Monica stood up and leaned forward. She made her hand into a fist and banged on the table. “We have five maids, two gardeners; our family owns a dairy plant. We can afford this baby.”
Francisca smiled and raised an eyebrow at Alma. “Maybe she’s right, Niña Alma. Here I am, employed as a nanny but with no more babies to watch.”
Alma closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Yes, we have enough food. But babies need more than food. They need parents. They need someone to take responsibility day in and day out. We don’t have anyone here who is willing to do that. And you’re twelve years old, Monica, for God’s sake.”
Monica stared at her brown suede earth shoes, fuming. “You say you care about the poor of El Salvador, but you won’t sacrifice to help one little baby. You just want to be liked by Max and his communist friends.” She turned and ran out of the room, partly to keep herself from saying more, and partly to avoid the consequences of such disrespect. She heard Alma calling after her, but she was hiding in the one place Alma would never look: her father’s office. Monica sat at Bruce’s typewriter and began to type a letter to the president of El Salvador, pleading with him to authorize the baby’s adoption, even though she was only twelve. She had already named the baby Jimmy Bray, after a boy she had a crush on at the American School. She had fantasized that this was her offspring with the blond, blue-eyed expatriate boy from Alabama in her sixth-grade class. They’d only spoken once, when Monica asked, “Is this your library book?” Jimmy Bray nodded his shiny blond head and took the book from Monica. Not much of a relationship yet, but Monica considered it a good start.
The other part of her fantasy was that Jimmy Bray junior would be more like her brother, the child her dad could do “boy stuff” with, the child who could bring her family together. They needed a baby to glue them back together—and this baby desperately needed them.
But the next day little Jimmy Bray was gone.
When they saw Max at the San Salvador farmers’ market the following Saturday, he was amused with the whole ordeal and had put his arm around Monica and tried to console her. He said she was a good girl, with a big heart, and that the baby was safe and they had found a nice family to take him in.
Monica wanted to see for herself, out of a deep distrust that was blossoming between her and her mother. But Alma refused to take her to see Jimmy Bray, out of punishment for her disrespect. The baby, Monica learned, had been “renamed” José Martín Castillo.
When Bruce returned from Nicaragua that Sunday night, his twelve-year-old had matured by years, already having assisted in a birth and, in her own mind, having endured a mother’s loss of her baby. She sobbed into Bruce’s shoulder and complained about her mother.
Later, Monica heard her parents arguing. Bruce didn’t approve of the field trip. “A human birth, for God’s sake? She’s too young, Alma,” he scolded. “You treat her like she’s a mini-adult. You need to slow it down, shelter her innocence a bit longer.” There was a pause and then he asked pointedly, “What were you doing with Maximiliano anyway?”
“Monica and I were at Negrarena when Maximiliano sent a mozo on horseback with word that he needed help with the birth. He was doing it as charity in a neighboring town, but needed an assistant. I couldn’t leave Monica alone, so I went. The last thing anyone expected was that the family would take off and leave us with the infant.”
Another long pause, and Bruce spoke again. “I think you’ve been spending way too much time with Max. I know he’s your childhood friend and that you share an interest in science and medicine, but you’re a married woman. It doesn’t look good, and it’s not healthy. Why don’t you and Monica come with me on my next work trip instead?”
Alma made a face. “Too dangerous. There’s a war going on out there.”
As a last attempt, Bruce, whose voice was far deeper and more audible to Monica than Alma’s, said, “It hurts me that you spend so much time with him. I’m asking you to stop.”
There was a pause.
“Alma, look at me. I’m asking you to stop spending so much time with him and start investing your time and energy in your own marriage and family. Will you at least reconsider the idea of a baby? Monica is obviously desperate for a sibling.”
Their bedroom door slammed shut. Monica heard her father’s footsteps in the hall as he made his way back to his office.
