Paths

by David DeSimone

  He pulled her off to the side. “You signed a nondisclosure agreement, yes?”

  She nodded.

  “And you know the penalty for breaching that agreement.”

  “Of course. I’ll go to prison.” Or worse, she thought nervously.

  Agent Maxwell straightened his tie. He licked his dry lips, scanned the lobby for anybody listening. He moved deeper into a corner, leaned against the cold, black marble wall.

  “I like you, Ana,” he said trying to smile. “So it brings me no joy to have to warn you like this. But I have to if I’m going to say more.”

  “I understand.”

  “I mean I’m putting my own ass on the line here.”

  Ana held her eyes on him, quietly waiting for him to continue.

  Maxwell scanned the lobby once more. Suddenly a transformation came over him. He didn’t seem so nervous anymore. Suddenly he seemed calm. He smiled contently, and Ana felt a chill run down her spine.

  At last he said, “They’re dead. All of them.”

  She had to cover her mouth to stop a gasp. She could feel her pulse throbbing in the back of her throat.

  Maxwell put a finger to his lips and shushed her.

  “How?”

  No answer.

  It only took a few seconds before she knew, or allowed herself to accept what she had already known. It was pretty much a no-brainer, but nonetheless shocking.

  “You did kill them.”

  “Not me personally.”

  “I thought that stuff only happens in movies.”

  “What can I say? Sometimes life imitates art.”

  “But this is America.”

  “God bless it.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.”

  “Isn’t there supposed to be a trial?” she asked.

  “This is a war on terror, Ana. War being the key word here. This is an age of absolute intolerance. Our government’s response to extreme threats to the homeland is swift...and quiet.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, unconsciously pulling her collar closed. “I still don’t understand.”

  “What’s not to understand?” he asked.

  “Well…” She paused a moment to gather her thoughts. “Couldn’t you have gotten information out of them about other groups?”

  Maxwell chuckled. “We got everything we needed from them. Komini, DeValle and the other losers had no terrorist connections. We found no intelligence whatsoever on it. No paper trail of any kind to link them with other ragheads. They worked alone.

  “This subway thing would have been their big moment in the spotlight, with written speeches waiting in the wings, like some kind of banana republic version of bin Laden. I’m actually impressed Komini got as far as he did. Won’t happen again, that’s for sure. The government just gave your beautiful city $150 million dollars to have surveillance cameras installed in every subway tunnel and along both the Hudson and the East River banks with new security stations to monitor them. You’ll hear that on the news in the coming weeks. It’ll be passed as the mayor’s planned security initiative. But you won’t hear about the terror plot, except maybe on the web from conspiracy theorists.”

  “How would it get on the web?” she asked. “I know I won’t say anything.”

  “No but the families of the deceased might. That won’t matter anyway. They’ll never find any clues as to the whereabouts of their missing terrorist loved ones.”

  He grinned, snorted, “Unless they had a psychic vision of Fort Hamilton.”

  “What’s in Fort Hamilton?”

  “Buildings, guys in uniform.”

  “I know that,” she said and slapped his arm lightly. “I mean what’s the significance of-”

  “That’s where Komini and his band were taken. They were led to a grassy area behind the garrison, and as they were walking’ two Marines blew their fucking brains out with a forty five.”

  For a long moment she couldn’t breathe.

  Finally she asked, “What did they do with the bodies?”

  “Donated to science,” said Agent Maxwell. “In death they’ll finally contribute to society in a good way.”

  His crooked grin reappeared, said, “Compliments of the United States Government.”

  A man approached. Like Maxwell he was tall, but unlike Maxwell, this man was not quite as handsome and had black hair.

