Cradle of Splendor

by Patricia Anthony

  A polite hostess, Madalena walked her to the door. Once there, they might have kissed cheeks. Madalena offered her hand, instead. Then the captain took Dolores outside. The reporters were gone. Soldiers lined the streets. And a Jeep Wagoneer was waiting.

  Dolores didn’t balk when they ordered her to get in. She didn’t try to jump from the car. She thought they would go to the Urban Military Sector. They didn’t. The Wagoneer headed south, picked up the highway, and sped past the zoo and the airport.

  Disorienting, how the city always abruptly ended and the desert began. She’d meant to paint this, but had never really understood it before.

  She wanted to ask the captain if the trip would be long. She didn’t. And it wouldn’t have mattered. He sat in the front next to the driver, staring stonily ahead. The commando beside her took a comic book from his flak jacket and began reading. No one spoke.

  The Wagoneer slowed. The driver steered off the asphalt into the dry grass and scrub brush. When they were far from the witness of the highway, they stopped. The commando put his comic book away. The captain stepped out of the car.

  She got out, too, cradling her purse like an infant. They were so young. Just soldier boys. The commandos looked uncomfortable. The captain didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands.

  Time for last words, but she couldn’t say them. Let her progeny, color and form and light, say them for her. As last testament, words were too theatrical, yet not emotional enough. She and Harry. What a pair. Neither of them had ever understood sentiment.

  Dolores looked away. Aim right, she thought. Make life leave me as suddenly as city leaves the desert. She took a breath that tasted of dust, and tried to imagine snow. The humps of distant hills were a bruised violet, the sky a deep, drowning blue.

  The sound of an engine startled her. A Volvo drove up and stopped. A rear window lowered. A major in full dress uniform beckoned. “Please.”

  The Volvo was scarab green. The interior a tan leather wound in its carapace. She climbed in the backseat beside the major. He reached across her and shut the door.

  “Comfortable?” the major asked. “I can turn up the air—conditioning.”

  She didn’t know how she felt. She stroked the soft plump belly of her purse. The driver eased the heavy car across the prairie floor. Once on the highway, they sped south.

  “Not too long now,” the major said.

  No. Not too long. Soon, a small town. At the end of a rutted road, a frame house. The outside was royal blue; the slatted vertical planks inside, turquoise. Worn hardwood floor. A small kitchen. One bedroom.

  “Would you care for something to drink?” the major asked.

  A bed with a rusting iron headboard. A scarred nightstand.

  “Juice? Mineral water?” he persisted. “Coca—Cola?”

  She shook her head, and heard the door quietly being pulled to. Outside the window lay a barren yard surrounded by a living bamboo wall.

  Dear God, not this. She couldn’t take this. Better to die than be imprisoned in this claustrophobic world. If she crawled out of the window and ran, would they be kind enough to shoot her? Maybe if they killed her quickly, it would be like walking into the light.

  Because there was not enough light here. Not enough form or space.

  Behind came a click, and a familiar contralto voice. “I should have expelled you years ago.”

  Dolores turned, tears streaming.

  A fleeting slip in Ana’s expression; a quick recovery. “You look a mess. You expect me to feel sorry for you? I heard the truth from O.S. You beat your own face into a table.” She took a breath. “Well?”

  Pigeon’s blood—red suit, terra—cotta skin. Ana was a glowing ember in the shadows.

  “Well? Didn’t you?”

  Dolores looked out the window.

  An explosive puh of exasperation. The resolute click of heels on hardwood. “I don’t care who did it. I should have had you shot. Edson Carvalho would have killed you gladly. Life would be easier, don’t you think? That is the trick of politics: someone gets in the way, you rid yourself of them. I learned that from you.” A pause. “Well?”

  Something Dolores had not noticed before—movement in the air above the yard. A whirling galaxy of gnats, drawn each to each, never touching.

  “You killed my husband because he beat me, but you—you had to prove you were strong enough to stay with yours. Poor little Ana. Wasn’t that what you wanted me to believe? That I couldn’t take care of myself?”

