Intimate Strangers Affair

by Monica Ramirez

  “All the spooky spooks from our family come visit. So we put out food, things they like to make them happy. See. Candy and cakes and pan dulce. Yummy.” He sneaked a piece, smiling with crumbs hanging at the corner of his mouth. “And look, look. Whiskey for my padre. The real Don.” He pointed to a painting of a silver mustachioed man, which was surrounded by a brand new bottle, a filled tumbler, and little female skeletons endowed with voluptuous scantily clad figures. The portrait of his mother was all the way on the other side of the altar, next to a single candle and a crucifix.

  I picked up a daguerreotype that looked like a junior version of the old Don: black snapping eyes stared over a strong nose, thick black moustache. The young man’s lips were cruel and sensual.

  “Is that Edmundo? Your brother?”

  “Yes, yes.” Ricardo took the picture from me, and set it down again next to a sheaf of sheet music. A señorita skeleton, dressed entirely in red, was playing guitar and singing. “He loved music. He was always singing. But now he can’t sing anymore because he’s dead and he’s buried. His mouth is full of dirt. You can’t sing if your mouth’s full. It’s rude. Manners, manners. They are always teaching me manners. I don’t listen.”

  Edmundo’s picture sat next to a miniature of a small dark-haired woman with deep soulful eyes and unsmiling lips. A black mantilla with a red rose framed her small heart-shaped face. She seemed familiar.

  “And who’s that?”

  “That’s Elena. Beautiful Elena. She’s dead too. They’re all dead,” Ricardo said excitedly.

  Elena? I’d never heard that name before. It was never mentioned in this household. I shouldn’t ask, but curiosity spurred me on. “She must have been very young. Eighteen? Nineteen? Was she Edmundo’s wife?”

  Ricardo giggled. “No, you’re wrong. All wrong. She wasn’t Edmundo’s wife. She was Miguelito’s.”

  “Miguel’s wife?” So this was her. This solemn woman had been Alicia’s mother. Yes. As I stared at the picture, I could imagine Alicia’s face growing older and taking on Elena’s form. She looked entirely like her mother, and none at all like Miguel. I touched the frame of the picture and stared into the woman’s large brown eyes. Hello, Elena. I’ll take good care of him. I promise I will. “What happened to her?”

  “She’s dead. Very, very dead,” Ricardo said plainly like all innocents do. Life hadn’t taught him the social lie, how to soften the truth with etiquette or an artful falsehood. He delivered just the simple fact, blunt as a sledgehammer. Grinning toothily, Ricardo glanced from side to side. “Elena is lonely, but soon she’ll have someone to play with it. She won’t be lonely anymore. See? Look there.” He pointed. Tucked in the far corner of the altar, a portrait was hid behind a huge bouquet of marigolds as if it was waiting in the wings. The painting was of a young woman with slanted blue eyes, a stubborn chin, and flyaway blonde hair. That was…

  That was the face I saw in the bathroom mirror every morning. Dear God. That was me.

  A chill ran down my spine and spread through my limbs. I had never felt this cold in all my miserable life.

  “Do you like it, Nathalie? I like it a lot. I think it looks an awful lot like you.”

  “But…but you’ve made a mistake,” I said with a calmness I didn’t feel at all.

  Frowning, he bent over the table until his nose practically touched my portrait. “No, I didn’t. Aren’t your eyes blue? Yes, they are. I know they are. Bluer than blue.”

  “No, I mean only dead people are supposed to be on that altar. Not people who are still alive.” People like me.

  Ricardo looked slyly at me. He leaned down and whispered into my ear, “I like you, Nathalie. I like you a lot. You’re a nice señorita. You talk to me, you play with me. But you must be careful. Very, very careful. It may happen tonight. Yes, it could. You never know with Miguelito. He can’t help it. He has dreams. Bad dreams. He does things in his sleep and then he can’t remember. It’s not his fault. Don’t be mad, Nathalie.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You want to know what happened to Elena? I’ll tell you everything. Miguelito killed Elena. Everyone knows that. Just ask.”

  I pulled back, aghast, staring up at his round brown eyes. So open and earnest. He meant what he said. He always did. “Ricardo, you shouldn’t go around saying things like that. Forget it. Be quiet now. Someone might hear you. Even worse, they might believe you.”