  Special Agent Barry Singleton, Maxwell’s partner, was bad cop to Maxwell’s good cop routine, and a perfect fit for the role. When interrogating suspects, Singleton would deliver his rapid fire questioning with a stare that could melt steel. Outside the interrogation room, however, he was a much different person, kind, liked to tell jokes and was a bit jumpy. A scar ran across his left cheek from an old wound, the result of a drug bust gone wrong, only slightly marring looks that could still pass for above average. He didn’t carry himself with the same swag as his partner, but a quick wit and a no-nonsense attitude made him approachable. You just wanted to be his friend. “Is this guy giving you a hard time?” he said to Ana.

  Smiling, she said, “As always.”

  Singleton glanced at his watch. To Maxwell he said, “We gotta go, bud. We’re late for the briefing.”

  They started to go. Maxwell raised a finger to wait. He went back to Ana.

  “Remember, not a word.”

  She nodded. “Just one more question,” she said.

  He glared at her. The clock was ticking.

  Leaning closer, she asked, “Would it have worked? The…”

  “Plan?” he finished.

  She nodded.

  “Probably not. But,” he shrugged, “we don’t know for sure, and hopefully we’ll never have to find out.”

  Standing alone in the large foyer, watching people come and go, all oblivious to how close they had come to catastrophe, Ana wished she could forget the conversation she had with Special Agent Beau Maxwell. Emails, phone calls, data entry, reports and memos didn’t seem so tiresome anymore.

  3

  Ana met Hector through her cousin, Antony, at Antony’s daughter’s baptism party, which was held at his parent’s house. They had a good-size yard enclosed by tall shrubs and strung with lights. There was a lot of food, music and dancing.

  Finally acquiescing to Hector’s prodding, Antony had introduced him to Ana, who had still been in college at the time, and dating, though she admitted that her relationship was on life support.

  Hector was no Valentino, but there was a kindness in his eyes and gentleness of demeanor. He was easy to talk to, a good listener. Unlike many boys, Hector wasn’t pretending to show interest in what she had to say, he really was interested.

  Best of all, Ana felt instantly at home with him. She knew he was the one.

  5:54 P.M.

  Staring at the globe that was her belly, Ana thought of her own upcoming double-baptism party. Plans were still in the early stages but time was running out. When her mother suggested they fly just her family to Puerto Rico, because Grandma, who lived in Puerto Rico, was afraid of flying, Ana torpedoed the idea. Since Hector himself had no family in Puerto Rico.

  They fought like wildcats, but Ana held her ground. Her strongest argument was that flying was unhealthy for new mothers and newborns. She had read it somewhere on the internet. Grandma would just have to wait.

  Whether it was bullshit or not, Ana was convincing enough to get Momma to believe it, though grudgingly.

  Although she made peace with Juliana, it wasn’t over. Momma was always controlling and Ana resented that.

  Rubbing her temples trying to get rid of a headache and wanting a glass of wine, she felt a one-two kick in her belly, as if the twins reminded her that she had two little ones to think about. Ana settled for Tylenol instead.

  She glanced at her watch. Hector should be arriving home in about an hour and a half. He, too, worked in the city, but his hours were later and he needed to take two different subway lines to get home.

  Opening the freezer, s
he took out a frozen dinner and threw it in the microwave, waddled across the kitchen using anything she could for extra support - the fridge, countertops, and a chair. Finally making it to the table, she plopped down onto the chair with a heavy sigh.

  She could not wait for the twins to come out, for her body to be free of the human payload growing inside her belly. Any woman carrying two kicking babies and having to deal with mood swings and the occasional loss of bladder control would feel the same way. It was a wonder they hadn’t crushed her internal organs weeks ago.

  She stared through the cloudy microwave window, watching her dinner turning slowly, when a sudden terrible cold feeling washed over her, seizing her, forcing her on a ride she did not want to take. Its imposing influence affected every nerve in her body, her heart pounding hard against her chest, forehead dampening with sweat. She closed her eyes and sensed large explosions, people being cooked alive, obliterated cities and other horrors. Then she was assaulted by an indescribable sensation of weight. The air felt suddenly heavy. She found it hard to breath, like the sky was collapsing from every direction.

