zoie had seen these signals before from witnesses, people giving depositions. Body language spoke volumes over what came from people’s mouths. So she waited. There was no need to push. This woman wanted to talk, and eventually she would. “I see,” Zoie said.
“But even if he hadn’t relocated, I would have left anyway,” Carmen continued.
“You weren’t happy at the Foundation?”
“That’s an understatement.” Nervously Carmen rubbed her palms into her denim-clad thighs as if she were trying to remove dirt from them. “I’m not surprised you’re finding it difficult. I’ve never worked at such an unprofessional place.”
Zoie was on the edge of her seat. She could tell, with just gentle pressure, that what she wanted to know from Carmen Silva was about to come pouring out. “How so?”
“Ms. Taylor, you’re the grant advisor who took my place, right?”
“Actually, no. As far as I know, Ray never replaced you.” Zoie reached into her bag and pulled out a business card. Stretching forward, she handed it to Carmen.
Carmen glanced at the card. “An attorney, huh. So the Foundation finally got its own attorney. It needs one…perhaps I’ve said enough.”
“I swear my reasons for being here are strictly personal. Whatever you tell me will remain confidential. Think of it as an attorney-client privilege.”
“I hope I have no need for an attorney, Ms. Taylor. And according to your business card, the Foundation is your client.”
“You’re absolutely right,” Zoie said. “But at present I’m not here in that capacity.”
“Hmm.” Carmen looked at the card again. “Says here you’re also the board secretary. You’re in pretty deep.” She threw the card on the coffee table. It spun like a pinwheel on the glass surface, coming to rest against an exquisite pottery vase with a single pink bloom.
Zoie’s eyes followed the spinning. Then she squirmed in her seat at Carmen’s accusatory tone. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Ms. Taylor, you’re part of the Foundation’s inner sanctum. Me, I was only a peon, an outsider. I was never in on the big meetings.”
“Ms. Silva, did Ray ever make sexual advances toward you?” Zoie hadn’t intended to be so blunt.
Carmen’s eyes widened. “Wow!”
“Sorry. Don’t answer if it makes you uncomfortable,” Zoie said quickly. The nonpushy tactic had worked before. Maybe it would work again.
For a second Carmen looked puzzled. With arms folded she pushed back into the couch and then began to speak. “‘Uncomfortable’ isn’t quite the way I’d describe it. More like funny.” Carmen snickered and rolled her eyes. “You think Ray…Ray Gaddis and me? What a thought.”
“I didn’t mean to imply that you were interested in him.”
“You’re right about that.” Carmen adjusted her position. “Ms. Taylor, don’t tell me Ray has been coming on to you.”
“Thankfully, no. I thought maybe that’s why you left the Foundation.”
&nb
sp; “You think sexual harassment drove me out?” Carmen couldn’t contain her laughter. It was haunting as it echoed off the high ceiling and vibrated in the otherwise quiet room. Carmen leaned forward, retrieved the business card, and looked at it again. “May I call you Zoie?”
“By all means.”
“Well, Zoie, the truth is…I’m hardly Ray’s type. Neither are you. Ray is gay.”
Now it was Zoie’s turn to be stunned. “Ray? No way. He’s married. He has kids.”
Tight mouthed, Carmen shrugged.
The thought of Ray being gay hadn’t crossed Zoie’s mind. Not that his sexual preference bothered her one way or the other, except that this new information destroyed her whole theory about him being a womanizer. How did this woman know this kind of information?
“I’m finding this hard to believe.”
“Believe it. I’m telling you that he is,” Carmen continued.
“Are you just speculating, or do you know this for sure?” Zoie looked the woman in the eye.
At first Carmen barely blinked. Then she fingered her dark feathered hair, bit her bottom lip, and looked down as if considering what to say. “Listen, you’ve come to find out something, but the something you’ve found out isn’t what you expected.”
“Yes, you’re right. I sure wasn’t expecting to hear that Ray is gay.”
“Granted, he’s not obvious at all. Then I guess I should explain how I know.”
With Zoie all ears, Carmen shifted on the couch and started her explanation slowly, in a voice not quite a whisper. “I was working late one night. I used to work a lot of late hours. I seemed to be the only one who did, but that’s another story. One night I needed to finish a report. That place could be creepy, especially in the winter, when it gets dark early. Anyway, being alone I was a little skittish. I heard noises coming from the file room down the hall.”