Sheryl is upset just from hearing the story. “What are you going to do?” she asks.
“I keep asking myself this question—just like I asked once before in my life.”
“You’ve been blackmailed before?”
Marco snickers and cracks a wry smile. “In a sense. I just didn’t know it at the time.” He looks out to sea and blinks back tears. “You remember I spoke of knowledge I wished I’d never gained?”
Sheryl grimaces empathetically and nods affirmatively. He looks numb.
Marco continues, “Twenty years ago, my wife, Sophia, who was not yet then my wife …” He hesitates. “No, let’s forget about this history lesson. I am here now.”
“Ain’t that the truth—the here and now? What else can it boil down to, Marco? So keep it that way. Put all that history stuff behind you.” Sheryl feels like such a hypocrite offering those words of wisdom. But they do sound good. She will have to give the advice a try.
Marco seems to give it all some thought. “Right,” he says without conviction. “Sure, just put it behind me.”
“Yes,” coaxes Sheryl, full of hope for them both.
Marco sighs. “So okay, this no longer is the one big blight on my life, agreed. Now there is this newer blight. Poetic justice. My life in a nutshell.” His head drops into his hands. He cries.
Sheryl worries she’s making him feel worse, and she remains concerned for his safety. There is still no sign of Jack and Irene. She feels duty-bound to pump him up. “Marco, you have to be alert and concentrate on this Mexican standoff with Carlita’s uncle. Then do right by her. And start your life over. Day one. Be strong.”
He takes a deep breath and scans the horizon over the ocean. Some of the sadness and fear disappears from his face. Still plenty serious, he says, “That sounds good on paper. We’ll see. Thanks, though, Sheryl. I’ll figure this out now.”
“You’re welcome, Marco.” She checks her watch. “Let me walk you to the hotel.”
“I appreciate your concern, but I’m much better. Thank you.”
“Of course, but are you sure you’ll be okay?”
“I need to think, and this is a good place to think.”
“I understand. Find me if you need me.”
“Thank you, for everything.”
“My pleasure. Good luck.”
Sheryl leaves Marco on his barstool alone with his troubles. She takes her own mind games on a walk to the shoreline. It seems true that there’s always someone with it worse than you.
The present day interrupts Sheryl’s memories. It is again the dead of winter in Chicago. Sheryl and Sterling reach her building. He starts to open the door for her, but even before she knows she’s doing it, Sheryl pushes him away. “Back off, Sterling,” she demands in a sour mood.
“What’s with this?” he complains.
“At the least, understand I’m still jet-lagged from the most traumatic trip of my life. I’m bushed and want to be alone, so good-bye. Thanks for brunch.” Reveling in his state of confusion, Sheryl leaves Sterling flat-footed behind her. Once inside the foyer, she’s glad to see the doorman is absent from his lobby post. Not up for face-to-face contact with anyone, Sheryl grabs an elevator fast.
As she rides up to her floor, thankfully alone, her thoughts jump back to poor Carlita and Acapulco. More to the point, she remembers how really it was Carlita who brought Sheryl back together once again with Matt Ayers. Sheryl’s fear for Marco’s life inspired her to track down Matt for his local knowledge and contacts. She stirs aglow in memories of finding him with help from the hotel concierge.
The concierge chuckles at her gratitude, saying, “Finding such a wealthy US expat who is pretty well known around town, even if nobody does know his business—it was pretty easy, I’ll admit.”
She tips him nicely nevertheless, thrilled to know Matt indeed does still live in Acapulco. When she finds Matt, she learns that he’s married now, but his Canadian wife is visiting family up north. So he volunteers to ride shotgun for Sheryl as she follows a hunch in tailing Marco that next night after his mugging. She’s worried he’ll return to the site of the mugging, El Club de Jazz. “I’m sure he’ll be stumbling in there again,” she explains to Matt. “He’s thrown caution to the wind—only now he’s a bigger target than ever, all banged up like he is.”