  “Why not? It’s true. They say it was an accident, a terrible boating accident. But it wasn’t. Miguelito can sail a boat through any typhoon and come out okay. No scratches. No, it wasn’t an accident. He wanted her dead. He was mad. Very mad. Mad people do bad things.”

  The insides of my mouth turned dry. Turning, I stared at Miguel’s slim stern face. He was still talking with Moore on the other side of the room, and his eyes had that hooded guarded look so different from Ricardo’s guileless face. Yes, Miguel kept secrets. He was chockfull of those dratted secrets. But he always had a reason, didn’t he? And this? I couldn’t believe it.

  I turned back to Ricardo and shook my head firmly. “No. You must be mistaken.”

  “I’m not. How well do you know him? Just a few weeks. But I know Miguelito. I have known him all his life. He does whatever he wants, whenever he wants. No one stands in his way. Elena was in his way, so he killed her. Just like he killed my brother. Bang. Bang. In the saloon. He got Edmundo and now, Edmundo’s gone. Elena’s gone too. Gone forever. And you…you might be next. So be careful. Be very, very careful, Nathalie.” Without another word, Ricardo left me at the family altar with the grinning sugar skulls and the cakes, and the thick smells of soot and marigold and burnt wax. He didn’t even look back.

  Suspicion is a like a blast from a stinkbug. Long after the critter’s gone, the reek still lingers on so you just can’t forget it. I didn’t believe Ricardo, but his words still hung over me even as I walked up to Miguel. Needing reassurance, I looked at him. He seemed the same: his hair longish and curling at the tips, the way his eyes crinkled at their corners whenever he saw me, that brief lift of those firm lips. I touched his arm. Under his black silk sleeve, his biceps rippled as he took my hand in his, then lifted it to his lips. That brief kiss, the secret flick of tongue over my knuckle so that my knees suddenly weakened. Can you tell a murderer by their kiss? I couldn’t. Miguel felt the same. He was the same person, wasn’t he?

  He even sounded the same when he said, “Major Moore, Hollinger. You have already met my Nathalie, but permit me to introduce her to you under her new name. Gentlemen, my wife, Doctora Dona Cabrillo.”

  Oh. That was me. It would take a little while to get used to. If you live so long, whispered a voice inside my head. My knees knocked together, but I managed a stiff curtsey, the skirts rustling around me. I ignored Hollinger’s smirk and Moore’s sly greeting.

  Miguel turned to me. “The major has brought news of the ship.”

  “Sunk,” Moore said. “A complete loss. Such a pity.” His tight smile made it seem as if he didn’t feel sorry. In fact, he didn’t seem to give a flip about the lost ship.

  “I do not care about the ship,” Miguel said impatiently. “My men?”

  “Your men. How quaint.” Moore flicked some invisible lint from his sleeve, his eyes gleaming with a strange and secret satisfaction. He seemed pleased to have information that Miguel wanted, and even more pleased to make Miguel wait. “The Confederate raiders picked up the survivors. Put them to shore,” he said casually.

  Relief rushed through me. “So the lifeboats made it. All of them.”

  “All except the last two,” Hollinger interfered. “The explosion caught them. Some of those men were rescued. Your first mate, a few others.”

  We fell silent for a moment, Miguel’s hand gripping mine. I sympathetically squeezed him back.

  “Well, that’s some good news. I’m sorry about the others, Miguel. We’ll have to see to their families. Anyone else?”

  “Buckner, a Confederate bodyguard
.” Then Hollinger gave a smile so oily that you could fry a bushel of potatoes in it. “Oh, and the remains of someone. We believe it was Hamilton. What’s left of him, that is.”

  “The shark,” I murmured, feeling the fear well up all over again. My stomach turned all queasy. It would be a long time before I’d ever go into the water again. “And what about Margaret Calhoun? She was on that same lifeboat with Hamilton.”

  Hollinger and the major exchanged a look. “No sign,” Moore said. “Not a trace. The men say she didn’t make it. Not even to the Confederate raider. She wouldn’t survive long in those waters, not under those conditions. A pity, really.”

  “Yes, it’s terrible,” I said, remembering that gaping wide mouth rushing towards us, and the dozens of sharp tearing teeth stained with Miguel’s blood, with Hamilton’s, hers. So she’d ended up as fish food. I’d hated Margaret, but I hadn’t wished that fate on her.

