by Susan Slater
She closed all the mini blinds across the front and sides of the entrance and then continued closing blinds throughout the office. She had directed him to use the side door shielded from the parking lot and neighboring high-rise apartments. This entrance had only an open field in back of it. They must be discreet.
It wasn’t time to announce to the world that she had a son.
She checked her makeup. Her hair. This was just plain nervousness; she looked great in her leather jacket and slacks in luggage tan topped off with a black turtleneck sweater and her trademark silver jewelry. She caught her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling glass. Slim and trim and full of life—she wished. There were more signs now that death was not going to be patient much longer. She tired easily and even one flight of stairs left her breathless. She couldn’t succumb to an oxygen tank and tube in her nose. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
The liquor cabinet in the conference room was unlocked and stocked with tequila. A double shot of Herradura over ice might be just the thing. She stirred it then sucked the amber liquid off her index finger. Just what she needed. She filled an ice bucket, grabbed the bottle and walked to her office. Most of the room was a sitting area, comfortable leather couches arranged around a fireplace. The desk in the corner looked like an afterthought.
She heard the knock and sucked in her breath. She had waited so long, why the hesitation now? What would he say? Would he like her? Would she like him? She crossed the hall and bent the blinds to look through the glass insert in the door. Her eyes looked back at her. Her eyes in a lean, finely chiseled face, black hair brushed back, an earring, gray turtleneck, black leather jacket over blue jeans. The pictures in the school annual did not do him justice, but that had been two years ago. She opened the door.
“Come in.” She stood aside as his six-foot-plus frame passed her, then he turned and stood looking at her. She touched his arm, “I’ve waited for this moment for almost twenty years.” She marveled how in one instant she was transported twenty years back, to Spain, to the arms of a man who could make her heart stop.
He moved his arm back. “You threw me away. You never wanted me and now you do. How can I believe anything you say?”
It wasn’t the opening line she’d imagined. It took a moment to get her bearings. “Don’t judge until you’ve heard what I have to say. Just do me that favor.”
Was that a nod? Hard to tell. But he followed her into the office. She indicated a couch and he slouched down on the cushions, dark eyes unblinking, watching her—waiting for her to begin the conversation?
She thought so.
A deep breath, exhale, then, “Tell me about yourself.”
“Your turn first. Tell me about my father.” Lidded black eyes bore into her.
“What do you want to know?” Stalling? Yes. What should she tell him? How many times had she played this conversation over in her mind? But it had been a fairytale—all gushing thank-yous for finding me, how could we ever have been apart?—maybe we weren’t, weren’t you always in my thoughts? Aren’t you a part of my soul? Stupid. She had been so stupid. Not one tinge of the reality she was facing now.
“There’s a lot to tell. I don’t know where to start.”
“Why don’t you start by telling me if you had him killed?”
“What?” Her hand flew to her throat; her pulse quickened. “What are you talking about?”
“He mysteriously disappeared a few months before I was born. No one ever heard from him again and no body was ever found. You had the money and you had reason to get rid of him. I don’t think the Senator would have been too pleased with me.”
She pushed herself up out of the chair, stood and then reached for the pack of cigarettes on the coffee table. She lit one, drew in deeply, and didn’t ask his permission to smoke.
“How do you know these things?”
“That dick you hired. He said he’d give me a little extra information on a mother and a father—more than you’d paid him for. He’d done his research. Figured out that summer in Spain probably got you in trouble. You’d taken five of this guy’s classes. Another instructor who had been on the trip confirmed it—said the two of you were inseparable. Said he’d always suspected something but with you being the Senator’s wife, he’d just overlooked it. Figured it was probably his imagination.”
“You met with the PI?”
“Yeah. I don’t think he was supposed to meet me … had told you he wouldn’t. But he was a dick—no pun intended.”
She stubbed the cigarette out in a dish that usually held candy. Her mind was racing. Should she tell the truth? Didn’t he deserve, at least, the truth? She sat back down and met her son’s stare.
“Your father was the only man I ever loved.”
“I bet you say that to all your victims.”
“You need to listen, not be snide.” She could stop now, turn, walk away. It would probably be less hurtful—for both of them. She had never imagined this. She had always thought that intuitively he would have known her pain, her sacrifice. And he would have understood—he never would have blamed her. Had she really expected some Hollywood version of This is Your Life with a trumped-up happy ending? Well, there wasn’t going to be a happy ending. There hadn’t been a happy beginning.
“Sorry.”
“I met your father twenty years ago last summer. The ‘dick’ was right. The University was offering a summer course called ‘The Poets of Spain.’ I didn’t need college credits, but I did need to get away. I was forty and spiritually dying in a marriage that had never been good—”
“Why didn’t you just leave him?”
