Heart of the World (10 page)

I was trying to decide how many T-shirts I could squeeze into my duffel bag when Sam said, “Will you marry me?”

My first thought was that I hadn't heard him correctly. The words themselves sounded odd, rusty and worn. My mouth went dry.

“Jesus, Sam, you do that just to get my attention?”

“Well, it did.” Then he said, “Shove over,” so I rolled onto my back. He turned to face me, weight on his right elbow and arm, his features in shadow. “Look, Monday, Wednesday, Friday, I come here. Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, you come to my place. We're getting in a rut.”

The rut wasn't deeply carved; we'd started seeing each other again only a few months ago. The rut would change if Paolina lived with me. I didn't say anything. I wished I could see his eyes more clearly.

“If you have to go up against Marta in court, wouldn't it be better to face off as a married woman?”

“Have you thought this through, Sam?”

I met him when I was nineteen and foolish, a part-time cabbie way too young to manage a torrid affair with the owner of the company. We argued; he left. I married on the rebound, and he did too, so we both have divorces under our belts. Since then, we've dated and fought and slept together. Slept with others.

“It's no good,” he said. “Even when I'm with another woman, I think about you.”

Would that keep him out of bed with another woman? I wanted to ask:
Would you mean it, the part in the ceremony about forsaking all others?
Would I mean it?

“Yeah,” he said, “I've thought about it. We could buy another place, someplace safer than this, in a good neighborhood. Or we could get a condo in a high-rise, do the gatekeeper thing.”

I already live in a good neighborhood. The North End building
where Sam's father held court for years had two guards in the lobby. Discreet, heavily armed men shadowed the old man whenever he went out.

“Sam, after I get Paolina back, ask me then, okay?”

“Bad timing.”

“I can't deal with this now.”

“I'd come with you tomorrow. You know that. But I've got business that won't wait.”

There was always that. Business.

“I've got to get to Las Vegas,” he said. “Take care of a few things.” Right. And I couldn't ask which things. I couldn't ask if he was headed to Las Vegas to avoid a Miami hit squad. “You need money?”

“I'm okay.” I was planning to use Roldan's money for a while, the cash he'd sent over the years. I've tried to keep it for Paolina's college fund, but if I couldn't bring her back there wouldn't be college.

“Let me know,” he said, and I knew he meant about getting married, not about money.

“I will, Sam. I love you.”

I knew how he'd respond. He'd say what he always says: “Yeah, babe,” or “Me, too, kid.” It wasn't a litmus test or anything. Oh, it used to be; I admit it. I used to wonder why he'd never say the words, why they seemed to stick in his throat when they slipped so easily from mine.

“I love you, Carlotta.”

There wasn't much light in the bedroom, just the dim glow from the streetlamp in front of the next house, but what light there was glinted off the corner of his eye.

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“This Las Vegas trip.” I traced the outline of his mouth with my index finger. “Yeah?”

There were too many things I wanted to say, too many questions blocked by too much history.

“You're okay, right?” That's all that came out.

He smiled and kissed my fingertip. “How about I drive you to the airport in the morning?”

PAOLINA

The door was wooden and so warped she
had to try twice to secure the rusty latch. Dark wood showed through the white paint, especially at eye level where most of the graffiti were scratched. D
ORIS
L
OVES
J
OEY
. D
ORIS
P
UTS
O
UT
. Paolina wondered what moms said when they brought little kids into the bathroom and the four-year-olds asked about the swear words on the door. Even as she had the thought, the toilet in the other tiny stall flushed. Jeez, Ana would start calling her name any minute. She wished they would just leave her
alone
for one second, just leave her in peace so she could
think
. Honestly, she'd given her word. She was old enough to be left on her own for a
second
.

Maybe it was nothing
. Maybe she was just getting weird, thinking too much, watching too hard, letting small irritations build on one another until they blurred into a loop, playing over and over like a late-night movie, on and on. Maybe it was just a coincidence that every time she had to go to the bathroom, Ana needed to go, too. But if she wanted to take a walk, well, Jorge wanted to take a walk, too, really needed to stretch his legs, so grateful she'd mentioned it.

She bit her lip and decided to remain in the stall a little longer to see whether Ana would leave without her. Not that she wanted to stay in the smelly bathroom. Honestly, why couldn't they stop at a Mickey D's or a Burger King or any of the other roadside places with decent bathrooms and familiar food? This dead-end cafe might be cheaper, but the floor
hadn't been mopped in weeks. The unmoving fly in the corner wasn't a recent corpse.

She could hear the tap-tap of heels on linoleum. Then a stream of water cascaded into a sink, then silence. The door didn't creak or slam; Ana was waiting. Paolina doubted she was simply standing by the tiny mirror, applying lipstick in the yellow light. Ana didn't wear makeup, not that Paolina could see. She had nice skin, a small, slightly crooked nose, and tiny pearly teeth, like a doll's. She wore her dark hair pulled back and knotted behind her neck. Paolina wondered if Jorge and Ana were sleeping together. She wondered if Jorge thought she was just some little kid, or if he thought she was pretty like Ana.

