A Place in the Wind

by Suzanne Chazin

  “So you gave Darwin money to buy you beer. Am I right?” asked Vega.

  The girl played with the zipper on her coat. “Yeah.”

  “When?”

  “When?” She rolled her eyes. Just like Joy. Everything seemed so obvious to her. But it was only slowly becoming obvious to Vega. “Last Friday night.”

  Vega looked up at the security camera outside the building. “So it was you? You were the blonde on the security video?”

  “I don’t know anything about a video.”

  “Jocelyn, listen to me. I need to know. What time were you here with Dar—Rolando Benitez?”

  “Around ten-thirty, I guess. He was walking into Hank’s to buy a lottery ticket. I asked him to buy me some beer. I let him keep the change.”

  “And then what?”

  “I took the beer and split,” said Jocelyn. “And then like, I heard about the Archer girl and then the cops shot Darwin.”

  “Why didn’t you come forward and tell the police you were with him?” But Vega already knew the answer to that. Jocelyn Suarez was fifteen years old. She was begging beer off a grown man. Probably to share with this boyfriend, Carlos, who may or may not still be in his teens. Her parents would kill her if they found out any of this. So she kept quiet.

  Her concerns weren’t all that different from Catherine Archer’s.

  “Did you see Catherine Archer with Darwin at any time?”

  Jocelyn made a face. “She wouldn’t hang with him.”

  “You knew Catherine?”

  “Well enough,” she said. “She used to hang with Lydia Mendez, whose family goes to my church. And Zoe Beck, that weird girl with the purple hair who was, like, obsessed with her or something. Followed her everywhere. Not that we were friends or anything. Catherine got my boyfriend’s cousin fired from the Magnolia Inn.”

  “When was this?” asked Vega.

  “A couple of weeks ago,” said Jocelyn. “Alex was a waiter there.”

  “Alex Romero?”

  “Um . . . Yeah.” It suddenly dawned on Jocelyn that she was throwing out names to a cop.

  “Relax,” Vega told her. “I already know about Alex Romero. Todd Archer fired him for coming on to Catherine, am I right?”

  “More like, she came on to him. Not that he got past first base with her. She wasn’t interested in him for that.”

  “What, then?”

  The teenager glanced over her shoulder. “I need to go. Can I go, please?”

  “As soon as you tell me why Alex got fired.”

  Jocelyn fumbled with the clutch on her pocketbook. Vega had managed to calm her down before this last round of questions. But now she seemed more scared than when they’d started. Vega decided to hazard a guess. Maybe he’d get lucky.

  “Was Alex keeping drugs in his locker?”

  “No!”

  “Well, he couldn’t have stolen anything,” said Vega. “The Archers would have filed a police report for that.”

  Car doors slammed. Voices drifted over from the pizzeria. Jocelyn said nothing.

  “Jocelyn?” Vega waited until the girl met his gaze. “Did Alex get fired for stealing?”

  “No!” She bit her lip. “Well, not exactly.”

  “What do you mean, ‘not exactly’?”

  “He didn’t take anything. But, like, he sort of covered for someone who did. I think he thought it was a prank.”

  Vega wasn’t following. “Are you saying that someone at the Magnolia Inn committed a theft and Alex covered for them? What did they steal?”

  “Some, like, computer drive or something.”

  “You mean a flash drive?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure.” Jocelyn twirled a strand of blond hair around her finger. “Alex didn’t even know what was on it.”

  “And the person who stole this? Why didn’t Alex tell on him?”

  “Because it wasn’t a him. It was Catherine.”

  Chapter 35

  They never tell you anything in jail.

  Wil had no idea he was being released. He was marched to dinner. Lukewarm overcooked spaghetti with tomato sauce, white bread, a cling peach half, and colored water for coffee. He was marched back for head count. He stood in a line of men with tattoos on their knuckles and hate in their eyes. It took all his energy to stay alert. He had nothing left over to sort through what he’d lost. College. His job at the Grill. The attic room he used to live in. And, most of all, his brother.

