Her mother answered on the second ring.
They exchanged the usual stilted greetings before Esme said, “Mom, I’m in Laredo. Do you think we could drop by the house and visit?”
There was a long pause on the other end, broken by a heavy sigh. “I suppose it’s some man? I guess you can come by. We’ll be home anyway.”
“Maybe in a couple of hours?”
Her mother agreed and hung up. Esme knew that she’d drag out a broom and mop and clean the living room, dust, and complain constantly about the extra work to her husband. Her dad would sit in his favorite chair watching whatever games were on TV and making occasional grunting sounds of agreement.
“Well, that didn’t sound too bad from this end.”
“No? Wait until the part where I tell them I’m marrying you in a week.”
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
“My mom will demand a million explanations, want to know things about you that I don’t know and probably never will—”
“My parents will put me through all that, just later on. And they’ll be worse, because it will be after the fact. Are we ready?”
She nodded, watched him place too much money on the table as a tip, and pull her chair out. “That’s different, though,” she said, standing and following him. “You’re lying to your parents for a good reason, if there is such a thing, and you were honest with me. I’m just flat out lying to my parents.”
They stepped out into sunshine that made them blink.
“I’m sorry,” he told her. “To be honest, I didn’t think about how my fiancée—about how you—might feel. My only concern was keeping Mom and Dad in the dark about . . . everything.” He opened the truck door and waited for her to climb up. “Pretty selfish of me, huh?”
Selfish? She wouldn’t mind waitressing again for the tips she’d seen him leave. He was willing to pay a fortune for his parents’ and nephew’s happiness. Apart from the snarled death threat she’d heard, he seemed perfect. That worried her: there weren’t any perfect people, only people who thought they were perfect.
He went around and got in, turning the truck on. “We’ve got a couple of hours to kill. Any ideas?”
The sunlight streaming in through his window haloed him. His lips were slightly pursed, and the reddish cast the sun gave his dark hair and the sparks in his eyes made him almost irresistible. Oh, she had ideas. She was just under contract not to jump the man’s bones. Regretfully, she shook her head.
He backed out and stopped, waiting for the traffic to give him a break, and apparently debating whether to turn left or right.
“Show me where you lived.” The idea came abruptly, and Esme saw him flinch when she asked, but she wanted to know. “Fair’s fair. You’re going to my parents’ house.”
He didn’t look happy, but signaled a left and headed toward the oldest part of Laredo. Esme catalogued the changes as they drove. Some of the import places were still there, with their colorful Mexican curios displayed on the sidewalk and behind chain link fences—pots, piñatas, ceramics, and metal animals of every kind. There were new tattoo shops, the usual franchises, and old motels apparently under new management. Home, but not really . . .
They drove downtown, fighting the usual congestion, finally turning onto Zaragoza Street and passing historic San Agustin Cathedral, the plaza in front of it, the luxurious La Posada Hotel on the left. “The other kids and I used to come hang out here sometimes when we knew mass was over. We always thought everyone who’d been inside listening to the sermon would be generous with us.”
“Did it work?”
He shook his head. “Not always.”
He continued down the street until he hit San Bernardo again and pointed at Puente de La Americas, Laredo’s first bridge, which still swarmed with cars and pedestrians going into and coming out of Nuevo Laredo, Mexico. “We also used to go panhandle on the bridge—got in scuffles sometimes with the Mexican kids—but mostly it was peaceful.”
“I used to go across a lot. I’d buy gum or a paper, but I was terrified of hitting someone. Kids would just rush out—”
“I was terrified of the bridge,” he admitted. “But at the time, mi tío—or at least some guy who claimed he was everyone’s uncle—made us go every day.”
She sat in silence, trying to imagine Rafael in shabby clothes, avoiding the traffic and trying to eke out a few cents—money which she bet he and the other kids didn’t get to keep.
“I imagine kids can’t get onto the bridge anymore from this side,” Rafael went on, manipulating the tight, one-way streets filled with parked cars and thronged with shoppers from Mexico in search of values in the thrift stores. He finally came to a corner, where he paused a moment, indicating the decrepit houses on one side of the street, across from a weed-covered lot with trash. “That third house down . . . that was where I stayed mostly. Eventually I wound up at the shelter, but not until right before my mom and dad adopted me.”
She felt sickened by the scene, although she knew there were neighborhoods everywhere that looked the same. She’d known about it when she lived in Laredo, but still remembered feeling ashamed of her parents’ house when friends came over. Compared to Rafael’s beginning, she’d lived in luxury. How shallow she’d been—was she still? She’d agreed to marry a man for money, something she thought once she would never have done.
She glanced at Rafael. He looked pained, eyes mirthless, his lips pressed tightly together. The console separated them, or she would have flung herself next to him and hugged him.
“Funny isn’t it—it really isn’t any different than when I lived there.”
She had no words, so she said nothing about the structure with missing boards, an open place near the roof, a porch that had collapsed on one side.
“I don’t see anyone,” she said finally, hopefully. “Maybe—”
“I imagine we’d see kids if we came after school or in the evening. I’m willing to bet people still live there.”