Matt warns, “I’ve been to this joint before, and it’s not the wisest place for a couple of gringos to be—especially a beautiful blonde like you.”
Sheryl, typically more adventurous on the road than at home, responds, “Well, it’s not totally unheard of, right?”
“Of course not. You’ve got me there. Plenty of tourists hear of it, and some check it out.”
“Then that’s us,” she declares, gleaming. She hopes that her happiness about hanging around with Matt under such serious circumstances does not make her a potential home-wrecker type.
Arriving at El Club de Jazz, Sheryl opens the club’s squeaky screen door. Several locals look up as she enters, followed quickly by Matt. The club is crowded and smoky, and a Santana CD is subbing for a band that’s on break. They happen to enter during a brief sound gap between tracks. The couple takes two of the last three stools at a cramped bar as the next song begins.
“Dos cervezas, por favor,” Matt orders.
A gnarly bartender cracks their beers. The bar’s other patrons soon bore of gawking at the latest gringos and drift back to minding their own business, or planning mischief, as it were. Sheryl, figuring she has to go ahead and drink the beer if she’s going to fit in while undercover at a seedy bar, toasts Matt. They chat while scoping out the place, trying not to stick out too much in the crowd.
Sheryl says quietly, “Interesting group, like you predicted.”
“And that includes us, don’t forget.”
“Hold on.” Sheryl has spotted Carlita exiting the ladies’ room.
Despite Carlita’s very obvious condition, several drunks hit on her as she makes her way to the bar, ignoring them all. She takes the one remaining stool, apparently hers to begin with, near Matt and Sheryl. Carlita sips at a half-full glass of beer. Sheryl privately tsk-tsks over a sad sight symbolic of anything but Madonna and child.
An occupied stool between Sheryl and Carlita opens up, and Sheryl sidles on over next to Carlita. “Mind if I sit here?”
“Suit yourself, pretty white girl.”
“Thank you, Carlita. How are you tonight?”
Carlita looks at her, perplexed. “Do I know you?”
“No,” Sheryl admits as Matt protectively reseats himself next to her. “It’s more like I know of you, sort of—I’m a friend of Marco’s. I’ve seen you with him.”
Carlita stares at Sheryl blankly, sheds a tear, and turns back to her beer. She takes a chug and says softly, “I guess you have not heard yet.”
“Heard what?” Sheryl asks with trepidation.
Carlita, eyes straight ahead, whispers, “If my Uncle Eduardo learns you are here talking to me, it is big trouble for you. He owns this place.”
Sheryl discreetly scans the crowd. Nobody seems to be watching at the moment. She assures Carlita, “That’s a chance I’ll have to take. I’m concerned about Marco. I thought he might show up here tonight. That’s all.”
“Well,” Carlita says, choking back tears, “you can stop worrying—Marco is dead.”
Stunned, Sheryl blurts out, “What?” A few eyes turn their way.
Carlita answers, “He collapsed at the beach today from untreated internal injuries and was dead before paramedics arrived. He’s gone, for good. And I can’t believe it.”
“Oh no. But I saw him on the beach today—talked with him and helped him ride out the morning. He’d been drinking.”
“He always was drinking a lot, for as long I knew him.”
More local eyes zero in on their yapping lips.
Sheryl asks, “Was it from that beating here last night? He was banged up badly.”
“Yes,” answers Carlita. “So if you saw him, then you know all about that.”
“That’s why I’m here—in case he came back looking for trouble. The more I thought about his mood and situation, the more worried for him I got.”
Carlita says, “I am touched by your concern for my dear Marco. Thank you.”
“I know he loved you. He told me so just this morning.”
Carlita, obviously on edge, appears overwhelmed. “That is so nice of you to tell me. Thank you again. But I am worried that Uncle Eduardo could show up any moment. If that were to happen, I really would catch it from him if you are here.”
“I don’t want any trouble for you, Carlita.”
Carlita asks, “Are there any other reasons why you are here?”
“To be honest … yes.” Sheryl pauses for a glance at Carlita’s baby bulge before continuing. “I see you two were close enough that you should know better than to be drinking beer tonight.”