  Forgive me, Lando. Never in his life had Wil felt more alone. He tried to fight the rubber-band tautness in his chest. Every time he closed his eyes, he replayed those last moments of his brother’s life. The sloppy kisses and sweaty hug. The way Lando teetered in his arms. It was Wil’s fault things had gone the way they did. And now he could never make it right.

  A female guard came to his cell after dinner. She asked Wil to repeat his inmate number, then opened the cell door. “Move.”

  Wil thought perhaps they needed another piece of paperwork from him. They were always doing paperwork here. The entire jail felt like one large metal filing cabinet. The people in it were incidental to the forms they generated.

  The guard marched Wil into a room and handed him a bin that contained the clothes he’d been arrested in.

  “Get dressed.”

  Wil changed in front of the female officer. A few days ago, he’d have blushed and tried to be modest about it. Now he didn’t blink an eye. He tried to finger comb his hair.

  “Hurry up!” the guard shouted. Then she marched Wil down another hall and buzzed open a door. A lone figure waited on a bench. Señora Adele.

  He stepped forward. She rose and embraced him like a mother. He felt bad that he only belatedly returned her hug. He was confused. “Am I . . . free?”

  “I wish it were that simple, Wil.” She turned up the collar of her coat. “Come. I’ll explain in the car. My daughter’s at a friend’s house, so I don’t have much time.”

  It was dark outside. In the jail, Wil had little sense of night or day or even weather. Above, the bright security lights of the prison bleached the sky free of stars. But the moon remained, a hazy pearl dancing between fingers of gauzy cotton. He took a deep breath and felt the cold pinch his nasal passages and travel through his lungs like he’d just inhaled a jar of Vicks VapoRub. Never had the simple act of standing outside on a frigid night looking at the sky felt more beautiful to him.

  The señora led him to her car in visitors’ parking. As the guard at the booth lifted the gate and they drove north, she explained the arrangement. He was free, but he wasn’t. It felt to Wil like he’d exchanged one prison for another.

  “Why can’t I just check in with you every day?” he asked. “That would be easier on everyone.”

  “This isn’t about what’s easier,” she said. “It’s the judge’s ruling. The agreement stipulates that you live with Mr. Zimmerman and that I am responsible for you and make sure you don’t leave the area.”

  “So . . . I can’t try to get my room back?”

  “Actually, your room’s still your room,” she said. “Someone paid your rent for the month so your things wouldn’t be put out on the street.”

  “Really?” Wil felt grateful. And uncomfortable. He didn’t like taking handouts. “I will repay the person as soon as I can. Please tell me who they are.”

  “I promised I wouldn’t. He asked that the arrangement be just between us.”

  “But then . . . how can I pay it back?”

  “He’s not asking for you to pay it back. So stop worrying. When I get a chance, I’ll help you pack everything up and drive it over to Mr. Zimmerman’s. In the meantime, we need to get you settled.”

  With an eighty-eight-year-old stranger? Wil was such a bundle of trauma and anger right now, he’d be terrible company. And besides, he didn’t know the first thing about caring for such an old person. Everyone in his family seemed to die before they had a chance to turn gray.

  “Is this Mr. Zimmerman able to feed a
nd dress himself?”

  The señora laughed. “Oh my, yes. Mr. Zimmerman doesn’t want anyone taking care of him. You’re just there for company and to help him get around and look after himself a little better. He can’t pay you, but I think the arrangement will work for both of you. You can still work at the Grill and go to school. And this way, neither of you will be alone.”

  “Why would he care what happens to me?”

  “Well . . . first, because he’s a good man and I asked this of him. But also because he came to this country when he was around your age. He’s a Holocaust survivor. From Poland originally.”

  “Do I have to do anything special? Like, I don’t know, keep kosher?” Wil wasn’t even sure what keeping kosher meant, other than you couldn’t mix milk and meat, and things like ham were forbidden.

  “I don’t think Mr. Zimmerman keeps kosher. But I’m sure he’ll tell you if there’s something he needs you to do. He’s a very sweet old man. He knows you’ve been through a lot.”