A snort of a laugh. “Leave Skip? It wasn’t that easy. I don’t think I could have. First of all, he wouldn’t have allowed it. He owned things; everything was a possession. And I’m not sure I could have left all this. This opulence that gave me strength—guaranteed I would survive. Defined who I was. You have no idea what it’s like growing up on a reservation so poor you don’t know where your next meal will come from or even if there will be a next meal. Not having clothes that weren’t donations from the community church women. Cutting the toes out of sneakers when they got too tight—”
“So, you did everything for money?”
“Is that what I said? I did everything for security, protection from ever wanting for food and clothing again. The fear of poverty is a powerful motivator. Once experienced, it never leaves you.”
“But killing my father? You could have just left him.”
“That was the cost of being owned. Once Skip found out, he had to eliminate the competition. But why don’t I start at the beginning?”
“Okay.”
Connie paused and studied his face. “You know, you look like your father. He was Mescalero on his mother’s side. Your grandfather was Hispanic.”
“I have your eyes.”
“Yes. I noticed that—it’s like looking in the mirror.” But do you write poetry? Do you play the guitar so that every note goes to the center of a woman’s being? These were the questions she wanted to ask, but couldn’t. There would be much left unvoiced. But maybe if she were granted time, they could learn about one another. “Do you know anything about your father?”
“Very little.”
“He was a poet and, as you know, a professor at UNM. He taught poetry as well as creative writing and a history of the masters. The poets of Spain were his specialty.” She paused and smiled, “He was so handsome he made my heart stop.”
“So, it was love at first sight?”
She laughed. “I suppose you could say that. Do you believe love can happen that way?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
Of course not. She was dealing with a baby, really. He had been sheltered in a small Midwest town and maybe a late bloomer if there were no girlfriends.
“Your father and I were so alike. I could finish his sentences. We were inseparable that summer.”
“It would seem.”
Connie caught the note of
anger. How had she ever thought she could overcome it, the anger? Waltz back into her child’s life and expect to be welcomed or, at least, pardoned? She took a breath and continued.
“The summer was glorious, idyllic—three months to know what we’d found in each other. To know something so special didn’t come around but once. We traveled on weekends, sometimes alone, sometimes with a group. We slept in a cabana at the edge of water and let the sea lull us to sleep and wake us with its fury during a storm. Every day we walked the streets of towns steeped in history; we walked the beaches and we slept in each other’s arms every night. He was my lover, my muse, my life.” She reached for the cigarettes, pulled one from the pack but didn’t light it.
“I was pregnant by the end of the summer. When we got back, reality set in. I was a forty year old woman, pregnant, in love with a thirty year old man and married to a sixty year old who happened to be a state senator. Power-wielding, treacherous—a man who could snap his fingers and people jumped to do his bidding. Skip hated dirt. He was above it. I should amend that and say he paid people to keep him above it. He’d ruled his children with an iron fist and dared me to step over the line. If he had found out about the pregnancy—”
“He didn’t know?”
“No. After the death of your father, I was distraught. A psychiatrist prescribed rest. I went back to Europe for a few months. Skip thought I was having a nervous breakdown. There was gossip but more to do with this.” Connie picked up the glass of Herradura from the end table. “Rumors were that I was somewhere drying out.”
“That was the official story?”
“No, Skip put out a statement saying I’d had a cancer scare and was at a treatment center in Mexico. Much more acceptable than a mental breakdown.”
“And this Skip didn’t try to visit you?”
“The psychiatrist who treated me knew I was pregnant. He insisted on six months of complete solitude and care for depression. Shared with Skip that I might harm myself. Under the circumstances, Skip went along.”
“Who else knows about me?”
“No one, that I knew of, until the private investigator—”
“You’re dying, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s why you sent that dick to find me. You need me to save your life.”
“Will you?” Too abrupt. She watched him quickly glance away. But maybe this was better. Everything out in the open. She carefully set her glass on the end table and sank back into the rich-smelling leather of the armchair.
“I don’t know.”
She waited. Wasn’t this better than an unequivocal, no? Was she grasping at straws?
“Why don’t you know?”
“I learned to hate you. You, the faceless image from my childhood full of questions. I hated you for the selfishness. Hated you for putting me in the position you did—throwing me away. Separating me from my heritage. Was your security worth it?”
“No. But saving your life was.”
“How was I in danger?”
“Skip and I had tried for years to have a child. For me to be pregnant by someone else would not have been tolerated. I could never have survived his anger. I believe I would have had a discreet accident—one or both of us would have died.”
“But my father—”
“Jose Rodriguez Mondragon. To me, just Joe, my darling Joe.”
“I never knew his name.”
“I wanted so much to give you his name.”
“You don’t like R.E. Merritt?” Sarcasm again. She couldn’t blame him.
“I only knew your last name. Colonel Merritt was the one I dealt with. He was stationed in Spain. He was an acquaintance of a friend and came to see me before you were born. He seemed a kind man. He and his wife had lost a baby and couldn’t have others. They were secure; there would never be a lack of money. I never met your mother, but I saw pictures of her.” She hesitated but decided not to say more. If there was something he wanted to tell her, he would in his own time. “I believe the R stands for Robert, but I’ve forgotten your middle name.”