  The gloom beneath the bamboo shifted, and a tomcat wove his way from the dark. He sat and, with bubblegum pink tongue, began washing. His striped coat was a study in brown.

  “I loved ...” Twenty—five years, but the words not yet worn smooth. Ana’s voice snagged on their edges. “You had to take Paulo away, didn’t you? You were the one who had three abortions. Then you spoil my child and take her away, too. My fault. I should have remembered that you were only my handler, not my friend.”

  Dolores pushed herself away from the window. Ana stood, legs apart, hands on her hips. “Oh, now that looks presidential. Didn’t I teach you that women in politics can’t afford to whine?”

  The frown wavered.

  “You know, Ana? I saw Paulo beat you once. Harry was a crazy asshole, but he never hit me like that.” Dolores propped her arm against the window frame, rested her head against it. “It’s too late. I can’t help you anymore. The Company’s changed, or maybe it hasn’t. Maybe I just got smarter. Anyway, it’s all about running the game. That’s all there ever was.”

  “You never did get smart,” Ana said. When Dolores laughed, she added sadly, “I didn’t, either.”

  Outside, the cat prowled the yard, lithe, muscular. Massive masculine head, the self—assured eyes of a predator. “Is it him?”

  Silence. A direct hit, then. Had the question confused Ana, she would have said something. .

  “God, Ana. With you, it’s always a man. At least Paulo was pretty. So was that married one—what was his name? Remember? I sent that anonymous letter to his wife? And the truck driver you met in ’83, the one with the great ass. The one I did the bag job on. But this one? What do you see in him?”

  Still nothing—not a sharp word, not a joke. Dolores looked around and saw how frightened Ana was.

  “Shit.”

  “Dolores, you can’t understand ...”

  “You’re right. I can’t. Three times I jumped into that fucking river and pulled you to shore. Now you turn around and crawl right back in. Jesus God, Ana. Why? What makes you addicted to assholes? Wouldn’t it be easier just to buy yourself a dildo and a whip?”

  Ana’s eyes glittered, a dark spark of anger.

  “Okay. So tell me. How did you let things get so out of control? And what are you doing with all these missing people? You never got rid of your critics before—sensitive, suddenly, in your old age, Ana? You going to make me disappear like that, too?”

  “The CIA is doing it. They want to make me look bad.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “You don’t know what the CIA does, Dolores. You are expendable. They would have destroyed you, had Edson not put you under arrest. So. Here you are at age fifty—three, trying so hard to be strong that most men think you are lesbian. You have no family left. No friends.” The pain in Dolores’s face seemed to satisfy her. She smiled. “You coerced me here. Now are you telling me you won’t take Jaje?”

  “I’d never tell you that.”

  “Good. It will be safer to send Jack with you. Lucky you have one person you can’t push away. Besides, you will be less conspicuous as a family. Nando has booked you on a Varig flight to Lima. Remind Jaje, when she gets to Canada, that she mustn’t be careless. Don’t let her stay out late. Tell her not to drive fast. Tell ...”

  Ana’s face contorted, the face of someone just informed of a dev
astating loss. Dolores started to her. Ana brusquely waved her back.

  “You tell her that for me.”

  “I will.”

  “You remind her to eat right.”

  “Yes.”

  “And to balance her checkbook ...” Air exploded from Ana’s lungs. Her legs seemed to give out, and she sat down hard on the edge of the bed. “Jaje’s missing. Nando says ...”

  Dolores sat down, put her arm around Ana’s shoulders.

  “Nando doesn’t think—well, the CIA ... no point in hurting her. She is just a little girl, and it would look bad for them, wouldn’t it. Wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, sweetie, it would.”

  “She ran away. Ran away! I could never control her. Even when she was a baby. And she was too much like you, always selfish, always did just what she wanted. You know her.”

  “I know.”

  Ana was so tiny that, as usual, Dolores felt cowlike. If Ana was anything, she was a bird. The bones of her hand felt hollow.

  “She’ll turn up.”

  Ana nodded, burrowed her cheek into the nook of Dolores’s neck. She held on tight to her sleeve, as if begging to be pulled from yet another river. “Nando felt so badly. He tried ... Still, men aren’t good at such things.”

