American Dirt : A Novel (2020) (10 page)

Meredith sighs and leans over the back of her chair. ‘I don’t know, I don’t know.’

‘Just pray on it,’ he says. ‘Give it up to God.’

She turns and clicks on the electric kettle, even though no one has yet managed to choke down the first cup of tea. With her back to the table she says, ‘Are you sure they’re even looking for you now?’ She faces the table again and leans against the counter. ‘Wasn’t Sebasti
á
n the example they wanted? They got him, so maybe it’s over now.’

Luca looks from Meredith back to Mami, and she meets his gaze, and pauses, as if weighing how much to say in front of him. Perhaps she remembers that fear is good for him now. He should be afraid.

‘No,’ Mami says quietly. ‘He won’t stop until he finds us.’

Chapter Eight

In bed, on the night she discovered that Javier and La
Lechuza were the same person, Lydia turned off the lamp but did not close her eyes. She and Sebasti
á
n had always agreed that married people were entitled to a certain measure of privacy, that they needn’t tell each other everything. It was one of the reasons she’d fallen in love with him; he didn’t press her on personal matters, he was seldom jealous, and he had no interest in annexing or directing her friendships with other men.

‘You’re a person, an adult,’ he said to her before they were engaged. ‘And I am your lover. If we get married, you choose me. I hope you’ll continue to choose me every day.’ Lydia had laughed at his unfashionable use of the word
lover,
but the sentiment thrilled her. Before Sebasti
á
n, she’d always presumed that marriage would entail a sacrifice of her liberty. That it had not, delighted her. They were both trustworthy, and they fancied themselves quite modern. They kept nothing of import from each other, but Lydia liked having a sacred cupboard within herself, to which only she was allowed access.

So there’d been nothing untoward in her failure to mention the name Javier to her husband before, but, of course, that night, everything changed. When Sebasti
á
n got up in the morning and kissed her forehead on his way to the bathroom, she was still awake. She sat up in bed, her stomach lurching with the movement.

‘Sebasti
á
n,’ she said. She thought about not telling him, about asking questions instead. She knew that once the words were out of her mouth, her friendship with Javier would come to an end, and beneath everything else, there was a foundation of grief to that impending loss. She wanted her discovery to be untrue, a misunderstanding.

Her husband turned toward her in the gray light of the bedroom. ‘What’s wrong?’ He knew instantly, from the pitch of her voice. He crossed the space between them and sat beside her on the bed.

‘He’s my friend,’ she confessed.

Sebasti
á
n didn’t go to work that morning. He called his editor and left a message that he was following a lead and wouldn’t be in until later. He and Lydia sat together on the unmade bed and talked for hours, while outside the light shifted from gray to pink to broad, sunny yellow. When it was time to wake Luca and take him to school, they managed the routine in a distracted haze.

‘I’ll take him today,’ Sebasti
á
n insisted. ‘You wait here.’

Lydia cried in the shower.

When Sebasti
á
n returned they continued their discussion at the kitchen table. Lydia’s wet hair was knotted on top of her head and her face felt blotchy.

‘Is there any chance you’re mistaken?’ she asked, her arms folded in front of her. She already knew the answer, but it made no sense. She was floundering.

Sebastian locked his eyes on her and answered in the most deliberate possible tone. ‘No.’

She nodded. ‘The piece you’re working on about Los Jardineros – does it specifically mention him?’

‘Yes, it’s all about him, his big debut. The whole
Hello, World, I’m a Major Kingpin
expos
é
.’

Lydia tilted her head to one side, placed her hand against her forehead. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she whispered. ‘It seems impossible.’

‘There’s nothing to
do,
Lydia.’

‘But I just can’t understand it. I
know
him.’

‘I know, Lydia, I know. How charming he can be, how erudite. But he’s also incredibly dangerous.’

She pictured Javier’s eyes, how exposed they looked whenever he removed his glasses. That word
dangerous
seemed so incompatible.