  4

  A premonition? Is that what it was, she wondered while coming down from that terrifying and inexplicable sensation.

  The timer counted down the remaining seconds. 4 … 3 … 2 … 1. On zero, the microwave beeped four times. Her food was ready, but despite having to feed for three, Ana was no longer hungry. She remained in her seat still processing what had just happened, wondering again if it was a premonition of some kind, or that it had been nothing more than the result of a hormonal imbalance. She was inclined to accept the latter explanation, wanting to believe it, but, the way in which it had come upon her was so sudden, with no prior warning, no emotional indicators that something was going to happen, was too weird.

  She looked down at herself, mystified. She casted dazed looks about her as if awoken from a trance, discovered that both her arms were folded protectively over her belly.

  Ana leaned back against the chair, her arms dropping to her sides, holding her gaze on the white-tiled backsplash above the kitchen counter, sank back in search for answers and only came up with more questions.

  If it had been hormones, why had it appeared out of the blue lasting only several seconds and then leaving as quickly as it had arrived? Did hormones do that? She supposed they could. They didn’t call them mood swings for nothing. But Ana couldn’t recall feeling moody, not in any normal sense of the word, before, during or after the event. The only thing she felt was fear. That didn’t seem like hormones. Not by a longshot. Then again, she wasn’t a doctor.

  An even more puzzling question was why had it felt so strong that it instinctively triggered a response to protect her babies, and so overpowering that she was barely aware of even doing it?

  It didn’t make sense.

  Sounds of children playing on the sidewalk, the soft hum of distant traffic broken by the occasional honking of a horn, the barking of a dog drifting into the kitchen along with a cool late-afternoon breeze, managed to ease her mind back into the rhythms of ordinary life.

  She would not tell anyone about this, not even Hector. She knew what he would say. “Oh, it’s just your hormones acting up again. Once the twins are born, you’ll be okay.” And that would be the end of the discussion. He’d move on with something funny to say, or shower her with affection, and before she’d realize it, the topic wouldn’t seem so important anymore, not while he was there. That was the thing about Hector. He had a way of demystifying her scariest thoughts, making them lose power.

  Her stomach growled, telling her it had been waiting long enough for food. She rose from the chair with an achy groan, tottered over to the microwave and took out the plastic tray. Tonight’s entree consisted of roasted turkey and a side of mashed potatoes with vegetables. With steam rising from the tray, she held the plastic tray gingerly by the edges and returned to the kitchen table.

  She ate.

  The food had no taste.

  An hour and a half later, Hector came through the door and crossed the living room into the kitchen, holding a bag of takeout.

  He noticing the empty plastic food tray on the kitchen table, a fork lying inside surrounded by smears of leftover mashed potatoes and gravy, bits of carrots and string beans. He looked around, called out to her.

  There was no answer.

  He called again. “Ana?”

  Nothing.

  Dropping the bag of takeout on the table, he ran out of the kitchen and into the bedroom and saw Ana sleeping soundly on top of the blankets, her head raised by two pillows.

  He went over to her, placed a hand on her forehead feeling for a temperature.

  She was cool. He sighed with relief.

  He leaned forward, whispered in her ear, “Ana?”

  She stirred, her lids opening, eyes rolling awake. “Why did you wake me?” she groaned.

  “I brought you some dinner.”

  “I ate.”

  “That shit isn’t eating,” he scoffed. “I’ve got your favorite. Tripe soup. You love tripe soup.”

  She did and she was surprised to discover that she was still hungry.

  He kissed her on the forehead, helped her up. “C’mon,” he said. “I’ll set out the plates.”

  “What about you?” she asked, struggling to get on her feet.

  “I got some stuff.”

  “What?”

  “It’s good,” he said, a little defensively.

  “It better not be that spicy shit the doctor said to stop eating.”

  “No.”

  “Papi, you better not be lyin’ to me! Cause you know your stomach can’t take that no more.”