In bed that night, Monica cried for the lost baby, for the mother and the grandfather who had walked away from their own flesh and blood, thinking the baby would be raised with the comforts and privileges of a prince. She felt a sudden confusion over Max, whom she had sworn to hate, but who was tending the wounds of the poor and delivering their unwanted babies. And more disturbingly, she felt the weakening of loyalty to her mother, who was keeping her from having a normal family with brothers and sisters like everyone else. Most disturbing of all was that her father wanted more children. She had always believed that they agreed on this issue.
A week later, over breakfast, Alma held up the newspaper for Monica. Monica recognized one of the men by his fuzzy hair, even though he had a bandanna covering his face. It was one of the young communists that had been at the beach that night, eating barracuda. He had recited a long poem by Rubén Darío for Monica.
“That guy is dead,” Alma said. “And sixteen of his friends are missing. There was a government raid in Chalatenango.”
Monica pushed the newspaper aside. “Are you in love with Max? I have to know.”
They could hear Bruce moving around in the other room. The phone rang. He picked it up and began to speak to someone.
Alma stared at her. “Are you challenging me?”
Monica stared back. “You don’t love my dad.”
Alma looked down and began to chip away at her pearly nail polish. “I admire Max. I love the places he’s going …” She stopped. “Yes, I love him. He’s always been my friend. Since I was a kid. As for your dad …”
Monica looked away. “Are you going to leave him?”
Alma looked at Monica as if seeing her for the first time. When she spoke, it was more to herself than to Monica. “Shit, you’re turning into me.”
Alma leaned over and tried to hug her, but Monica took a step back. “I said, are you going to leave my dad?”
“Lower your voice.” She leaned back, studied her daughter, searching her face for the source of this new aggression. “No, I’m not leaving your father, Monica. And don’t talk to me like that.”
“Max is taken,” Monica sneered. “He doesn’t belong to you.”
Alma turned pale; she sat back in her chair. “Who told you that?”
“I heard you say it in your sleep.”
“sO WHY ARE YOU THINKING of going to El Salvador, Dad?” Monica asked as Bruce rowed the rowboat toward shore.
Bruce looked at her oddly. “What do you mean? I just told you. Cone venom.”
“Nothing else?”
“I wouldn’t mind looking up some old friends, taking a leisurely stroll down the bombed-out section of memory lane.”
Monica nodded. “That’s why I’m going with you.”
“Why?”
“Same reason.”
“There isn’t anything there for you.”
Monica lowered her sunglasses. “Do you have some illegitimate children down there you want to tell me about? Are you wanted by the law? Because I don’t believe it’s just about uncomfortable memories.”
Bruce gave her an acid look. Monica looked out at the approaching shore. She spotted her narrow, two-story cottage with its double layer of decks facing the sea among the tightly packed crowd of beach homes. It was Bruce’s future retirement home, and Monica paid the mortgage while she was living there. It surprised her that he had elected a house by the sea. She would have expected him to look for something buried deep in the forests, something more solitary and landlocked, like him.
“Dad,” Monica said softly as their boat approached the shore, “do you remember that time Mom too
k me to watch a birth and the girl gave the baby to me?”
Bruce looked up from behind the rim of his hat. “Yeah.”
“Why didn’t we keep him?”
Bruce got out of the boat and tossed the cooler onto the seawall. He got a scaling knife out and began to gut the fish, tossing the fish parts into the water. He rinsed everything off with a garden hose from the neighbor’s yard. “Your mother didn’t want any more kids and I wasn’t home nearly enough to take responsibility for an adopted child. Besides, look what a mess our family turned out to be. He’s better off.”
“What about what you wanted, Dad? Why was it always about what she wanted?”
“Parenting requires buy-in from both sides.”
“Did you guys try counseling or anything like that?”
Bruce turned his head suddenly, as if the conversation had suddenly crossed a line into the distasteful. He took a deep breath and Monica understood that this was the last thing he was going to say on the subject. “We didn’t need anyone to tell us what was wrong with us. We knew exactly what was wrong with us.”