‘I know it’s difficult to get your head around it,’ Sebasti
á
n said. ‘I can see you’re struggling, and I’m sorry.’ He paused before he shifted gears. ‘But he’s a murderer, Lydia. Many times over. This guy is made of blood.’

This guy.
She shook her head again. Sebasti
á
n stood up and placed his hands on the back of his chair. He pushed it under the table. ‘He’s not who you thought he was.’

‘But you said yourself, just last night, that he, that Los Jardineros, they aren’t as violent as the other cartels.’

He had said that, dammit. Lydia opened the kitchen window to the noise of traffic below.

‘Lydia, I love you. I love your loyalty and your goodness. But we are talking degrees of murderers here. Less violent or not, he’s still a major narco. And when you’ve killed that many people, killing becomes conventional. Does it matter that he’s killed
fewer
children than other murderers have? It’s not a moderation born of virtue. It’s a
pinche
business decision. That guy would kill
anyone
if he thought it was the smart thing to do.’

‘Not anyone.’ Her voice was a weakening plea. ‘He has a daughter.’

Sebasti
á
n dropped his head between his outstretched arms.

‘Sebasti
á
n, listen,’ she said. ‘I know it all sounds absurd but I’m not na
ï
ve. I’m not an idiot, right?’

‘You’re the smartest woman I know.’

‘So I’m just, I’m trying to take it all in, to reconcile everything you’re telling me, and to make it match up with the person I know Javier to be.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘It’s difficult.’

‘I can’t imagine.’

‘Because I do, Sebasti
á
n, I know him. And like you say, he
is
smart. In a different life he could’ve been someone good—’

‘But it’s not a different life, Lydia. He’s not someone good.’

‘But maybe he still could be. That’s what I’m telling you. Because people are complex and whatever you say he is, he’s also this other person. This tortured, poetic soul, full of remorse. He’s funny. He’s kind. Maybe things could still be different.’

‘Wait.’ Sebastian surveyed his wife, who was now leaning against the kitchen windowsill. Outside a horn blared, and a breeze moved past a drying tendril of her hair. ‘Wait a second, Lydia. Are you in love with him?’

‘What?’

‘Are you?’

‘Sebasti
á
n, don’t be ridiculous. This is no time for histrionics.’

He shook his head. ‘But do you have feelings for him?’

‘No, not like that. I do love him—’

‘You
love
him?’

‘He’s my friend! A real friend, someone who’s become very important to me!’ She leaned her hands on her knees and looked up at him. The coffeemaker gurgled and sighed. ‘His father died of cancer, too.’

Her husband pulled the chair back out and sat down again. ‘Oh, Lydia.’

Sebasti
á
n had never met Lydia’s father, but his death was such
a defining loss in Lydia’s life, and indeed in Sebasti
á
n and Lydia’s early courtship, that he felt a strong kinship to his deceased father-in-law, nonetheless. He knew all the stories. How, when Lydia was twelve years old (slightly too old for teddy bears), her lifelong favorite developed a gash in its nose. Lydia was heartbroken and embarrassed. The bear hemorrhaged his stuffing all over the house. Lydia’s father went quietly to the pharmacy and returned with a bag that he placed on their kitchen table beneath a swing-arm lamp. He instructed her to bring the bear from her room. She transported the bear with great care, and when she returned to the kitchen, it had been transformed into an operating room. There was a sheet of plastic spread out across the table. Her father wore a mask and rubber gloves. His surgical tools were spread out beneath the lamp: needle, thread, a gleaming swatch of new leather. Lydia’s father crafted an entirely new leather nose for her bear. Sebasti
á
n knew, too, that the only green vegetable his father-in-law ate was lima beans, that he had a three-inch scar on his leg from a childhood boating accident, that he sang loudly at concerts and sometimes in mortifying harmony with whatever act was onstage. Sebasti
á
n knew that the only time Lydia had ever seen her father cry was when Oscar De La Hoya won the gold medal round at the 1992 Olympics in Barcelona. Sebasti
á
n felt such a fondness for his father-in-law that he wondered if he knew the man better in death than he would have in life. They’d been dating only eight weeks, and were at the Estadio Azul in Mexico City attending a
f
ú
tbol
match when Lydia got that terrible phone call. Though the cancer had been slow, the end had been fast, unexpected. It was October 24, 2003, exactly one week before
el D
í
a de los Muertos
. Reportedly his last words had been, ‘There’s a party. I have to prepare.’