  He kissed her cheek and smiled. “Noooo! Mami, I got a Cuban sandwich and some rice and beans and other stuff for the both of us.”

  “What other stuff?”

  Their conversation continued outside the bedroom, down the hallway, across the living room and into the kitchen.

  They sat next to each other, Ana watching him unloading the bag of steaming food. She could smell the meat through the foil wrap.

  Her mouth began to water.

  Tripe never tasted so good. Just the right balance of salt and spices in the broth and the meat was buttery and delicious. Hector reached a fork into her bowl for a taste and she pushed it away. “You’ve got that,” she said pointing to a mammoth size sandwich in his hand.

  “I just want a little taste,” he said reaching in again and, again, she pushed his hand away.

  His fork dove into her soup again.

  “Stop!”

  Hector laughed, and shoveled a forkful of rice and beans into his mouth.

  “I never ate so much in my life,” she said with a mouthful of tripe and potatoes, and then swallowed. “I’m gonna get fat if I keep eating like this.”

  “You’re eating for three.”

  They ate quietly for the next several seconds.

  Ana put down her spoon and slid the half-full bowl of tripe soup toward Hector.

  He looked at her.

  A smile crept into the corners of her mouth. “Take some.”

  “No, Ana,” he said politely, sliding the bowl back to her. “I was only teasing. And like I said, you’re eating for three.”

  He took a large bite out of his sandwich, chewed, swallowed and washed it all down with a beer. “How was work today?” he asked.

  “It’s okay,” she said with a shrug.

  “The babies kicking?”

  “A few times. Not too bad, though.”

  “Any gossip from Shawna?” Shawna Monique was the unofficial office gossip queen. Any word trickling down from the proverbial grapevine would somehow reach Shawna’s ears first, except for what really mattered like terrorists plotting to flood the city.

  Ana shook her head. She took another spoonful of soup.

  “Mami, what’s the matter? You seem so quiet today? What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Is it the babi
es? Are they driving you loco?”

  “No. I’m just tired.”

  “Work?”

  “The twins are so heavy. I’m tired, that’s all. I can’t wait till they come out.”

  That was half true. Her premonition - if that’s what it was - only offered impressions of something awful happening in the future, perhaps the near future.

  Even if it did, what could she do? Tell her husband they had to drop everything and leave town all because she had a bad feeling? That wasn’t going to happen. So why say anything?

  “Just a little more time is all you need,” he said having another forkful of rice and beans. He took a swig of beer, turned to meet her gaze, which had become tired and drawn.

  He put his fork down and swallowed. “When’s your last day of work?” he asked.

  “Next week, Friday.”

  “One more week and you won’t have to travel no more. Isn’t that good?”

  “Yes,” she said, nodding.

  “Just hang in there.”

  He kissed her, rubbed her stomach saying, “And then I get to see my little chiquitas!”

  5

  MONDAY

  During the night the twins turned her womb into a kickboxing match. Her little chikitas went at each other full tilt - or so that’s how it felt. She threw up once, rinsed with mouthwash and spent most of the night watching television.

  When the bout between the twins finally ended at around four in the morning, she was able to grab a few hours of dreamless sleep, opting for the sofa rather than traipsing back into the bedroom.

  She nearly missed her subway stop, kept nodding off despite the deafening clatter and squeal of the train’s metal wheels.

  Packed with morning commuters like a giant tin of sardines, the inside of the car was stiflingly warm, the air thick with aromas of perfume, aftershave and sweat.

  She fought her way out the subway car doors, worrying that all the poking and shoving would rouse the twins into another sparring match, but they remained quiet.

  By the time she arrived at work and punched her code by the glass doors of InterLang, Ana was five minutes late. That was okay. Staff was allowed a five-minute grace period, but even that had its limits. Her boss, Rufus Gales, was known to keep his eye on those who consistently arrived just under the buzzer. If it became a habit, you might find yourself sitting across from him having “the talk.”