Steven Havill - Statute of Limitations

Again Francis waited for the explanation, and Estelle saw her husband’s forehead pucker as his frown deepened. “I think you should just wait right there, then. You’re at the motel by yourself?”

Estelle sat down on the bed, intrigued. “Then this is what I think we’d better do, Eduardo,” Francis said. “I think we’d better bring you on over to the emergency room. That’s going to be the fastest.” As Dr. Guzman listened, he looked over at Estelle and then rolled his eyes heavenward.

“No, no…I don’t want you to do that,” Francis said quickly. “Pop a couple of those aspirin you just bought. That’s the best thing to do right now. Take a couple and then just sit down and relax, okay? I’m going to have an ambulance swing by there to pick you up.”

His patient said something that made Francis grin. “Yeah, well,” the physician said, “I know it’s an expensive taxi, Eduardo, but sometimes…” He paused as Martinez launched into another string of excuses. “How about this,” Francis said, and he had to repeat himself until he was sure that Eduardo was listening. “I’m pleased that you think you’re feeling better, but how about this. I’ll swing by and check you out. How will that be? I have to go down to the hospital here in a little bit anyway, and it’ll only take me a minute to duck around by the motel. I’ll be there before you know it.”

After another moment of listening, he rose, moving closer to the nightstand. “Yes sir,” he said. “False alarms are a good thing. But we need to make sure that’s exactly what it is. Let’s be sure about this, Eduardo. Stay put, all right?”

Estelle settled into one of the leather chairs beside the computer table. “It isn’t a bother, Eduardo,” Francis said, and sighed in exasperation. “Just stay put, take a couple of aspirin, and wait for me. Don’t go driving off somewhere. Not even home. If I get down there and find out that you’ve driven off somewhere, I’m going to be pissed, Chief. Okay?” In a moment, he switched off and exhaled loudly. “Denial is a wonderful thing.”

“What’s he doing at the motel?” Estelle asked as Francis punched in the auto-dial for dispatch. With a minimum of words, he ordered an ambulance, dispatched to the Posadas Inn. As he did so, he gathered his wallet and keys.

“It’s only a half-dozen blocks from his house, and it has a traveler’s-aid vending machine,” Francis said as he hung up. “He was looking for some aspirin, and that’s not so easy to find on Christmas Eve. The motel is closer than the convenience store. He said that he couldn’t get his breath, and then when he sat down and tried to relax, he felt as if someone was sitting on him.” Francis put an arm around Estelle’s shoulders as he headed toward the door. “Before he went to the motel, he was home by himself, so that tells us something. He didn’t feel good enough to go out with the family.” He glanced at his watch and shook his head. “He says that last year when Essie fell and broke her hip, they called an ambulance and it cost ’em six hundred bucks for a ride across town.”

He paused and turned, encircling Estelle in a full bear hug. “It’ll just take a few minutes, querida. We’ll get him over to the ER and hang some wires on him to see what’s going on.” They stood silently, caught up in each other’s arms. “Gilbert and Sullivan have a nice concert going out there.”

“It’s delightful,” Estelle said. “They’re still doing the old standbys, but Francisco says he has a new story that he wants to play for Aunt Sofía when she and Mamá come home.”

“Well, don’t let him start until I get back,” Francis said.

Estelle followed her husband into the living room, where he scooped a lightweight windbreaker off the back of the sofa, walked over to the piano, and bent down so that his head was between the two boys. He whispered something that brought conspiratory giggles. Estelle walked her husband out to the car, ignoring the cut of the wind and the occasional mist of icy rain. There would be a trace of holiday snow on the San Cristóbal peaks by morning.

“ Padrino is still coming over?” Francis asked as he slid into his SUV. “You guys baked enough this afternoon for an army. We need someone to help us chow our way through all those calories.”

“He promised that he would,” Estelle replied. She leaned through the window, and their kiss was a quick token. “Thanks for keeping an eye on the chief,” she said. “I hope everything is okay. We’ll see you in a bit. Be careful.”

Dr. Guzman backed the SUV out of the driveway and turned south on Twelfth Street, his affectionate wave belied by the expression of preoccupied concern on his face and the snarl of the engine as he floored the gas pedal. Estelle stood for a moment in the front yard of their sprawling, much added-to home, enjoying the chill of that December night. Light curtains of mist slanted through the wash of each streetlight and drew halos around the Christmas lights on porches and rooflines. The tropical disturbance hundreds of miles south had pumped the dank air northward, but the temperatures had refused to cooperate by chilling the mist and rain into snow.

The neighbors across the street had set out luminarias , using the traditional paper bags and candles. The bags sagged from the dampness, with half of the candles drowned. One of the bags had sagged against the lighted candle inside and flamed briefly, then subsided into a puddle of charred paper as the little bonfire winked out.

For another minute after her husband’s car disappeared down the street, Estelle remained outside, listening to the piano music that drifted out from the house. As the chill was beginning to seep through her sweater and she was turning toward the house, she heard the ambulance siren off in the distance, and that ran an icy finger up her spine. She stopped and watched as a large silver Mercedes whispered down the street and then into her driveway.

“This is good,” her mother said in Spanish as Estelle helped her out of the car. “My daughter stands out in the rain, no hat, no coat. Los Dos have more sense,” she said, referring to her two grandchildren inside.

“The rain feels good, Mamá ,” Estelle said. “How was the service?”

“The service was just fine,” Teresa Reyes said. “You should have gone.” She nodded toward the house as she navigated around the car’s front fender, Estelle at her elbow. “It wouldn’t hurt them, either. You go inside now.”

Sofía Tournál took Teresa’s other elbow. “We actually saw a little snow in Regál Pass,” she said, her Mexican accent thick and elegant as she diplomatically changed the subject. “Just enough to grace the trees.”

“As long as it doesn’t stick on the highway,” Estelle said. “We don’t need a string of tourists ending up in the ditch. I was beginning to be a little concerned about you two.”

At that, Teresa hesitated at the front step and turned toward her daughter. Perhaps she had heard the last notes of the siren as the ambulance sped south toward the motel. “You’re not working tonight, are you?”

“I hope not, Mamá .”

“Well, then,” Teresa said, as if that settled all matters about snow, Regál Pass, and tourists. “They decorated the church with a mountain of juniper boughs this year. I thought I was going to sneeze through the whole service. You should have seen it.”

Together they maneuvered the three low steps of the front stoop, and four-year-old Carlos greeted them at the door. Francisco remained at the piano, now playing a slow, simple, and immensely sad piece of music. Sofía Tournál stepped inside, head cocked as she listened, eyes narrowed critically. Francisco finished the piece, looked up at his great aunt, and beamed.