  “Shhh.” Of course men weren’t good at it. Not their fault. Only mothers could give comfort like that. “Ana.” Dolores held her, rocked her, smoothed stray curls from her forehead. “Who’s named for all good endings. Jaje’s fine. I know it. I see it in my crystal ball.”

  “Dolores.” Ana clung to her as she had in the hospital, at the funeral home, at Paulo’s gravesite. “My Lady of Sorrows.”

  Tonight Show Monologue

  Well, folks, taking a poll here. How many of you ever thought we’d fight a war with Brazil? Huh? Is that wild or what? You see the film clips of those, what do they call them? Not soldiers. Militia? Huh? Definitely not soldiers, ladies and gentlemen. See old World War II clips of the German Army and you knew—hey—am I right? This was going to be a war. Anybody who has the thighs for goosestepping ...

  But these guys ... They got lost on their way to summer camp.

  Seriously. Where do they hide the real Brazilian soldiers—Paraguay? Think about that. All of a sudden we’re back to the duck and cover, and it’s Brazil. Jeez. Brazil. I don’t know. You want to just give up now? Show of hands. How would it be—a Brazilian invasion? I hear that if we let them take over, they promise string bikinis on every beach ... Oh. Guy back there’s ready for a takeover. Watch it! Wife’s got an incoming ...

  And Bonfim promises to wear that same dress she wore to the State Dinner here four years ago. Was that hot? Huh? Proves you don’t have to have a bad bod to be ... don’t ... no, don’t groan, ladies. It’s only sexist if you girls don’t have a thing for Kennedy. What? Gore? Naw. Not Gore. He’s too much trouble for a fantasy life. You have to imagine winding him up first. But seriously ...

  AT THE LOUD, persistent knock, Roger opened the door. Natalie Wood was standing there. Not Natalie Wood like she was before she died, but Natalie Wood like she was in Splendor in the Grass, which besides Close Encounters, was Roger’s all—time favorite movie. He’d seen it first when he was twelve, and even though he didn’t quite understand everything, he knew the sad parts had something to do with her being horny.

  What a flick.

  And here she was. Taller, okay? And maybe thinner. And black. Well ... not black. More tan—the kind of peachy—bronze color girls can only achieve before they’re thirty. But this Natalie Wood was tan all over, even in those hard—to—reach places like the insides of her elbows.

  And she had on a red tube top. And short shorts. White short shorts. Oh, jeez. And she had on sandals, and her little bronze toes had little pink toenails, like shells.

  She spoke. “Titía Dolores está?”

  Roger knew what the words meant. He just couldn’t put them together.

  She rolled her eyes. And then she said in perfect English, “Oh du—u—uh. Like, are you stupid, or just deaf?”

  Roger couldn’t decide.

  She shoved past him. “Aunt Dee?”

  A terrific butt. A religious experience of a butt.

  “Aunt Dee!”

  Whatever she wanted: her aunt, a car; the moon, his life’s blood. He stood behind her, his hands out in silent but heartfelt offer.

  She whirled. Instantaneously, he lifted his gaze to her face.

  “Her car’s here,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  A huff. She parked her hands on that tiny brown waist, tapped her foot: Her hip went up and down. “So? Is this like a test, or something?”

  “Uh, you haven’t been watching the news, have you?” How could he tell her what had happened to dear, sweet Aunt Dee? It might break her heart. Ah. She might need comforting. “A bunch of guys came and took her away.”

  She cocked her head. Frowned, prettily, Her hair was a brown cloud.

  “In the middle of the night. Guys with guns. Policemen. Probably secret police. I tried to stop them, but ...”

  “Dee was ar—rest—ed?”

  “Great big guns.”

  She was going to cry. Any second now, she was going to cry. And he’d take her in—his arms. Stroke her back until she melted into him like toffee. He had to remind himself to stand up straight, though. She was tall for a girl.

  “Bummer.” She walked into the kitchen.

