Grave of Hummingbirds (5 page)

“I got lost somewhere along the way,” she said. “Maybe I forgot what I wanted. Other things took priority.”

“Like me,” Finn said.

“Yes, you took priority but not in a bad way. My life is about you in the best sense. I can’t imagine who I’d be without you.” Sophie smiled. “You’re my center, Finn.”

“Aw, Mom.” He looked touched and uncomfortable.

She took a deep breath and changed the subject. “Maybe you should meet your father when we get back. Do you want to?”

He looked at her incredulously. “Are you kidding? Why would I?”

“Well, you know, he’s your father.”

“Oh yeah? That’s the last thing I’d call him.”

Sophie stared at him, at a loss for words.

“Forget him. I don’t want to talk about him. You should do what you love, Mom. And maybe go on a date. You know, when two people go out, have a drink, maybe dinner . . .”

She narrowed her eyes and mock glared at him. “Seriously? Do you see any prospects lining up, besides the taxi driver?”

“How do you expect to meet anyone? You never go out, except with me or to Trader Joe’s and work. It’s like you’re waiting for your life to happen.” He avoided her stinging gaze. “You could be a lot less . . . passive about the things you want.”

Sophie bit back a sharp retort. His observation, brave and cutting, was also accurate. She often stayed late at work, stepping along empty corridors, past lecture halls that smelled of old sandwiches and disinfectant. Other than work, she made excursions to Trader Joe’s and Walgreens, carrying home bags with Tums for heartburn, aged vanilla root beer for Finn, organic vegetables, seed bread, provolone, and a bottle of cabernet.

Her life lacked agency, and something else. Tenderness. She couldn’t remember when last she’d felt someone trace a finger down her cheek and gaze into her eyes. Had anyone ever done that? She’d let the years go by, waiting, as Finn said, for things to happen. As long as she could keep the two of them afloat, as long as she could duck curveballs, she could live without the forensic work that really called to her. “Okay, as soon as we get back, I’ll try dating. But in the meantime, genius, we’re on vacation.”

“You started it.”

“Yes, I did.” She picked up one of the menus the server had left at the edge of the table. “Let’s have dessert.”

NINE

A
fter lunch they found a street market. In the soft rain, vendors packed their goods away into boxes: fruit and vegetables, pottery, alpaca sweaters, tapestries, coffee beans, and clocks. A man wearing khaki trousers that were rolled above his muddy gum boots wrapped ornaments in newspaper and Bubble Wrap before placing them in a wooden crate.

Sophie and Finn were just in time to see a ceramic bull with an exaggerated head and neck struggling under the gashing beak of a condor. The bird was tied to its back with red ribbons, and bits of clay flesh dangled from its beak. Finn stared. The vendor quickly unwrapped the sculpture to show it off.

Finn took it from him. “We’re really going to see this?” he asked Sophie.

She touched the bull’s flank. “I guess so. It’s what you wanted.” She smiled at the vendor. “I’m sorry. We didn’t mean for you to unpack it.”

He nodded and shrugged.

In halting Spanish, Finn spoke to the man.

Sophie picked up the words
Colibrí
and
fiesta
before she succeeded in drawing Finn away from the stall.

“There’s a bus that leaves for Colibrí at ten a.m. from the Plaza de los Condenados. It’s a five-minute walk from the hotel,” he said.

“Yes, well, maybe we should reconsider. It’ll only upset you, Finn. We can’t take on another crusade, and we’re not here to judge. We’re strangers . . . guests . . .”

“When was the last crusade you took on?” he asked softly.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. Where are we going?”

“I have no idea. Where are we anyway?” She stopped, and he almost ran into her. “What do you know—a museum. Let’s go in.”

“The Museum of the Inquisition. Perfect. Exactly what we need to liven things up,” he said. “Okay, okay, ignore me. After you.”

In the last half hour before the museum closed, they wandered past bleeding wax victims who screamed in the grip of unimaginable devices of torture. They stood before the mummified remains of someone important, at which point Finn took out his phone and put in his earphones.

Sophie walked through the grisly displays alone, trusting him to follow a few steps behind. She shut them out—the chains and metal spokes, the wheels and spikes—and told the scientist in her, who was tempted to analyze exactly what was happening anatomically in each scenario, to give it a rest.

They went to bed early that night, despite the thump of disco music across the street.

TEN

F
inn woke at midnight. He raised his head and peered over at his mother.

“Mom,” he whispered, “are you awake?” He got no response, so he crept out of bed and dressed, quietly slipping out of the room to find a staircase.

There was no one at the front desk. He wandered through the lobby into a small dining area, tables adorned with white cloths and flatware for the morning’s breakfast. At the end of the hall, he came to a bar, where fewer than ten people sat drinking. A couple dressed in raincoats laughed at something the barman said, the woman’s hair dark gold in the subdued light.

“Hello, American. Looking for someone?”