“Emmett. For my white pseudo-grandfather.”
“What do people call you?”
“Robby.”
“I could say that I’m sorry, Robby.”
“And I could laugh at you. How do I know what is behind your trying to find me—besides I might be able to save your life. What have you ever really cared about?”
“Your father … and you.”
“So you threw me away and killed him. Or set him up to be killed. The dick thought it was the latter, but he was only guessing. You were sent away while it was covered up and in the meantime you just happened to find the perfect family match for your unborn child. Only everyone didn’t live happily ever after.”
“Least of all me.” Connie leaned over and picked up the cigarette on the coffee table—this time she lit it. “Not a day has gone by for twenty years that I didn’t think of you and your father.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Believe what you want. But you need to know the rest of the story. I was naïve enough to think that I would get off with a reprimand, a slap on the wrist for being naughty if Skip ever found out what happened that summer. Then we’d forget the whole thing—as if it had never happened. The silly weakness of an aging woman. But as you know, I was pregnant. I would have had to hide it. I could not have terminated my pregnancy. It was never an option. Joe wanted us to be together. He wanted to go back to Spain. He could write and find teaching jobs. Parentheses reads, we would be poor. In love, but living hand to mouth. My thirty year old lover was an idealist. Love would conquer all. I knew better. The practical side of me knew it would have been very, very difficult. I believe it would have eventually cost us our love. Yet, I couldn’t break it off, deal with my pregnancy, go back to my life. I loved your father beyond reason.
“It was my fault the affair was discovered. I wasn’t being careful. Skip had me followed and then sent his bodyguard to kill—maybe both of us, but then decided to settle for setting me up. His man found us in bed and forced me to hold the gun—pressed the trigger with my finger. Then kept the gun with my prints as blackmail.”
“Is that the truth?”
“On my grandmother’s grave. But there’s one other thing.”
“What?”
“The bodyguard is back. Skip had been paying him to stay away, but he’s decided he needs more money. He’s threatened me,” a deep breath then, “and you.”
“Me? How do you mean?”
“He wants a lump sum and if he doesn’t get it, he’s threatened to harm you.” She simply could not bring herself to say ‘kill.’
“How does he know I’m here?”
“He only knows you as the Fire Dancer. I don’t believe he knows you’re my son. Just be careful. I’m going to pay him but know that he’s dangerous.”
He was silent staring at the rug. When he finally looked up, his eyes locked with hers.
“What do you want besides the bone marrow to save your life?”
“More? I don’t want more.”
“Well, I do. I want the mother I never had. I want to get in touch with being a Mescalero. I want to honor who I am and where I came from. I want to honor my father’s memory.”
“You’ll have that. We can do those things together—”
“Wait. I haven’t said I’d save your life.”
“And you haven’t said you wouldn’t, either.” She sat up straighter and leaned forward. She continued to look in his eyes, but her gaze softened. How very much like his father and how very much like her. In looks, in actions. “You don’t have to give me an answer now. But soon.”
He just nodded. “I could never call you mother.”
“No one is asking you to. Just call me Connie.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know enough to say that I’m proud that you’re my son.”
“No. Don’t say that.” He s
uddenly stood, first with his back to her then whirling to face her. “There are things. Things I’ve done.” He towered over her. “Things I can’t share—even with you.”
Just for a second she felt uneasy, fearful even. Why this threatening stance? “That’s all right. I don’t expect you to tell me everything. You don’t know me. We need to get acquainted.”
“I’m not sure.”
“Not sure?”
“Whether it’s what I want. I need time.”
“The one thing I don’t have to give. I don’t want you to feel pressure, but I don’t know how to keep you from it.”
“Then let’s leave it at that. Let me think. I’ll get back.” He walked to the door and she didn’t follow. He turned slightly and acknowledged her with a nod and then he was gone.
She lit another cigarette, finished the Herradura and reached for the bottle. The light shone in now at a lower angle. She wished she had the time to replay their visit. She felt a sort of relief. A relief born of truth—and she had been that—truthful, maybe to a fault. How could you learn to love someone, maybe even accept someone, who had put another person’s life in danger? Gotten that other person killed … especially when the person was your father?
Answers. The questions were plain, but the answers were a muddle. Could she blame him for being hesitant? Keeping her at arm’s length? Not committing? No. So much had been done. And would she be able to understand, to accept his secrets? Those things he couldn’t share? She didn’t know. Why, why couldn’t their lives have been easy? A mother, a child, a loving father …
Chapter Twelve
Julie turned on the county road that led to Connie’s, past the new housing area and eventually to the lodge. The first police car to overtake her and go screaming by, sirens at full volume, was a little unnerving but the second and the third followed by an ambulance made her accelerate. Connie? Had there been an accident? Connie was probably thirty or forty minutes ahead of her if she’d come straight home. Try to think. Did Connie say anything about errands? Was she even headed home?