Shadows Across America Page 16

  5

  Uncomfortable Truths

  The bus station, with its aura of dust and diesel, looked inert to Ethan, in spite of the parade of passengers and luggage moving around him in a blur. In the end, Andrés had been unable to pick him up, and he found himself in the gray, worn-out station, suffering the fate of solitary travelers. But then he was approached by a gentleman of some bulk who introduced himself as Osvaldo. Ethan remembered his name; he was the taxi driver Andrés trusted. Typical of Andrés, he’d sent Osvaldo in his place with the keys for Ethan’s next home. Now that Ethan was a little more familiar with the city, he guessed that it was on the opposite side of the city from Doña Maria’s house, and the driver confirmed this. Unaware of the circumstances, Osvaldo asked him if he knew their mutual acquaintance through an NGO or whether he was there for business.

  “We’re working on something together.”

  Osvaldo accepted this naturally. Ethan’s new neighborhood was almost entirely occupied by gringos and Europeans involved with various humanitarian projects. An almost foreign atmosphere had sprung up, so much so that at the nearby stores, one of which was run by an Italian couple, it was easier to get food from back home than anything local. Several bars had also sprung up to cater to the local community and a hip crowd from the city.

  The difference was obvious right from the entrance, which was gated and monitored by a uniformed man stationed in a guardhouse. He’d been given advance notice of Ethan’s arrival and asked for his passport to verify his identity. Once he’d been registered, he handed over the keys to the RAV4, which Andrés had left there the previous day. The property consisted of a quarter-mile main road flanked on either side by two-story buildings with slanted roofs. Each unit had a pair of parking spaces. The buildings were organized to maximize the number of potential occupants: they were split into two independent apartments. His belonged to the first floor beneath another that appeared to be empty. Osvaldo told him that this was normal given the rapid turnover of residents: the apartments were rented by the companies they worked for, and they kept up the leases even when they were empty. Andrés had shown excellent judgment. In addition to placing him in the district farthest away from Mara influence, he’d put him in the only spot in the city where he’d go unnoticed. As soon as Osvaldo left him, Ethan went inside and picked up his bags, which were on the bed. He took out his clothes and the gun. Then he showered and got ready to go right back out.

  Throughout his return journey he’d kept in constant contact with Andrés, who explained what had happened to Michelle. In the end it had been a scare but not nearly as bad as they’d initially thought. A woman had found Michelle lying unconscious in an avenue and had called for help. When none of the passing cars had stopped, the passerby had jumped in front of a taxi. The taxi driver had swerved, thinking it might be a robbery or a panhandling bum. The cab had hit the woman and tried to drive off, but the passenger had seen what had happened and made the driver stop. The injuries to the Good Samaritan were actually more severe than Michelle’s. Just another demonstration of the crazy way things worked in these parts.

  Michelle hadn’t suffered any broken bones and had asked to be discharged as soon as she recovered consciousness, but she’d been kept overnight under observation. Ethan and Andrés had gone back and forth about the details of picking up Michelle. At first they’d decided to go together, and then Andrés had said Michelle would leave on her own and would not be going back to her mother’s. Finally, Michelle had agreed to wait for them, but then Andrés had said he needed to tend to his business, which he’d been neglecting of late. So now Ethan was on his way to the hospital. When he arrived, he found that it wasn’t a hospital but a private clinic. Ethan was surprised at the quality of the facilities and wondered whether Andrés could afford all this. As Ethan came into the lobby, the receptionist acted as though she had been expecting him.

  “A pleasure. Miss Michelle Orozco is almost ready to leave. If you like, you can take a seat, and I’ll let her know you’re here.”