  He tagged along

  She opened the refrigerator and bent over. God. Bent over. And those white shorts rode up high, higher, and—

  Suddenly he was looking into her face, Uh—oh. She was angry. “Come on. Get real. There’s no food. Eighteen hours on the bus, and there’s no food. Everybody was all shoved together, The john got stopped up. Kids screaming. I mean, nobody could get any sleep. Who ever thought I’d do eighteen hours of hell to get into Brasília? So anyway, I get to the only truly un—happening place in the country, and, like, I can’t find a taxi. The busses aren’t running. The soldiers are stopping all the cars. Sure. Like the American Army’s gonna come down the Rodoviária in a fleet of Hondas. And then I get here, and there’s no food.”

  So soon. Already Roger had disappointed her.

  She started searching cabinets. “I can’t believe Aunt Dee doesn’t have some cookies or something. She always makes cookies for me.”

  “My name’s Roger. Uh. Dr. Roger Lintenberg, actually, although you can just call me Roger. I’m with NASA.”

  “Uh—huh.”

  “You know the shuttle? I work on that.”

  She reached up to the top shelf, and her right nipple started pulling out of the tube top and any second and oh my God any second now Roger was going to find out if it was pink or tan or please please please please ...

  Crap. She brought down a box of crackers, turned it over in her hands, speculatively. Straightened her top.

  “I’m very important to the Hubble, too. You know, the Hubble? The telescope?”

  She looked at him. “I nearly have a degree in communications, okay? I’m not, like, you know, a ditz.”

  “Yeah? Communications, huh? I met Forrest Sawyer once.”

  “Um.”

  “And I work for the CIA.” Oh! Fuck! How could he have said that? Stupid! So stupid he felt the urge to slam his forehead repeatedly into the refrigerator. The goddamned hose was bug.

  She smirked, went back to reading the package. “For sure.”

  “I could maybe fix you something.”

  Finally. A spark of interest. “What?”

  “Let’s see.” He searched the refrigerator. The cabinet. Then he slumped. “We could go out.”

  “Hello—o—o? Anybody home? You hear what I said about the taxis? The busses? Mom, like, imposed martial law, okay? You really work for the CIA, huh.”

&n
bsp; “Uh ...”

  “I mean, ’cause that’s what they’re saying about Mom and Aunt Dee, but give me a break. Mom? She goes ballistic if I stay out too late. She has guys follow me, you know? Like on dates. Last year? I’m the only junior at UCLA who has her own chaperon. So there’s some guy from O.S. watching me, and some FBI guy watching him. I mean—get a life. And she never lets me talk to reporters. ‘Low profile,’ she always says. I don’t know. She’s got this overprotective thing.”

  “Uh ...”

  “So she put Aunt Dee in jail, huh? Is that Mom, or what? Things get tough, she blames somebody else.”

  “Can we ...” Roger’s mouth went dry. His tongue ran aground.

  “What?”

  He waved toward the door. Waved again. “ ... go outside. Just—you know, maybe for a minute?”

  She opened the package. Put a cracker into her mouth. Searched the refrigerator.

  “There’s food out there. Outside.”

  She looked around, expression challenging. Ritz cracker protruded from her lips like the tip of a tongue.

  “We could catch one. Fried chicken, mmmm, sounds good. Or not.”

  The cracker disappeared into her mouth. She chewed. “Gross.”

  “Eggs! Okay, eggs. Come on. We can look for them together. Just like Easter, you know? Easter eggs.”

  She made a face; but followed anyway. They walked out to the yard: Roger, Natalie Wood, and the box of crackers.

  “So where do we look?” she asked.

  He licked his lips. The tube top and the white shorts were enticing, but scary. “Are you, uh, Ana Maria Bonfim’s daughter?”

  “Yeah. So where’s the eggs?”

  Oh, no. Had the Company overheard? Was she already being followed? What would some stone—cold killer like McNatt do to her? Or worse—that dork, Kinch? Kinch was the kind who would tie her up. Probably the only way he could get his fun. Kinch wouldn’t be standing here like a gentleman, staring at that tube top. He’d be ripping it off. Oh. Roger was in big trouble.

  A louder, more exasperated, “Are we gonna look for eggs, or not? And then who’s going to cook them? You don’t expect me ...”