He heard her voice and saw the open top buttons of her frilly forest-green shirt before he recognized the dark-rimmed eyes. She’d taken the pins out of her topknot, and her copper hair teased the owls that sat on her earrings.

Standing by the entrance to the bar, she waited for him to speak, a soft smile lurking.

“Me? Uh . . . you know . . . just exploring.”

“Buy me a drink?”

“Yeah, sure. I mean I can’t,” Finn said, feeling his face heat up and turn what he knew must be lobster red. “Sorry, I didn’t bring any money.”

“Hmm.” She gave him a slanted look.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and pushed his hands into his pockets.

She leaned in close and whispered, “If your mother knows you’re out and about, I’m sober, and since I’m not sober, you shouldn’t be in here. But you know I won’t tell her if you won’t.” She slurred her words. “Why don’t I buy you one?”

She hooked her arm through his and drew him to a table against the wall in the shadows of an alcove, where she sat him down and stood over him. She smelled of smoke and alcohol and tired perfume and something else, something feral, like hunger at the back door of a restaurant. A pink tongue tip rested against slightly parted teeth and lips. She’d taken off the black bra and soft, full breasts fell against her shirt, so he could see her nipples. The loosened cleavage of a woman who had lost someone called Alejandro brought the center of the universe into Finn’s pants.

“What do you want to drink?”

“I’ll have a Coke,” he croaked.

She raised one eyebrow.

“Um, I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

“Good man,” she said.

Good man
, she’d said.

She moved on unsteady legs to the bar.

This kind of thing happened only in movies. Never in his wildest dreams could Finn have hoped to get this lucky. He watched her lean on the bar and pay for their drinks, then weave her way between tables to get back to him.

“My name is Rosita,” she said and pulled her chair up close to his. “I got you a Coke after all. Wanna know what I’m having? I’m having a Lottalittle. Lotta gin, little bit of tonic. Gin makes me cry. Do you mind?”

“Do I mind?”

“If I cry.”

“No,” Finn said as she breathed all over him and he inhaled, nostrils flaring. “I mean, you can if you want to.”

“You’re sweet,” she said.

He gulped his Coke.

Rosita dipped her finger into her drink and lifted it to his lips. “Try some. I won’t feel so bad if you just . . . taste a little bit.”

It was all he could do to stop himself from grabbing her hand and biting it softly, sucking the drink off her fingers, spilling the rest all over her and licking it off.

“I like your hair,” she said, stroking his earlobe with a fingertip.

He ran his hands through the thatch on his head that he hadn’t thought to fix before leaving the room.

“Bed head,” she murmured and closed her eyes. “Will you dance with me?”

“Dance? Here? There’s no music.”

“Ah, but I can fix that.” She opened her eyes very wide, as though she had to focus hard to stay awake. “Wait here. Don’t move.” She made her way to the back of the bar, and seconds later, the notes of a Spanish love song filtered across the room through hidden speakers.

Rosita pulled Finn out of his chair and placed one of his hands at her waist, the other on her shoulder. Her forehead brushed his cheek as she snuggled in and rested her head. At first, she had to push him around in an uneasy shuffle, but soon he got caught up in the singer’s throaty romance, and they began to sway gently. When he tightened his arms around her, she relaxed and let him lead.

“You know how to dance,” she murmured, peering up at him. “How to hold a woman.”

Finn tipped her backward over his arm, then deftly turned her away from the bartender’s sudden interest. Her breath caught, and he traced her spine with the palm of his hand.

“Where did you learn to move like this?” she asked.

“I do ballet,” he said. “It’s not the same, though.”

Rosita held him at arm’s length, suddenly shy, and said, “You think you can lift me?”

“Yes, of course.”

Laughing softly, she bent her knees and Finn picked her up. At the peak of the lift, she collapsed against him, and as he lowered her gently to the floor, he felt every outspoken curve slide against him.

Back home, his pas de deux partner was sixteen years old and lanky in her pink tights and pointe shoes. Her butt had only recently started to take up more space on his shoulder.

Lately he’d gotten stronger and could scoop her up, straighten, and raise her above his thighs, up past his ribs, up beyond the level of his chest, where he seated her safely on a resolute shoulder that usually gave way. She was able to lengthen her back for the first time at this height, to slowly lift one arm above her head into attitude, and to raise one shapely leg above the other, holding the position without shaking.

Rosita’s body was a whole new experience for Finn.

Every part of him shook as his hands settled on her hips and she leaned into him. His muscles bunched and growled and twitched and begged, and he quickly tried to disengage.

Rosita’s glazed eyes opened wide.

She pulled his head down toward her and whispered, “I excite you that much?”

Then she kissed him, and as he felt her tongue, he buried his hands in her hair and mashed his teeth against hers. He pushed her up against the wall into the corner, where a wooden partition hid them from the rest of the bar, and she opened her legs to squeeze his thigh.

All it took for him to know he was going to lose it was the feel of the bunched fabric of her lifted skirt, the press of her breasts against his chest, the tops of her stockings (who wore stockings these days, for God’s sake, but fuck, he was glad she did), and the swell of her thighs above the lace edges.