  Ethan ignored her and went straight into the room where Michelle was waiting for him. When he opened the door, he found her asleep on the large bed, which wasn’t surprising given the amount of sedatives in her system. She woke up groggy, and like back at the supermarket, he felt as though he were seeing the real Michelle: her face was swollen, her eyes bandaged, and her lips scratched. Michelle was defenseless without her makeup armor. There wasn’t a hint of sensuality or coquettishness about her. She looked vulnerable, even bereft. Michelle opened her only good eye and wasn’t at all upset that he was seeing her in that state. Nor did she seek refuge in self-pity. She smiled, revealing a gap in her teeth and emphasizing the swollen mouth covered in bruises and the scabs over her eye. Michelle wasn’t smiling with her habitual, studied composure but with the humble happiness of a girl getting a treat. When she spoke with a kind of echo in her voice, Ethan realized that she was still stoned.

  “Ethan!” She sat up clumsily, speaking with childish glee. “This is good, isn’t it? It’s good that this happened. I was so scared . . . but it’s good for us.”

  Ethan tried to coax her up off the bed, not sure what she meant.

  “It means that Michi is alive, doesn’t it? I thought that when they were hitting me and while they were sewing me up here. They wouldn’t be doing this if she wasn’t alive. They’re doing it because they’re scared, because we’re on the right track. At first I was terrified of what would happen to me, but when I realized that, I stopped caring. While I was lying on the ground and they were just kicking me, trying to finish me off, I didn’t care. I couldn’t even move. It was a very strange feeling: I tried to move my arms and legs so I could get up, but nothing happened. It was like I was dreaming. The people who saw me later thought that I’d lost my mind; it sounded as though they were speaking through a tube. When they brought me here, they thought that I’d passed out, but I could hear them talking. They were wondering whether I was going to die or not. I was happy because I knew that if the kidnappers weren’t afraid, they wouldn’t have done this to me. They would have just killed me. I didn’t care because my girl is alive, and the only thing that scared me about dying was the idea that I’d never see her again.”

  Her happy, innocent words sank deep. Ethan stopped trying to get her off the bed and sat down next to her, took her hand, just nodding.

  She went on, but her voice faded a little. “In the end, we never got together for you to tell me about your dreams.”

  “They’re just dreams.”

  “But they aren’t, are they? I believe you, you know.”

  At this, he put his other hand over hers. Ethan could see the bloodstains under her nails. One of them had almost come off—it almost certainly would in the next few days—but she didn’t bother to hide them. She wasn’t hiding anything. Behind the veil of wounds and bruises, she looked bright and clean.

  “Talk to me. I know she spoke to you. Tell me about it, please.”

  For the next quarter of an hour, he tried in vain to provide a coherent account of what he’d experienced. He jumped from one dream to the next, mixing them up and allowing them to run together. He intentionally left out his meeting with Rosita and softened the worst parts of the nightmares to avoid giving too gloomy a picture. But Michelle begged him to tell her everything, and she took it well. She listened as though he were talking to her about a daughter who just happened to be living in another country. It was like he’d just been to visit her. Her eyes grew damp as he repeated the things she’d said. When he’d finished, all trace of joy had disappeared, and she was fighting back the tears.

  “That’s her. She loves you so much . . . she never forgot you. I wasn’t a good mother; I didn’t give her what she needed. I don’t know why I do the things I do. I don’t know why . . .”

  She hugged him, and he gently stroked the back of her head.

  “Why did she contact you, Ethan? Why didn’t she speak to me? I want her to be happy—I nev
er screamed at her; I never treated her badly—but I don’t know how to make her happy. I don’t know how to give her what she wants. I’m bad, Ethan. I’m a bad mother.”

  She buried her head in his neck to hide her tears, which began to flow like a swelling river. Eventually, a burst of hiccups indicated that her sobbing had reached a climax. Ethan felt that the only thing he could do was hug her while she drenched his shirt.

  “You’re not bad with her. We lived together. I’ve seen how you are with her,” Ethan said. “I know what you’re willing to do to get her back. Look at what’s happened to you. Michi is alive, and we’re going to get her back.”

  “I never paid her enough attention.”

  “Then you can fix that.”

  She drew back, revealing a face swollen even farther by her outburst. Her bandages were wet and wrinkled, and her nose was dark with bruising. Snot dripped from the tip. Instead of being ashamed, she broke into another smile and reached for a tissue. “I must look ridiculous. Between the cuts on your face and my bruises, we must make quite a pair.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, madam. You’re looking very well.”