Lydia and Sebasti
á
n left the stadium immediately, and he drove her first to her apartment and then, through the night, back to Acapulco. Her clothes were in heaps in the backseat. She couldn’t think what she was supposed to bring, so she brought everything. She packed in a laundry basket. Sebasti
á
n held her hand in the dark and stopped on the side of the road near Cuernavaca when she thought she might throw up. He drove back and forth to Mexico City three more times that week: the next day, to retrieve his own clothes, two days later, to inform Lydia’s professors and his own about their absences, and finally to bring some of her friends down for the funeral, and to join Lydia’s mother in convincing Lydia to return to college.

In some way, Sebasti
á
n always credited that tragedy with being the thing that cemented their relationship. They had already known they were falling in love, and then the gravity of that heartbreak acted like a measuring stick for Lydia. It calculated the depth of Sebasti
á
n’s character. The death aroused an unfamiliar stability in Sebasti
á
n. He found himself expanding in an effort to plug the holes in Lydia’s life. So he understood, when she said this simple thing about Javier – that his father died of cancer, too – Sebasti
á
n understood the scope of what that shared experience really meant to his wife.

‘How old was he,’ Sebasti
á
n asked, ‘when his father died?’

‘Eleven,’ she said.

Sebasti
á
n grimaced. ‘Terrible.’

Lydia went to the cupboard and took down two mugs, which she filled with coffee. She set one in front of her husband and sat down beside him once again. She drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around her legs.

‘Sebasti
á
n, I think he’s in love with me.’

Sebasti
á
n filled his cheeks with air before letting it all loose into the room. ‘
Maldita sea,
’ he said. ‘Of course he is.’

* * *

In the short term, the only real change was that Sebasti
á
n began calling and coming to the shop more frequently than he had before. Four or five times a day he texted, and even if she was busy, she made sure to respond, to reassure him. All was well. Lydia was intensely nervous when Javier came the following week. She texted Sebasti
á
n beneath the counter.
He’s here. I’ll call u after.

Javier carried a small parcel and his eyes were brighter than usual. He seemed eager for the other customers to withdraw, but Lydia took her time, reluctant to be alone with him. When the last couple wandered toward the exit without any purchases, she called after them, ‘Did you find everything okay?’ They didn’t answer her. The man only nodded, and the bell above the door startled as they left. Lydia’s hands trembled as she spooned sugar into Javier’s cup.

He smiled broadly at her from his stool. ‘I brought a gift.’ He prodded the paper-wrapped bundle across the counter to her.

It was plain brown paper, taped and devoid of ribbons, but the austerity of the wrapping didn’t diminish the intimacy of an unwarranted gift on a Wednesday morning. Lydia opened it anyway. Inside was a wooden nesting doll, peanut shaped and about the length of Lydia’s forearm, with a barely visible seam running around her middle. She was painted in festive colors: black hair, pink cheeks, yellow apron, red roses. Lydia pulled her apart at the seam and, inside, found her identical, smaller sister. She pulled her apart again, and again, and each time she discovered in miniature the shell of the doll before her.

‘They’re Russian nesting dolls,’ she said.

‘Yes.’ Javier watched her face. ‘But really they’re me. Keep going.’

She pulled apart the last severed doll, no taller than her thumb, and inside she found the tiniest sister. This one was bright turquoise, and more beautiful, more exquisite and detailed than all the sisters before her. Lydia pinched her between finger and thumb. She held her up and studied the intricate silver filigree of her paintwork.