They packed their fish in freezer bags. “Fish for strength, fish for stealth,” Monica intoned as she rearranged the frozen strawberries and chicken breasts to make room in her freezer.
chapter 6 A SHARK TOOTH
On Thursday, Monica rushed home from work to freshen up and change into loose cotton clothing before her evening appointment. Her father had given Will Lucero his massage time slot as thanks for the interview. Monica had protested that he had no right to do that, but of course by then it was too late. “Besides,” Bruce had said, “you owe him something for getting Sylvia all riled up about cone venom”
She opened her front door at ten minutes to six. ”Hola,” Will said, bending down to kiss her politely on the cheek.
She pointed over her shoulder toward the interior of the house. “I’m ready for you,” she said, her standard greeting suddenly sounding provocative. She bit her lip. As he passed, she noticed that he smelled freshly showered—of Ivory soap and clean cotton. His hair was still wet.
Will approached the large picture window in her living room that faced the water. He crossed his arms and said, “There’s just something about the water … it’s so peaceful.”
Monica gave him a tour of the downstairs and the deck, but stopped short at the stairs leading up to the second floor. He complimented her taste in furnishings, the black-and-white photography in paper-thin black frames, hung in clusters throughout the house.
“You could paint this wall a bold color like indigo blue or black cherry,” he said, making wide, sweeping motions in front of the cutout wall that separated the kitchen from the dining area. “Maybe with some light texturing. It would completely rebalance this room. You could pick up any of those three colors from the rug under your dining set. You have so much light in here.” Monica folded her arms over her chest and stuck her lower lip out as she considered it. Will said, “I’m the finance guy at my family’s company, but I watch the decorators. I’m always amazed what color on the walls can do to change a room and create a mood.”
“I need something to offset the gloominess that sets in after October.”
Will put a hand on his chin and looked around. “Then what you need is butter- or lemon-colored walls. Details in tangerine. Poppy. Fuchsia. You’ll be so happy all the time, you won’t be able to stand yourself.”
Monica laughed and thought, I like him. She said, “This entire part of the country is plagued by too much gray, white, brown. Maybe we should all paint our houses in crazy colors like they do in the Bahamas. It would be so wonderfully defiant to have a watermelon-colored house.”
“Especially in January, when there’s three feet of snow on the ground.”
Monica stepped into the kitchen. “Can I get you anything to drink before we get started?”
“Water is fine,” he said, following her. He cleared his throat. “I had no idea you were a Latina. When your dad told me you were born and raised in Central America, I was floored. You’re tall, slim; you have green eyes, no accent. I would have guessed you were Irish. You are definitely hard to place, ethnically speaking.”
Monica smiled and hunched her shoulders, handing him a glass. “Really?”
“What did your mom look like?” He followed her out of the kitchen, and she walked over to a blond wood table that ran along the wall at the foot of the staircase. She grabbed an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven photo in a polished silver frame and handed it to Will.
“It’s you,” he said.
“No, it’s my mother. You think it’s me because she’s squinting and you can’t see her eyes that well.”
They stood staring at Alma’s photo for a moment. A shark tooth hung from Alma’s neck, glowing bright in the sun like a tiny dagger. A thin blindfold of her long, coiled black hair was blowing over her laughing face. Will looked up at Monica, then back at the picture and back at Monica. “Amazing. The smile is exactly the same.” He handed her the frame. “She’s beautiful.”
Monica thanked him, blushing at the reflected compliment, and had to spend a few extra seconds fussing over the items on the table so as not to have to turn and look at him right away.
“So are you ready?” she said cheerfully, looking at her watch. “Six o’clock on the nose. Would you prefer to be massaged out on the deck or here inside?”
Will craned his neck and looked outside, raised one eyebrow. “It’s a bit muggy outside. How about right here? We still get the view.”