  Wil wished he were just going back to his room.

  “One of the things we’ll need to talk about,” the señora said softly, “is your brother. His body’s still at the morgue.”

  Wil pulled out his cell phone and tried to turn it on, but it was dead. The battery had run out while he was in jail. It was on its last legs anyway. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t. He and Lando always borrowed each other’s phones. He wondered if his mother had been trying to reach him these past few days.

  “Wil?” The señora tried to catch his attention. “Does your mother know? About Rolando?”

  “No.” Wil felt the jab of a feather leaching from his faded green goose-down jacket. He pulled it out, running his fingers against the soft curve of the feather. It soothed him. He needed soothing.

  “You need to tell her,” said the señora. “I can tell her if you prefer. But either way, she deserves to know.”

  Wil turned his gaze to the side window and watched the golden glow of houses on the streets they passed. Televisions flickered. People sat down to meals. A boy held a video game console as he sat on a couch. A girl held up a cell phone and took a photo of herself as she twirled in front of her bedroom mirror. Wil wanted any life but his own.

  “I know this is hard for you,” the señora tried again. “But your brother deserves to be buried properly back in Guatemala. We need to work with the Guatemalan consulate to repatriate his remains. We can’t do that if you don’t tell her.”

  “Mmm.” He couldn’t handle a discussion of that right now. The señora didn’t press. They were both silent after that.

  * * *

  Max Zimmerman’s house was brick with a red front door and a sharply angled roof. In the driveway was a light gray Cadillac that looked as if it rarely left the street. Lights glowed behind heavy drapes.

  “What if Mr. Zimmerman doesn’t like me?” asked Wil as the señora pulled into his driveway. “Do I have to go back to jail?”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “But . . . if it does?”

  “We’ll think of something.”

  Wil got out of the señora’s car and followed her up the front steps. It took a few minutes after they rang the bell for Zimmerman to answer. Wil expected a very frail and unkempt man, but the man before him was dressed in pressed gray slacks and a wool sweater. He was shaved and scrubbed. His thick white hair was held in place with so much styling gel Wil could see where the tines of a comb had gone through it.

  The teenager felt like a mess by comparison.

  Zimmerman extended a hand. His shake was warm and firm. “Wil? Is that what you like to be called? Or Wilfredo?”

  “Wil is fine, sir. Thank you for taking me into your home.”

  “You’re welcome. Adele has told me good things about you.”

  Wil could smell something delicious in the air. The old man’s dinner. Wil’s stomach growled. He was supposed to have eaten dinner at the jail, but the meals were always small and starchy. They never satisfied.

  “Are you hungry?” asked the señora. “Please say you are, because I made a plate of lasagna for me and Sophia and put half of it in Mr. Zimmerman’s oven for the two of you to share.”

  “But Mr. Zimmerman probably had dinner already.”

  The old man smiled. “I waited for you. How else do you get to know someone except over a meal?”

  Wil thought the señora would join them. He felt panicked when he noticed that she hadn’t removed her coat. “I have to fetch my daughter,” she explained. “I’ll check in on you both later.”

  And then she was gone. He was alone with the old man. Zimmerman shuffled in the direction of the kitchen. “Come,” he said. “You can get the plates. You need to learn where things are. This is your home now too. I can’t get up and down the stairs until my hip heals a little more, but you will see that there is a guest bedroom upstairs where you can sleep.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Wil walked into the kitchen. The old man directed him to the cabinets with plates and glasses and the drawer with silverware. Wil set the table and dished out the food. He filled their glasses with water. Wil felt clenched, waiting for questions that he didn’t know how to answer. But they never came. The old man seemed comfortable with silence. Wil noticed when Zimmerman reached for the pepper-shaker that the top digit of his left middle finger was missing. Wil averted his gaze.

  “You are wondering how I lost part of my finger,” said the old man.

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “It’s okay, Wil. Our scars tell our life stories. You see the wound. I see all the healing people around it. Would you like to hear the story?”