Looking ashamed, Carlita puts down the glass. “Believe me, this is the only drink I’ve had since I learned of the baby inside me. It was just too much for me with Marco’s death.”
“I know, but I think he would want you not to get drunk over him.”
“Believe me, there is nothing more I want than this baby. I think God will give me no more chances if I lose this baby.”
“What do you mean?”
Nervous, Carlita sneaks a peak around the room and says under her breath, “I don’t tell you this, comprende? But since I was very young, Eduardo has forced me to work the tourists. I learned English this way. If these men don’t make me pregnant, Eduardo knocks me up himself.”
“What? And Eduardo truly is your uncle?”
“Sí, some uncle—verdad?”
Sheryl feels devastated for her. “I don’t know what to say, Carlita. This is a horrible story.”
“It is a true life story.”
“So,” guesses Sheryl, “he scares the foreign men with blackmail to make them come back here to face the music?”
“Sí. And his deal always stays the same—come up with the monies or die.”
“And everybody pays?”
“One guy has refused.”
“Marco?”
Carlita shivers at the thought and nods. Sheryl follows suit with the shivers. Matt, from behind, places gentle hands of support on Sheryl’s shoulders.
The bartender is beginning to look nosy, and Carlita mumbles, “I cannot talk anymore in this place—too many ears all around here for me.”
“If you leave with us, wouldn’t that look suspicious?”
“Of course, but less dangerous for us than if we keep talking here. I will think of something later if it comes up with Eduardo.”
The band, looking buzzed, comes back from its long break. The musicians start tuning up, which distracts everyone else. Carlita and her new benefactors make their exit.
Outside, a cab pulls up at the badly cracked curb. Matt has the driver take them to Avenida Costera Miguel Aleman. The traffic at this late hour is dominated by the usual VW Bugs and Toyota cabs. Their cab rolls past familiar open-air-lobby hotels, money exchanges, and varied Mexican and international restaurants.
“Drop us up there, por favor,” Matt requests of the driver, pointing out a late-night restaurant at the next corner.
“Sí, my friend,” the driver responds.
Inside at a comfy booth with few other customers around, Carlita details how the baby deals get set up over time. “It always happens at some nice resort with a man who wants to think I am his own.”
“How many other women are involved?”
“I stopped counting. But anyway, unfortunately, I am Uncle Eduardo’s favorite,” she says sadly but with a tinge of swagger. “I bring his best results.” Suddenly overcome, Carlita bursts into tears.
Sheryl hugs her. “It’s okay, dear.”
Sobbing, Carlita says, “Señorita, you do not understand. I must get my abortion this weekend, with a real butcher this time. A very bad reputation. Plus, this will make one dozen times—twelve abortions. I will burn forever in hell. I need a priest.”
Sheryl strokes her hair. “If we put our heads together, maybe we can save the baby and get you both out of here. Can you put your hands on any money?”
Carlita stifles her tears and laughs lightly. “Kind lady, you don’t know the life of a cheap Mexican whore. Uncle Eduardo, he controls all my money.”
Sheryl never has felt so helpless or so sickened by someone’s sad circumstances. This really takes the cake, she wants to say but holds back out of respect for Carlita.
“Listen,” Matt interjects, “there’s only one thing to do. Carlita, let us get you out of here tonight. No going home. I have friends in Mexico City who will help you get a new start. I have enough money to fund you awhile.”
“Oh, Señor Matt, why should you do this for me?”
“Why should I not? That’s the question.”
Sheryl is as excited as Carlita. “Girl, when a man like this steps forward for you, don’t step back.”
Carlita quickly concludes, “You are right, of course!”
Matt and his contacts deliver as promised, which is how Sheryl sort of comes to terms with herself over Jamaica and Michigan Avenue. She is proud to have been the conduit between Carlita and Matt, and boy, she still swoons for him. She wonders how in the world she let him slip away for some other woman to marry.