She pushed his hand into her panties, where she was wet as the inside of her mouth. He easily slipped two fingers inside and felt her, found the hot, slick folds he had seen only on a screen, stroked a fine line of hair softer than his own down there. Nestled just beneath lay what he’d seen on websites and in the anatomy book his mother had bought him after she’d tried to explain how a woman’s body worked.

But what should he do? Was he doing it right?

And he must have been, because she moaned and rubbed against him and writhed, bit his ear and lower lip and ran her hands over his butt . . . and that was all it took. Finn cried out, muffling the sound against her neck as she whispered,
“Shhhhhhh”
in his ear while he held her, as his heart banged against his ribs . . . as she waited for him to keep still so she could draw away and drop her skirt.

“Don’t go,” Rosita murmured. “Not yet. Stay with me. Just for a little while.”

They sat down at the table and he sipped his drink, his longing to say good night and take a shower overwhelming.

Embarrassed now to look at her, Finn had to when she began to whimper. He asked whether she was okay, and she let out a wail, flung her head onto her arms, and sobbed.

Finn touched her shoulder.

At last, she raised her head. Her face looked as though it were melting. Black streaks ran down the sides of her nose and cheeks; her dark-pink lipstick had migrated to her chin, and her naked lips looked swollen.

He had no idea what to do for her, so he squirmed and sat with his hands cupped over the belt of his jeans.

Rosita wiped her nose with the base of her thumb and sniffed. “My boyfriend died on Tuesday night. He was murdered.”

“I’m sorry,” Finn said. “That’s terrible.” It really was. Bizarre. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She shook her head. The owls on her earrings swung. “You’re very young. I wouldn’t be surprised if your mother tucked you in bed an hour ago.”

“I’m not that young, and my mother definitely doesn’t tuck me in. Anymore.” That night she actually had, or she’d tried to. She’d lifted the quilt over his shoulder, kissed her fingers, and brushed them against his cheek as he turned over in his bed to face the wall.

“I don’t even remember your name,” Rosita said.

“It’s Finn.”

“Finn. Maybe I should talk about it. It will be like a . . . like a . . .”

“Therapy?” he said.

“Yes. Like therapy.” She fell silent and bent her head to adjust the vee of her blouse.

Finn waited.

She looked up and placed her elbows on the table, then rested her long nails against her temples and closed her eyes. “Somebody beat him and cut him up with a hunting knife.”

Jesus. “Seriously? Why?”

“Why? He worked for the police. Sometimes that’s enough. He was a homicide detective. Very handsome. He had one eye that was a little bit closed, but he was still sexy, you know? A catch. Alejandro was crazy about me.”

“I’m sorry,” Finn said.

Rosita nodded.

“Did they arrest someone?” His head swam as though he were drunk, although he couldn’t blame the Coke.

“No, but they will. I hope they do. You don’t want to mess with our police.” She licked her fingers and wiped her eyes. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore. It makes me feel worse. What about you? Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No. Not right now.”

“I could fix that for you,” she said coyly, “but you’re leaving tomorrow. Why the rush?”

“We’re going to see the Independence Day festival in Colibrí.”

She stared at him, all traces of seduction and grief gone in an instant. “Colibrí is a terrible place. It’s stupid to go there. And dangerous. You must change your plans.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

She grimaced. “I’ve heard the stories. This same time last year, Alejandro was investigating a murder there.”

Shocked at her transformation, Finn wondered why a murder committed a year ago should freak her out. People got murdered everywhere, and if her boyfriend was a homicide detective, she’d be used to suspicious death. “Yeah, and so . . . ?”

“The village is haunted,” she said, voice sharp.

Finn snorted, then quickly cleared his throat, not wanting to appear rude. “Haunted?”

“You’re laughing at me? It’s okay, you can laugh. But I tell you, people come back from there and talk about strange things.”

“What things?”

“Ghosts. Angels. Mutilations. Disappearances.”

“Cool. I mean, the part about the ghosts and angels. Not the disappearances. Or the mutilations. That’s kind of gross. What mutilations?”

“Never mind,” Rosita huffed. “I’m just telling you, you shouldn’t go. There are plenty of other places to celebrate Independence Day.”

“There are other places where they make a bull run with a condor tied to his back?”

She studied his face. “No. Colibrí is the only place they still do it. I don’t know why they let it continue.”

“Well,” Finn said, “it’s why we came. I’m not going back without seeing it for myself.” He felt a headache settle behind his eyes and struggled to keep them open.

Rosita shook her head. “You’ll go no matter what I say. Just . . . be careful.” She searched his face, her expression anxious. “Promise?”

He nodded.

“You should go back to your mother. She’ll worry.”

Finn stood up and awkwardly brushed his lips against her cheek. He offered to walk her home, but she waved him away.

“I’m really sorry about your boyfriend,” he said.

She smiled sadly and wiggled her fingers. “Bye-bye, American.”