  She laughed again, and her voice recovered its earlier joy. “Thank you, Ethan. Thank you for being who you are. You’ve restored my hope. Only now it’s more than hope. You’ve brought Michi back to me. She trusts you. Now I’m sure that I’ll see her again, and it’s all thanks to you. I love you so much, Ethan.”

  Michelle took hold of his face, and Ethan’s gaze met that of her only good eye, which was bloodshot and bruised but still stared up at him in adoration. He’d never felt adoration from her before, the kind of adoration that she used to reserve for the goons who just used her and tossed her away. Back then, he’d have given anything to get her to look at him like that. He felt as though this was the first time he had ever truly known her. What he saw in her injured face was genuine beauty, the soul of a little girl afraid to grow old, happy in spite of her pain because he’d helped her to dream of her daughter. She may have had only one visible pupil, but it was still a wealth of contrasts, brimming over with gratitude and love. Michelle, moving clumsily as though her body were a stranger to her, leaned over and, ignoring the pinpricks of pain, covered his lips in tiny, dry little kisses that felt like the flapping of butterfly wings. Ethan allowed himself to be kissed but initially didn’t respond. Then their mouths opened, and her tongue delved in deeply. The faint taste of blood from the assault came to him. She wrapped her good arm around him as best she could and clung to his body like a creeper, driven by a need to merge with him, to fuse them together so she could lose herself in his muscles. It was a need he’d never sensed in her before. They came together in a long kiss that began as intimacy and eventually became, for him anyway, an erotic experience.

  She leaned back gently, and as she stroked his cheeks with her broken nails, she purred, “I love you, Ethan. I always wondered why I couldn’t before, but now I know. I love you.”

  Doña Maria was ironing as she waited for her daughter to come home, listening to the romantic music she loved. As she lifted the sheets to fold them, she swayed her hips deftly to the beat. Leidy applauded her dancing.

  “Let me help you.”

  “Oh, honey, don’t worry. You’ve suffered enough. Now that Michelle’s coming back, she’ll help me with everything. You need to nurse your grief. Take a rest. You’ve looked after me so well over the past few days.”

  “It’s the least I can do. You saved me; I couldn’t be more grateful. If it weren’t for Beto’s love, I’d . . .” Leidy trailed off, and although her words had been filled with praise and flattery, her broken tone left no one in any doubt about the difficult moment she was going through.

  Beto was curled up on the sofa next to her, checking out the soccer results, deaf to the conversation. He turned to Leidy. “Hey, love. Would you bring me a beer?”

  “Of course, my king.”

  During a commercial, he opened the fresh can and addressed his mother in a childish, wheedling tone. “Mommy, when is Michelle getting back with the gringo? I’m scared about what he’ll say when he sees Leidy and me.”

  “Don’t worry, m’hijo; you have nothing to be afraid of. This is your home, and this is where you’ll stay. If your sister has a problem with that, well . . . she has someone to take care of her, but who’s going to cook for you and take care of you? Who else but me? And then there’s poor Leidy. She’s just been through a tragedy. She’s lost everything.”

  “But you’ll tell him that Leidy had nothing to do with what her family did, won’t you?”

  “Don’t worry, m’hijo. While your girlfriend is in this house, she’s like the second daughter I never had. Aren’t you, honey?”

  “Whatever you say, señora. I couldn’t be more grateful to you. This is another home to me, better than my home . . .” She broke down in tears again, just as she had before.

  “It’s my pleasure, my pleasure. While I’m in charge of this house, it’s yours. No one, no one, can say any different.”

  Beto went over to his girlfriend and perfunctorily brushed his lips against her cheek. Then, as though he’d done his duty, he let her go on washing the dishes and, while she cried into the sink, turned off the sports program, which had switched to basketball. He sat at the table with its white plastic tablecloth, picked up some pan dulce left over from breakfast, and ate it along with the beer.

  “Mommy! Do you think they’ve had lunch?”