I must have been nuts, thinks Sheryl as the elevator ride ends.
Stepping out onto her floor, still with Carlita and her by-now middle-school daughter in mind, Sheryl takes pride in having done someone some good in this world. The nature of her good deed has returned some balance to her life. Unfortunately, the realities of today lead her to hang her head in misery. Too many wrong turns have led to a mountain of financial misery, which complicates every other facet of her existence. It’s a hard sell to herself that her time on earth has been fruitful.
Sheryl’s shoulders sag as she approaches her apartment door, key in hand. Been here, done this, she thinks. Crossing the threshold always reminds her of everything gone wrong in her world, starting with thoughts of Sterling’s fine Lake Shore Drive condo.
“Oh boy,” she huffs sadly, thinking, Here we go again, home sweet home. Profoundly depressed, she turns the key. Chin quivers kick into overdrive.
Chapter 11
REALITY, THE PRESENT TENSE
Sheryl enters her apartment and flicks on a light in her tiny entryway. She’s mentally and emotionally exhausted from Sterling’s visit, on top of a sleep-deprivation hangover following her exodus from Cairo. She is fully spent. Not even a day has passed since she touched down at O’Hare. Already, though, Cairo sort of feels like a lifetime away.
Regardless, she knows nothing has changed here. Magazine and newspaper stacks line the walls of her little front hallway. Clutter gathered from around the world competes against childhood mementoes of family and friends. High-end art pieces on corner stands mix with cheesy golf-outing giveaways stashed on a shelf. More mismatched stuff fills out the claustrophobic entrance hall to her formerly efficient, neat, and orderly one-bedroom apartment.
Maybe this time home I’ll really get around to thinning out some stuff, she thinks. All this stuff presses in upon every fiber of her body, sapping her strength. In what once was a shipshape, comfy home, she judiciously looks before stepping along her cleared pathway through all kinds of bits and pieces. She ventures forward haltingly into the overstuffed congestion of her tiny dining area, made smaller by somewhat organized squalor. “Oh, how,” she groans, “can I go on living like this?”
Her messy surroundings would prevail over those of any legendary cat lady’s Victorian. Standing at th
e junction of her hallway, with the living room to the right and another hallway to her left that leads to her compact master bedroom, Sheryl is flooded with memories of Sterling promising to get them “that big house in Hyde Park, soon!”—whatever “soon” means to him. But the promise was that he would see to it that Sheryl had a place to display her world-collected treasures, the good stuff.
“Damn him!” she shouts to the loneliness of her congested world. So why did she allow things to continue—not only continue but even grow worse, monetarily? Just once, she only needed to have found the strength to walk away. So simple, it seems now. Just change the locks; stop taking his calls. Avoid his hangouts, which would’ve been easy. “Even if it’s easier said than done,” she tells herself.
How this could have been and could still be today is beyond her. As with today, there she sat, looking into his eyes from across the table. Admittedly, though, today is not a good example. This plays like the end of the road. Back in the day, she thought the road went on forever, always allowing one last chance to exit. But no, she has found, sooner or later there’s a dead end.
Memories flow fast. Sheryl remembers how Sterling struck while the iron was hot after Devil’s Lake, working on her for additional cash investment in his clothing company.
Sterling tells her he’s being ripped off by a Chinese company stealing his company’s designs. The State Department is involved, and all assets are tied up in taking the Chinese corporation to court. But not to worry, the judge is sympathetic to all American companies, as per her lengthy record in such cases.
“We just need a little shot in the arm from some outside investment, till those Reds are sent packing back to China,” Sterling confidently states.
“No way!” Sheryl retorts.
“But—”
“No buts.”
“All right, understood,” he whines, “but how about letting me explain it so you’ll understand what I’m all about?”
Foolishly, she relents. “Fine, go ahead.” Hook set.
“It has to be hush-hush,” he insists conspiratorially, “because my mainstream competition doesn’t know about these Chinese knockoffs, or even that my company exists!”
Heartstrings in B-Flat Minor Page 16