She wanted to change the subject and managed to reach far enough over to lay her hand on his arm, squeezing gently. “I’d really love to see where you attacked the Cadillac.”
“Actually, it was right over there.” He pointed to the lot, halfway down. “I saw the car from the porch over there. Some of the kids at the house, and one of the women who was there at the time—we called everyone ‘tía,’ even though I was already old enough to know why she was there and that we weren’t related—started trash talking ‘los ricos.’ Talk about anger toward folks with money! It got ugly. I got mad.”
He turned to her. “You need to know that about me, Esme. Anger used to govern most of what I did. I can’t believe how often I destroyed something even after I was out of here, just because I’d give in to my rage.”
“So, why were you angry at the car? Just the fact that it was so expensive?
“No.” He seemed ready to refuse to explain, and she saw moisture form in his eyes before he turned away. “There was a little girl . . . we called her Pioja—”
“You called her ‘louse’—that’s awful!” The counselor persona kicked in, outraged that a little girl had apparently been ridiculed by—she controlled her own outrage. The little girl had been ridiculed by children who didn’t know better. Who’d been just as abused and neglected as the little girl had been herself.
He went on, tonelessly. “We rarely went to school. We’d never heard of child predators, and we made the little money we made talking to strangers. Someone had seen her out in the street late one night and . . . she and I had made stupid, nine-year-old pacts about how we’d marry when we grew up. She . . . didn’t grow up.”
His voice quavered slightly and he swallowed hard. Without thinking, she unbuckled her seat belt and scooted closer, running her hand over his cheek. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, even knowing the words could never help.
Behind them, a horn blared. Few cars apparently used this street, but Rafael pulled through the stop and park
ed at the edge of the lot. When the car passed, he put the truck in reverse and backed up until he could turn and head back toward the streets that would get them out of the desolation.
“When I saw that Cadillac, all gold and shiny, I just lost it. Todos dijeron—everyone said that some rich guy probably took Pioja. I grabbed an old hammer and ran across the street. Put dents all over it, broke the driver’s side window—I did a lot of damage for a kid. And then the Bentons came out of a house down the block, apparently a house where Pioja should have been, but her parents . . . ” He took a shuddering breath. “They were addicts. Didn’t want her and had three other kids anyway.”
“What did they do about the car?”
“The police came. I never knew who called them, the Bentons or someone who lived around there or what. They insisted the car wasn’t the problem and demanded CPS come. Wouldn’t leave until the police went over to where I lived and started making arrests and calling for medical help and social workers.
“I didn’t know who they were then, of course, but my dad asked what he’d done to me, and said I should save fights for the ones who hurt others. My mom scolded me pretty harshly, for her, for endangering myself. Asked if I knew what would have happened if I’d cut an artery. Then she hugged me and asked if I’d like to go get food. They talked to the police, took me to McDonald’s, and started making arrangements that day to provide for me.”
Tears streamed down Esme’s face unchecked. How did children survive the situations they were so often placed in? She’d seen horrible circumstances in her line of work, even in Rose Creek, but Rafael’s story was unimaginable.
He saw her tears and tried to blot them, but Laredo’s downtown streets were narrow and full of parked cars, and when a car swerved from the curb to cut him off, he cursed and jammed on the brakes.
“There are tissues in the console. And much as I appreciate the company, you’d better put your seat belt on again.”
Esme dried her face and threw the tissue in the bag he had hung from the glove compartment. She wanted to smile at the incongruity of the fabulously appointed pick-up and a plastic bag from a local grocery store hanging by a corner from the compartment door.
But she had a final question she needed to ask about the loss of his friend, sensing that the change from penniless street urchin to successful heir couldn’t have been easy. “Did you ever find out who killed your friend?” She couldn’t use the nickname Pioja, would not insult any child with the name of a blood-sucking, socially embarrassing parasite.
“Years later, I found out that her name was Laura,” he told her. “Her stepfather was in prison until recently . . . died there for what he did to that poor little girl.” He drew a ragged breath. “I also found out that my mom and dad had gone there after they heard about the murder to offer to pay for her burial and hire investigators to track down her killer if the police had any difficulties.”
“Oh, my god,” she murmured.
He managed a short laugh. “Do you see why I would do anything—anything—for those people? And why I cannot let them down again?”
“But you were a kid. You thought you were defending . . . or . . . ” she couldn’t remember the English verb for seeking vengeance, and switched to Spanish, “vengando a Laura. How can that be letting them down, if they didn’t know you?”
“No, but then there was Paulette. And Cody.” He wiped a hand over his face, roughly, and stopped at a light. “Think we can swing by your parents’ a little early? Maybe we can find a nice place for dinner, if they’d like. I do need to head back to Truth tonight.”
“We’re not far. I guess we might as well.” She gave him directions that would take him to the Heights area, where beautiful old homes in lushly landscaped yards had been the “in place,” the residential area of doctors, politicians, and the very wealthy.
“So we take Clark Street?” he asked, and she nodded.