  “The Confederate ringleader dead like that,” Moore continued. He stared disdainfully at us as if it were all our fault. “She was more valuable to us alive. Think of all the information we could have extracted.” Thoughtfully, Major Moore fell silent again as if picking over his next few words. Then at last, when it seemed he had decided, he saluted us with his glass, his mouth pulling back into a mockery of a grin. “To the bride and groom. Married in haste. May they not repent in leisure.” He drank, then inclined his head.

  Miguel didn’t move, said nothing, and yet the air around him tensed suddenly as if he were on verge of pulling a gun. He slowly and slightly lifted his head like he was testing the wind. “I am sure you mean to wish us well.”

  “Certainly,” the major replied. “After all, you might say I was the matchmaker. Of course, it was all Nathalie’s enterprise. Quite the initiative, my dear. You surprise me. I thoroughly salute you. And you, Don Miguel. Now perhaps you can secure that heir, so your lands will be safe from the American courts. Didn’t Vallejo lose more than half his land? But of course, you need a son. A girl won’t do.”

  Hollinger looked insolently at me over his glass. He sniffed. “Wide hips. Big feet. She looks like a breeder.”

  I smiled sweetly at him. “Well, that’s that. Shall we, Miguel?”

  “No,” Moore said abruptly. “Where’s the gold? I want it.”

  “For you? Or for the Union?” I asked.

  Moore’s smile tightened into a grin. “My dear, dear child. Don’t be rash like your father. Never ask questions unless you’re absolutely prepared for the answers. They could get you in trouble. A whole lot of trouble.”

  Miguel drew me to him. “The matter ends here.”

  “It ends when I say so. If I say so. No sooner.”

  “No. Her freedom for the gold. I will tell you where it is, Nathalie no longer works for you. And I quit.”

  Moore’s eyes turned carefully blank. His lips pursed.

  “You can’t leave,” Hollinger gasped.

  Miguel turned his stare to the sergeant. “Watch me.”

  “Sure, you can. But Nathalie’s a different story. Remember Elena,” Major Moore played his last card.

  Miguel’s mouth tightened into a thin line. He nodded to Xiang, who had mysteriously appeared behind the major and was beginning to lead the men away.

  Miguel bowed slightly. “My wife and I bid you good night.”

  ***

  At long last, we were alone in our bedroom. Miguel fastened the lock and turned to me, a small smile playing on his lips. He walked toward me, and I watched that slight roll and dip of his shoulders, his smooth muscular stride, barely a hitch in his step as if he’d never been injured. My pulse raced a little faster. Anticipation? Longing? Fear? No, I wasn’t fearful. Foolish, maybe, but not frightened. Maybe I should be, locked in with a murderer. But he wasn’t. He couldn’t be. My husband. How did this miracle happen? The wonder of it made my mouth dry, my head light.

  Miguel walked behind me and stopped, the tips of his shoes brushing my skirt. He removed the fillet from my head, and my hair tumbled down my back. Then he reached around me and picked up my old wooden brush from the bedside table. Gently, carefully, he brushed out my hair. Each patient stroke melted another little tense knot in my neck and shoulders until one by one, the muscles relaxed. It felt very soothing. Another skill, another side of him. Miguel was always surprising me.

  He paused, lifting a strand. He kissed my nape, then a little higher. “Better?”

  “Mmmm.” My head lolled backwards until it rested against his.

  “You looked like you had a headache.”

  “I did. How did you know about my troubles with Moore? Did Claude tell you?”

  A sound rumbled through Miguel’s chest. “Yes. But you should have told me.”

  “All right, all right. You got me there. I should have told you. But since when are you all buddy-buddy with Claude? Is this one of those secret pact between males? A let’s-protect-Nathalie-from-herself kind of pact? Well, no thanks. I don’t need that.”

  “I disagree.”

  “Miguel-”

  “I protect my own. I will do anything to protect you,” he said lowly, fiercely. Every inch of him looked like the indomitable Don.

  And when he looked like that, I was afraid that what Ricardo said might very well be true. He does whatever he wants, whenever he wants. Nothing stands in his way. How far would Miguel would take that vow? He could get himself into real trouble. He might cross some line, a line of no return. Maybe he already had. The thought frightened me, and only doubled my determination to watch out for him whether he liked it or not. He was stuck. We both were.

