David Corbett - Do They Know I'm Running

She could no longer look at his face. Such a cruel and devious thing to do, take advantage of her grief, play on her conscience, so soon after hearing that Faustino was dead-did they know that? Were they piling one misery on top of the other, just to get her to say something, get her to tell them where Godo was, where Pablito was? As if she knew. As if, supposing everything he’d just said had actually taken place, those two would tell her anything about it.

By the time she realized what was happening she couldn’t stop it, the vomit churned up into her throat and out of her mouth, sour and hot, showering across the seat and onto the floor mats. Her skin was flushed, she felt repulsive, childish, naked.

“Don’t worry, ma’am.” It was Dunn, his voice surprisingly gentle. “You’re probably the third person this month who’s lost his lunch back there. But I bet you figured that out already.”

THEY HELPED HER WALK FROM THE CAR, ONE ON EACH ARM, LEADING her up the steep driveway and into the house. Everyone stared as she came through the door; their gazes weren’t kind. There were strange markings everywhere, circles drawn on the floor and walls, smudges of soot-like powder. Police officers milled about as though they had nowhere else to go. She wavered, feeling sick again but there was nothing left to bring up. Lattimore, sensing her unsteadiness, tightened his hold on her arm. A midair feeling, about to fall-from where?

Lattimore addressed one of the uniformed officers. “The girl still here?”

The officer glanced offhandedly at Lucha, then shook his head. “She was acting a little loose on deck. Mom pitched a fit, be glad you weren’t here. Meds all around, that’s what they wanted. Sergeant said screw it, take her to Kaiser in Martinez, patrol car drove them over about an hour ago. Son went with them. He came home from school while you were gone.”

Lattimore frowned like he was adding up a sum. “Housekeeper’s still here, right?”

“Lourdes? For now. DHS called, they put dibs on her.”

Lucha felt Lattimore’s grip slacken. “DHS? Christ, what the… They’re going to deport her. Best wit we’ve got, only one-” He cut himself short, glancing to Lucha and Dunn then back at the officer, looking sheepish, tense. “Never mind. Not your problem.”

“She’s still in there,” he pointed, “you want to talk to her.”

“Yeah. Good. Thanks.”

Lattimore guided Lucha into a spacious, dimly lit kitchen. A greasy black stain coated the wall above the stove, the lingering smell of a grease fire. A mejicana sat napping at the table. Lucha felt a shudder of contempt. The woman was short like a stump, flabby arms, pudgy hands, dyed hair. She looks like one of those troll dolls, Lucha thought, even as she recognized the scorn for what it was. Fear. What has this puta cochina said, what does she know?

The woman lifted her head, rubbing her eyes, blinking, then staring at Lucha with the same instant distrust. They were opposites, they were mirrors.

Lattimore said, “Élida, this is Lourdes. She was kidnapped yesterday morning by Pablo Orantes and two other young men, Puchi Parada and Chato López, shortly after she finished cleaning this house. They threatened to kill her daughters if she didn’t help them rob the family who lives here. She was here when the robbery took place, when Mr. Snell, the owner, was murdered. As if all that wasn’t bad enough, she’s now in trouble with immigration. She’s not lucky like you, temporary protected status, green card in the pipeline. She may get sent away with no chance of ever coming back. I’ll do what I can but I don’t have much pull. What will happen to her daughters is anybody’s guess. In any event, I thought you might like to meet her, or she might like to meet you, seeing as your nephew and stepson-”

“I told you-”

“-were the leaders in the robbery. She picked out-”

“My marido is dead.” The words escaped before she even had the thought formed. Everyone stared. “Faustino. He was murdered by bandits in Mexico. Yesterday. We were together six years.” She looked at Lourdes with an indifference that felt limitless. “I have nothing to say to this woman.”

ON THE DRIVE BACK TO THE TRAILER, LATTIMORE TOLD HER THAT HE knew about Roque, how he had been driving north through Mexico with Faustino, intending to bring him back home. He did not say how he’d learned this and she felt too numb to ask, staring out the car window, seeing nothing but blurred lights and hulking shapes. He told her he was sorry about Faustino’s death-whatever his sources, she thought, the chivatos had not filled him in on that-but Roque’s involvement made him an accomplice in a conspiracy. She needed to consider that carefully. Everyone would suffer if she did not step forward, tell the truth.

“I will get in touch with a lawyer tomorrow,” she murmured. “I will see what advice he has to give. He or I will contact you.” Or not, she thought.

After they dropped her off at the trailer, she stood for a moment listening to her wind chimes, enjoying them, resenting them. How many little treasures, she wondered, how many fleeting joys slip past as we fail to pay attention?

Inside the trailer, she couldn’t get her bearings. She moved from spot to spot as though looking for something but had no idea what it was. The next thing she knew she was standing in the doorway to his bedroom, looking at the freshly made bed, thinking: My lonely funny Godo, always the wily one, the character, the demon. Do you remember, m’ijo , that time you got so angry when your mother did herself up like a tart and went out, another night at the bar, leaving us alone together like always? How quiet you became, so intense, but I didn’t see that for what it was. Then, behind my back, you found the scissors. By the time I realized you were up to something you’d torn her pillow to shreds, stabbing at it, ripping it, like some crazed little fiend. I grabbed the scissors away and slapped you so hard. You did not cry, though. You bit your lip, daring me to hit you again. I shouted, What do you think you’re doing? But you said nothing, glaring at me. I slapped you once more, harder still. Tears ran down your face but you refused to wipe them away. I dragged you to the couch, told you to sit. If you move, I said, I will beat you like a mule. Later, when your mother stumbled in with the man she dragged home that night, I was lying in bed and I heard the door to my room open, felt you slip into the bed behind me in the dark. For once, I did not shoo you back to your room. I felt guilty and, yes, alone. We lay there, me on my side, my back to you, you on the edge of the bed, so still, and we listened as your mother and her man went at it. Do you remember what I told you? Your mother is going to get pregnant, I said. You are going to have a little brother, maybe a little sister-how are you going to handle that, m’ijo? Only then did you cry. And I did not turn over to comfort you. I let you cry yourself to sleep, thinking: Now, my little monster, now you will learn what it really means to want what is impossible.

The loneliness became unbearable. Shrugging back into the coat she’d just removed, she went out to the car, drove over to Food 4 Less.

A sense of nakedness swept through her as she marched in, everyone glancing up. Did they know what had happened? How? Maybe they were just surprised, it was her day off after all. Only then did it occur to her that she hadn’t put on her makeup. She’d worn her normal face, her dark indígena face. She was the only woman she knew who went to such trouble anymore but only a fool trusts the open-mindedness of strangers. After a moment of stunned silence, Regina the checker broke into an uneasy smile. Alion the bag boy raised a power fist. The others quickly turned back to what they were doing.