Steven Havill - Statute of Limitations

“Yep. Of course, you might have some great conductor in your past, for all we know. Maybe your real last name is Bach. Didn’t old Johann have about twenty kids, or something like that? Maybe some of them made it to the hinterlands of Mexico. I mean, when they were carrying those virgins up the steps of those Aztec temples to rip their hearts out, someone had to play the march music.”

She ground a knuckle into his ribs. “That’s it,” Estelle agreed. She could have counted on one hand the times when it might have mattered to her who her parents had been. Teresa Reyes, childless and a widow, had adopted her through the church in Tres Santos when Estelle was not yet two years old.

Francis locked a hand over hers to prevent more damage. “But I think he has to go sometime. I trust Sofía’s judgment about his genius, mi corazón . If Francisco had just a little bit of talent…a little proficiency, maybe, she wouldn’t be making such a big deal out of all this. She’d suggest that we make sure hijo got into band in school, that he took lessons, all that stuff that kids do. She was adamant that we buy the piano, and thank God we did that.”

“And when’s that ‘sometime’? Now what?”

“That’s exactly right. Now what? I don’t know.”

“He’s too young to go anywhere.”

“Of course he’s too young, querida . He’s six. And I can hear what Sofía would say. She’d say that at age six, he’s getting a late start. After all, Mozart was composing and performing in public when he was, what…four? Five?”

“And dead at thirty something, oso. ”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Francis said. “For all this medical stuff that keeps me off the street corners, we don’t know, do we?” He pulled her touch closer. “But Mozart was a couple centuries ago, back when they thought that the heart pumped air. I probably could have kept him alive with a good does of amoxicillin. He might have lived long enough to write Don Giovanni, Part Six.”

“I’m serious, querido . I don’t care about Mozart. I care about Francisco. There has to be some other answer,” Estelle said.

“Sure. We could send hijo to New York City.”

“ Caramba . I don’t think so. Anyway, he’s too young for Juilliard.”

“But not for the Conservatorio de Veracruz,” Francis said.

“Ay.”

“Yep. I know exactly what she’s thinking. Sofía could walk Francisco the two blocks to the conservatory and back. From her condo. Every day.” Her husband said it so easily, as if he could actually imagine such a thing. No doubt Sofía could, and as much as Estelle dearly loved her aunt-in-law and Sofía’s wisdom, she felt a pang of jealousy.

“Carlos would be a sad little saquito ,” Estelle said.

“Not if he went, too.”

She pulled his beard very hard, enough to make him gasp.

“Maybe we just moved the wrong way last time,” he said, referring to their half-year in Minnesota. “And you could get a job working for the judiciales. ”

She smoothed his kinked beard, and her lips found his in the darkness. After a long moment, she pulled just far enough away that she could whisper, “I don’t want to think that far ahead yet, oso .”

“Me neither. And I like what we’re doing right here in the backwaters. It’s the kind of medicine I want to practice, where I want to practice it. I can’t picture living in one of the busiest cities on earth. And I look at it this way…when Francisco is eighty-five and venerated around the world, with a bazillion recordings and honors to his credit, will it matter whether he began at age six or sixteen?”

“I don’t think so. I tell myself that it won’t.”

“I don’t think it will matter either. I think our job is to keep him eager, querida . Keep him fueled. We don’t need to send him to some fancy labor camp to twist the last little bit of music out of him before he’s seven.” He stroked her cheek, fingers drawing down the side of her neck, “Besides, if need be, we can bring the world to him. If there’s some great maestro that he needs to study under, we’ll import the guy. If we have to add a music room out back, we’ll do that. He can go to music camps for two weeks at a shot in the summer.”

“I like the sound of that,” Estelle whispered. For a long moment, they lay in each other’s arms, breath matching breath.

“It’s Christmas morning, you know. The boys will be up in a few minutes,” her husband said.

“Then we’d better not waste time,” she replied, snuggling deeper into the curve of his body.

When the telephone rang at 5:55 that Christmas morning, the two boys had indeed been up for many minutes. Estelle was in the kitchen, guiding an industrious Francisco through his second major passion in life, the manufacture of enormous pancakes whose batter he poured meticulously one cake’s worth at a time, dead center in the pan.

Without releasing her support of the heavy bowl, she reached across the counter and picked up the receiver.

“Guzman.”

“Estelle, I need to talk to Francis,” Dr. Alan Perrone said. His tone was clipped and brusque, and he didn’t waste time with the usually automatic apology for the early-hour disturbance on a holiday.

“He’s in the shower,” Estelle said. “Hang on just a second.” At the same time, Sofía Tournál rose from where she had been sitting in the living room with Carlos as the little boy narrated the photos from his latest treasure to her and his grandmother. He had received a Christmas gift book from Padrino that described the history and development of farm tractors…a book that Dr. Francis Guzman had joked would be set to music before the end of the day- Concerto in John Deere Flat.

Sofía smoothly segued into position as bowl handler as Estelle headed down the hall.

“You probably want to head down here, too,” Perrone said. “Someone’s going to want to hold Gayle’s hand.”

“Sure,” she said, without actually having heard what Dr. Perrone had said. When the phone rang, she had immediately thought about Chief Eduardo Martinez, and it was only as she entered the master bedroom that it registered. She stopped short and beckoned to her husband, who appeared shaggy and wet, a towel around his middle.

She handed him the phone. “It’s Alan.”

“Shit,” Francis said matter-of-factly. “What’s up?” he said into the phone, then frowned as he listened to his partner. At the same time, he reached out and touched Estelle on the shoulder as if to hold her in place. “Okay,” he said after a moment. “Yes, I think we’re going to have to do that. He’s stable enough now?” Again, the room was silent as he listened. “Right. Okay, that’s good.” He nodded as if Alan Perrone could see him. “How long was he out?” He frowned and nodded, this time more slowly. “Okay. Give me ten minutes. Estelle will probably be there before that.”

He rang off. “Bob Torrez apparently had a pulmonary embolism early this morning.” He handed her the telephone. “Gayle drove him to the hospital about an hour ago. Alan wants to transport him to University in Albuquerque.”

“Ay,” Estelle whispered, but she was already turning toward the door. “I’ll head down,” she said. Francis nodded, and she left him to dress.

“We’ll be fine,” Sofía said when she saw Estelle’s face. “Just go and do whatever it is that you have to do.”

Without interrupting the process, Estelle bent over her industrious son and kissed him on the forehead, one hand cupping the side of his face while staying clear of the dripping ladle. “Perfecto,” she whispered to him, and he beamed at the huge pancake forming and bubbling. “Thanks, tía ,” she said to Sofía. In the living room, she was met with a frown from her mother.