“We can see how badly worn the guacamayas are,” she said gravely, using the Spanish name for the red and blue macaws decorating boulders along the busy street. The artwork had been painted originally by high school students and came under scrutiny off and on, with supporters defending the birds as an integral part of Laredo, and detractors labeling the faded painting a major eyesore.
They drove down the broad, tree-lined street, both glancing instinctively at the former Martin mansion, now purchased by someone new and completely changed from its simple lines and beautiful front yard. Wrought iron circled the formerly unfenced property and benches and statues cluttered the yard.
“Signs of the time that those fences are there?” he asked, and she shrugged.
“Probably.”
A few blocks later they parked on the curb of a corner lot. Esmeralda looked out the window at the plain brick building, low to the ground, with little in the way of landscaping. The grass was mostly gone, the victim of heat and lack of care, and she might have been more embarrassed than she was if she hadn’t just heard Rafael tell her his story.
They walked up to the door together and Esme found herself clutching Rafael’s arm for moral support, which she thought was ridiculous because this was her house, not his. He didn’t seem to mind, smiling down at her reassuringly and tucking his arm in closer so that her arm was pressed into the solid warmth of his torso.
Just before she reached the door, she saw the flutter of a curtain off to the side. Her mother, undoubtedly, who had already noted the truck, Rafael’s casually expensive clothes, and his good looks, and reported them dutifully to her father.
“Smile,” he whispered as the door swung open.
Chapter Thirteen
Esmeralda had expected the worst of her family, and they hadn’t disappointed. Her mother and father sat down stiffly and tried to make conversation, but her mother’s look of suspicion never changed, nor did her father’s constant channel surfing to find sports games.
Her mother called her into the kitchen, supposedly to take tea out to everyone, but really to ask the question that Esme had known would come.
“Did he get you pregnant?” her mother hissed, the minute they reached the refrigerator and were somewhat out of sight of the living room.
“No. I’m not pregnant.” She snatched the tea pitcher and filled a glass, not volunteering any additional information.
“Call me Adriana,” her mother ordered when Rafael called her “Mrs. Salinas.”
“Ernie,” her father put in gruffly, then went back to his game.
Just when Esme counted herself lucky that Beto wasn’t there, he walked in, smelling of beer and cigarette smoke. Her mother introduced him to Rafael in glowing terms, and he perched on the edge of the sofa and interrogated him.
“So, Benton. That’s not a Hispanic name. Anglo, right?”
Almost before Rafael could explain he was adopted, Beto started on the pick-up, about how expensive it was, how nice it must have to be money.
And when Rafael invited him to join them for dinner, and his mother said she thought maybe he’d like to go with them to a reasonably priced chain that had started in Laredo, Beto was indignant.
“My sister’s getting married! Is that the best you can do, bro?”
After protests and complaints and an argument that had given her a headache, Beto had convinced Rafael to try the Tack Room, a well-known, high-end restaurant on Zaragoza Street. Part of La Posada, the restaurant served quail and similar delicacies, and featured steaks named after classic horse races like the Belmont and Preakness.
Her mother and father sat across the table looking around furtively at the wait staff and elegantly dressed customers, many women sporting expensive jewelry. Beto kept gulping down wine the waiter brought and whispering crude observations until Esme managed to kick him under the table. He glared at her, but perhaps because Rafael was sitting so close to her, an arm loosely along the back of her chair, he didn’t say anything.
“So, what do you do, Beto?” Rafael asked, conversationally.
Be
to flushed and huffed. “I’m between jobs. No one’s hiring right now.”
“He was manager at a big auto parts store,” her mother interceded. “They decided to make some cuts, and you know how Laredo is.” She nodded. “They let him go because they could hire someone for less.”
Esmeralda could feel Rafael’s tension through the micrometers separating his skin from hers. Clearly he found Beto as insufferable as she did, and he didn’t know the half of it.
The strained atmosphere lightened a little with the arrival of the appetizers. Beto had demanded bacon-wrapped shrimp, a local version of crab cake, and panchos with tenderloin. He reached immediately to serve himself, but Esme plucked the platter away, hissing a little at the burn, and offered them to her mother first. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Rafael smile and pass another tray to her father.
“So, as we mentioned back at your house, Esme and I have decided we want to marry next week,” Rafael said, while they waited for the steaks to come out. “We’d love to have you there. It’ll be a simple wedding at my place, but I want Esme to have her family with her.”
Esme doesn’t want them there, though. Rafael had claimed to have anger management problems, but he was as cool as a cucumber while fury bubbled through her. She hadn’t thought she could think less of her brother, but the way he was behaving was inexcusable. And her parents had brought him up like this, selfish and demanding and never accountable for any of his actions. Disgust filled her. Maybe Rafael would have second thoughts about having her as his wife. She wouldn’t blame him.
The entrance of the waiter with their steaks cut off her train of thought. She let go of the resentment and worry and waited until everyone was served.
“Dig in, folks,” Rafael invited.
“Good,” Beto grunted. “Thought you might be one of those jerks who’d make us pray.”
Rafael sent him a scathing look, but said nothing.
“That was uncalled for, Beto,” her mother chided, and her father nodded, but was already busy on the sizzling meat.
Nashville Nights Page 75