  “You’re the one that needs protection, making those crazy promises. Trying to buy off Moore with the gold. You can’t even get it. It’s at the bottom of the Pacific.”

  Miguel hesitated for a moment. “No, it’s not. We off-loaded it before we even left the harbor. The gold is in—”

  “The infirmary. The boxes in the foyer.”

  “Yes.” He shrugged as if it were pocket change. Maybe to him, it was.

  “Well, maybe you can put it into good works. Real people need it more than any old government. Real people like my patients, the ones who can’t afford care but need it. In fact…”

  He put a finger over my lips. “Later,” he murmured. His arms wrapped around me.

  I took the brush from his hand and tossed it on to the table. “Did you do this for Elena?”

  He stepped back, turning me so that we faced each other. His hands only lightly touched my arms now giving us both more space, some distance. “No.”

  I waited for him to say something more, but he didn’t. No surprise there. But this time I didn’t let it go. I had to know. “Why not?”

  “She would never have allowed it. She wouldn’t let me touch her.”

  She must have been nuts, I thought, my body already reminding me of some very personal reactions to his touch. Was it a spell? Just a word, or glance could trigger an avalanche of such amazing heat. It had to be magic. It sure wasn’t science. At least, not the kind of science they taught us in medical school. And I wasn’t the only one who thought that. Even before I knew who Don Miguel was, I’d heard about his reputation from all the Golden Catherine girls. Mucho hombre, they’d said. He was legendary. And Elena hadn’t wanted him. Go figure. “Tell me about her.”

  “Our marriage was arranged since we were children. It was expected of us. She was my uncle’s ward.”

  “And she loved someone else.”

  Miguel nodded.

  For some reason, I thought about the portraits on the family altar. Elena had looked so serious, rather like Miguel. It seemed like a perfect match, but maybe she’d been too much like him. Or maybe deep down inside, she hadn’t been really like that at all. Maybe she’d been completely different, and that had been the whole problem for the little señorita with the red rose. And now, all that was left of her was a little girl and a portrait. No one talked of her. Those memories were silenced, and if the dead weren’t
remembered by the living, then they didn’t exist at all except for the brief holiday when the pictures graced the family altar. For Dia de los Muertos, Elena made her brief appearance sitting next to Edmundo. Those two pictures, side by side. Grouped together in death as they hadn’t been in life. “Then it was Edmundo.”

  “Yes. They were lovers. I found out too late. Much too late.”

  “So he is Alicia’s father. But everyone thinks it is you.”

  “Does it matter? I am her father in every way that counts. And it’s time I start acting like it. You taught me that, and I thank you.” His lips twitched as he solemnly regarded me. I could see amusement, exasperation, and love. Definitely love. “You have this way, querida. You push yourself into my life. My secrets. Perhaps you have a secret for me? What about this?” He reached into the seam pocket of my dress and before I could stop him, nimbly pulled out the miniature of me. I tried to grab it back, but he held it just out of reach. Chuckling, he angled it so he could examine it. “Did Ricardo paint this? He’s talented. It looks like you. Defiant. Adorable. I like it.”

  “Well, you won’t like this. You won’t like hearing where I found it. It was on your altar for the dead.”

  His breath sucked in. “Only the dead—”

  “Belong there. I know. Ricardo put it there as a warning for me. He said…” I swallowed, not sure if I could finish. It was the hardest thing I’d ever had to do. These things needed to be said. No matter what. “Ricardo said that you mean to kill me like you killed Edmundo and Elena.”

  “I was jealous. I killed Edmundo, then Elena. Not an accident. And you believe that. Those rumors,” was all he said before he fell silent again. His eyes cooled into chips of green ice like the floes in the Arctic Sea; translucent, unapproachable, and still chilling no matter how far away. It was as if the ever-winter winds howled across the bleak white plains of his soul to warn me off. Go back. Nothing lives here. Nothing can. Not a man any longer. A wasteland.

  Even though he stood still, he already seemed to have moved away from me. He was moving further away each silent second, more distant, dark, and chilly. In another minute, he might vanish altogether from view and I wouldn’t be able to see him any longer. I’d lose him all together.