  “Only if you want to tell it,” said Wil.

  “I will tell you because then you will know me a little better.” The old man put down his fork and wiped his lips on a napkin. “My older brother, Samuel, and I were hiding in the woods in Poland when we were rounded up and sent to Treblinka, a concentration camp. You know about the Holocaust?”

  “I studied it in school,” said Wil. “I know millions of Jewish people were killed.”

  “More than six million,” said Zimmerman. “And others besides. When one of the commanders in the camp asked if anyone had construction experience, Samuel volunteered us. It was the only way to survive. We had no experience, mind you, but Samuel was very strong and a fast learner. Me? Not so much. One day, I’m so exhausted, I accidentally feed a board onto a circular saw and end up cutting off the top of my finger. I had to hide this from the guards. They would have shot me if they’d found out.”

  Wil couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You lost part of your finger? And you hid the injury?”

  “One of the inmates was a doctor. He helped my brother staunch the bleeding. There were no drugs for pain or infection. We just wrapped it up and hoped for the best.”

  Wil put down his knife and fork. He couldn’t imagine the strength it must have taken to endure something like that. “How old were you?”

  “Fourteen.” Zimmerman nodded to Wil’s plate. “I’ve ruined your appetite. My apologies.”

  “No. It’s not the story. It’s . . . Where were your parents?”

  “Dead. Along with our two sisters and baby brother. All shot the day Samuel and I ran into the woods. We were all that was left.”

  Wil stared at his plate. “My mother was deported back to Guatemala three years ago. She is all I have left now and she has cancer.”

  Zimmerman reached across the table with his good hand and squeezed Wil’s arm. “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s not like your story,” said Wil. “But it . . . hurts.”

  “Yes.” Zimmerman nodded. “The wounds others can’t see are often the ones that hurt the most.”

  They talked more freely after that. About baseball (Zimmerman was a die-hard Yankees fan). About Wil’s plans for college. Wil cleared the table when they were finished and washed the dishes. He tied up all the garbage and walked it out the
back door to a small wooden shed that contained an aluminum trash bin. The shed was near a chain-link fence on the opposite side of the house from the señora’s. Mr. Zimmerman had planted big evergreen shrubs up along the fence, but even so, Wil could hear a dog barking and leaping on the other side. He didn’t sound friendly.

  Wil tried to ignore the dog. He opened the trash bin and tamped down the garbage. He threw in the new bag and secured the lid. He turned to go back into Zimmerman’s house. That’s when a figure caught his eye. About twenty feet down the fence line. Someone threw something over the fence into Zimmerman’s yard. Wil ran over to investigate. Even in the pale light of the moon, he could see what it was: dog feces.

  “Hey!” Wil called out. He saw the figure stepping away from the fence. A teenage white boy. Maybe fourteen or fifteen. “You just threw your dog’s business on Mr. Zimmerman’s lawn.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said the boy. The dog jumped up at his side. A big black dog. Some mix of pit bull and retriever perhaps. Or pit bull and shepherd.

  “I saw you do it!” Wil shouted. “You need to pick it up.”

  The boy peered at Wil through the bushes. “Who are you? The live-in help?”

  Wil wanted to reach through the fence, grab this kid by the collar, and force him to pick it up. But no—he didn’t want to draw attention to his being here. So he backed away. “Just . . . stop it. You hear me? Just stop.”

  “Or what?”

  Wil hesitated. The teenager laughed. “Yeah, I thought so. You’re the hired asswipe for that old fart. Do what he’s paying you to do, beaner. Or maybe my family will call La Migra and get you deported back to where you came from.”

  The teenager and dog walked back inside. Wil was shaking with anger, his breath clouding in the night air, when he heard the neighbor’s back door slam. He fished a piece of newspaper out of Mr. Zimmerman’s trash and picked up the feces. He flung it back over the fence into the neighbor’s yard. He heard it smack against something. Good. Wherever it landed, these people deserved it.

  Nobody was going to take advantage of Max Zimmerman that way. Not while Wil Martinez was around to help it.