Monica nodded. Her “soothing massage” CD was ready to go and her massage creams were warming in a pump bottle plugged into the wall. “Do you have boxers on under there?” she asked, pointing to his pants, blushing uncontrollably this time. “Or do you need to borrow a pair?”
Will smiled and said, “No, I’m all set. Where’s the bathroom?”
She pointed to the half bath next to the entrance. He walked down the hall, bending down to scoop up a small duffel bag that Monica had not noticed before. She heard him banging his elbows against the walls of the small half bath. She remembered his fall in her office. Was he accident-prone? She was pondering this when he came out, bare-chested, with biker’s shorts poking out of another pair of more loosely fitting athletic shorts. Monica was both impressed by his physique and relieved by his modesty. Some of her clients chose to wear nothing but a towel.
“I don’t know if you’re interested, but I have some extra faucet knobs I could give you for that half bath. They’re the old-fashioned porcelain kind that are labeled HOT and COLD in black letters. I think they’d look nice with the antique white linen theme you have going on in there.”
Monica patted the massage table. “Yes, I’d love them. Now, no more redecorating. Just lie down here and stare out at the water for me.”
“I’m sorry, I hope I’m not being obnoxious.”
“No, no. I just want you to forget your work and relax.”
He lay down. Soon he was under the spell of her healing hands, and her fingers glided over the vastness of his freckled back. No thin sliver of neck tension here. This man had solid tension everywhere, the kind that came from rigorous physical activity combined with intense emotional stress. His oohs and aahs came quickly and spontaneously, especially when she flattened out the palm of her hand and pressed down on the muscle centers, radiating the heat of their inflammation. She accidentally brushed his lips with the yoke of one finger while she massaged his face. He opened his eyes and looked at her, smiled, then turned his head and closed his eyes again. She felt a spark of pleasure spiral its way down through her body, and it made her terribly uncomfortable.
Instead of trying to tune in to the language of her client’s body—those little clues and patterns of the body that spoke so loudly—she made an effort to tune them out. She tried to focus on the skill of her own movements, to pace her breathing so that she wouldn’t tire so fast. After all, deep-tissue massage on a muscular man took a great deal of strength. She c
ouldn’t help but notice the little bruises here and there, the way he recoiled slightly when she pressed them.
“Is someone beating you?” Monica asked. “I’ve counted five bruises already.”
“Oh, it’s just from working like an idiot. I’m so crazed all the time, rushing around and trying to do too many things. For the last two weeks I’ve been bumping into stuff, falling off chairs, tripping on rugs.”
“This might hurt a little, but it helps distribute the blood that’s pooled under there.” She rubbed the bruises, then slapped them lightly. “They’ll go away in two or three days. Is there anything you can drop to make life a little easier on yourself?” She put her hand flat on his back. “Don’t answer that. It’s just a question I pose to all my clients, something for you to consider. A tiny bit of restraint can save your neck, your back, your feet, you name it. Stress is so expensive in the end.”
“That’s why I sail on Tuesdays,” he mumbled. “It’s one big deep-brain-tissue massage. It gets the bad gunk out. Clears my head.”
Monica squirted fresh massage cream into her hands while he continued, “But even with the antistress effects of sailing, I’m still sore around my neck, my shoulders, along my spine. Three of our guys called in sick on the same day this week, so I had to pitch in with the heavy lifting.”
She rubbed up and down his spine. This was the part when most people got quiet. But Will kept chatting away. “To answer your question, I don’t know what I could drop. I can’t work less, our business is only eight years old, and we have to be aggressive about building relationships with contractors and customers. I exercise; I visit Yvettte and stay on top of all her health care. That’s a full plate right there. Sometimes I think I should just sell the house in Durham and move closer to New Haven, but I love our house, I restored it myself.” He sighed, a big hopeless exhaling.
“Is there any chance Yvettte could be moved to a facility nearer to home?”
“She’s at the closest facility already.”
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