  “They should have by now. I’ve made coffee for the men, and if Leidy has to make any more, it only takes a second. There’s still some rice and chicken if anyone’s hungry.”

  They were interrupted by the sound of an approaching engine, which came to a halt by the door. Doña Maria turned around in surprise. They waited a moment, and someone knocked on the door.

  “They’re early!”

  “Shall I answer, Mommy?”

  “No, m’hijo. That’ll upset your sister. I’ll go; you stay here. And you, Leidy, honey, go into the bedroom until we’ve talked things through.”

  Doña Maria unplugged the iron and carefully curled up the cable before going to the door. She walked unhurriedly, intentionally making the new arrivals wait. She wanted to show her disdain for Michelle, Andrés, and the gringo by delaying coming to the door. She wanted to force them to ring again. But they never did. Although she was determined not to let it show, this annoyed her because it meant that she couldn’t be grumpy at their impatience.

  But when she finally opened the door, it turned out not to be the guests she’d expected. Standing before her, taking up all the space between the doorway and the street, were a dozen or so young men standing in threatening postures, their faces held high, chests puffed out, shoulders pulled back, and faces grave, defiant, intimidating. Just over a foot away, so close she could almost smell his breath, was the leader of the pack, the one who just a moment ago had rung the bell so politely. The young man, who couldn’t have been older than twenty-five, wore his hair closely shorn. His clearly visible skull revealed the scars and pockmarks of a life of violence and pain. To him, the only law that mattered was gang law. The young man smiled slowly as his hostess appeared, showing off his thin, chapped lips; bleeding, throbbing gums; and wide teeth blackened by tobacco, alcohol, and drugs. His empty eyes took her in, holding her in their gaze like a snake might a rodent. Maria knew exactly what this meant, but it was too late for her to do anything about it.

  The leader’s face was free of adornments other than a small moustache and a wisp of a beard under his lips. He didn’t have any visible markings to show his allegiances, but his companions were another matter entirely. Dozens of cynical, jaded, bulging, reddened eyes, high on various substances, stared back at her, thirsty for violence and plunder. There were too many for her to take them all in. Intricate tattoos crisscrossed their childish faces. A boy who couldn’t have been older than fifteen had a giant twelve stretching from his chin to his forehead; another with just one
real eye—the other was glass—had the letters M and P in slanted baroque text on his face. Behind them, another head had been turned almost completely black with superimposed drawings that created an unsettling effect. The motifs on the shoulders, chests, forearms, and hands merged together to create a bewildering medley of voices silently screaming in injected ink and labyrinthine, sinister ornamentation. It was a moving blob that, from a distance, looked as though it was vibrating fluidly but incoherently. They were proud of the stains on their pubescent torsos and made sure they could be seen by going shirtless or wearing white string vests. Almost as though it were a uniform, to a boy they were also dressed in low-slung pants with their underwear pulled up and almost unanimously wore the same classic model of Nike sneaker. Locals who weren’t gang members knew that they were forbidden from wearing that model of shoe, at risk of death.

  The leader pulled up his vest to reveal a brutal, recently finished conversation piece: an oval of blood filled entirely by tiny wounds, with geometric shapes layered on top. It ran across his chest and ribs to his belly button. The tattoo was so fresh that it gleamed, and some of the lines were still blurred by swelling. As he showed this to Maria for reasons she couldn’t understand, he let out a high-pitched cackle. It was the closest thing she could imagine to hell.

  “Good afternoon, madam. Is your son at home?”

  Maria felt a rush of fear, and her knees began to buckle. She couldn’t think what to say. In the kitchen, Beto quickly jumped out of his chair. Before they could react, without giving his mother a second thought, he fled desperately out the back. The group saw the movement behind Maria and set out in pursuit. Three of them climbed up the bars in the windows, and as Beto left the kitchen, he could already hear footsteps on the roof. The leader stepped through the doorway, irritably pushing down the old woman. Then he intentionally walked over her on his way inside. As he pressed the sole of his shoe into her mouth, he called out to the running fugitive in an amused tone.