Ana was defintely older than Jorge; maybe Ana was so strict with her because she thought Jorge might be falling for her. The idea tickled Paolina for a moment, but it wasn't just Ana who was strict. It was Jorge, too, Jorge even more, locking doors, unplugging the phones, almost like she was a prisoner, as trapped as she'd been at home. I mean, she could understand why it had to be a secret and all, but they were treating her like some kid who didn't even understand the swear words on the toilet-stall door.

She was old enough to help nurse her father back to health. Everyone would see what a good nurse she was. There would be soldiers, young, good-looking, her father's troops—

“Paolina, honey, you okay in there?”

She didn't even have a chance to think her own thoughts in peace
. That was the problem. It was all happening too fast. They should have put more detail in the letter, let her know there was the possibility of helping her dad, the possibility of leaving town. Not that she regretted anything, but why couldn't she ever do stuff the way
she
wanted to do it? Say goodbye, not to her mother, but to the friends who'd understand and keep their mouths shut.

Ana's heels tapped to the front of the stall.

“Paolina?”

“I have a stomachache.”

“That's too bad, honey.”

She hated it when Ana called her honey. The woman was always patting her, touching her arms, smoothing her hair. “You don't need to wait in here.”

The heels tapped, the door banged, and Paolina felt a surge of relief.

Alone. Time to think
. She held a wad of rough toilet paper to her nose to block out the smell. She thought somebody might have thrown up in the stall. The thought almost made her gag so she switched mental gears, but when she did she remembered Julio. She touched the pouch of her sweatshirt thoughtfully as though she expected to find him, even though she knew he wasn't there.

That was the worst. Worse than the stinky bathrooms and fleabag motels, worse than the long bumpy miles shut in the back of the truck and the icky shapeless clothes they made her wear as a disguise. She hadn't brought Julio, hadn't had a clue she'd have to go abruptly or not at all, and they absolutely wouldn't let her go back for him. Nothing she said made a difference, nothing penetrated; it was like they didn't even hear her. Julio, the first gift her father had sent her in her whole life. Julio, the little gold statue who watched over her, who seemed to know when she was sad or happy or when kids were mean to her. He must still be in her locker. He had to be. She couldn't have dropped him.

She expected Ana to rush in while she washed her hands in the stained basin, but the door stayed shut, and she let the warm water drizzle onto her hands in blissful solitude. Her skin was good, too, she decided, even better than Ana's. Oh, she wasn't model-pretty, but who'd want to do something dumb like pose for pictures all day, anyway? If she couldn't make it as a drummer, couldn't find the right band, she was going to be a nurse, or a cop, or even join the army and train to be a pilot. Maybe she'd get married first.

Who knew? Who cared? It was just grownups who always wanted you to have a plan, and plan ahead, and go to college. Carlotta was always harping on that, go to college, go to college, like it was some kind of holy obligation. Maybe it would be a good thing, when she was older, when she had her life sorted out and had done more stuff, but what could you do in a classroom for your whole life? What could you really learn there that you couldn't learn better by doing, by living? When she got back, she'd know so much more, she'd be a way better student. She wouldn't be as restless. She'd be able to concentrate better. She'd be different, somebody who'd lived through a real adventure. All the kids would want to know where she'd been and what she'd done; they'd crowd around to listen.

If she came back
.

That was it. That was the problem. What if she really liked it there and decided not to come back. She needed to have Julio with her. She could almost feel his solid warmth in her palm.

There was a pay phone outside. She'd noticed the sign when they'd walked in from the van, one of those public phone signs, like the one in Central Square, on the next building over, near an alley. The sign was near a drug store and on the other side of the alley was a small liquor store. It would depend on whether Ana was waiting smack outside the door or whether she'd given up and gone back to the van. If she was in the van, Paolina could make a quick right instead of a left and get to the alley unobserved.

If she couldn't have Julio with her, at least she'd know he was safe
.

She searched her pockets and found a quarter, another quarter, and two dimes. She wasn't sure what the phone would take. She wished she had a cell. Using a pay phone was definitely uncool, but a phone was a phone, really. She thought you put the money in first, but maybe if you were dialing collect, it didn't matter. Maybe she had to dial an operator to dial collect. She knew what to do with a cell phone. You just called, duh.

Paolina considered the phone. She'd given her word she wouldn't tell anyone where she was. And she'd keep her word. But that didn't mean she couldn't ask Aurelia to check her locker and find Julio and take care of him. That would be okay. Later, she'd write and tell Aurelia where to send him, and that would be okay, too.

She half expected to find Ana lurking outside the restroom, but the area was deserted. A smile broke out on Paolina's face, an upside-down rainbow of happiness. They trusted her now. They'd decided to treat her more like a grownup, and that was cool. Maybe Jorge was secretly in love with her. Guys liked younger girls. Jorge wasn't that old. Ana was probably ten years older than he was.

She turned speedily to the right, hoping the phone would be in working order. The phones on the streets of Cambridge were usually broken and Marta thought the phone company was vandalizing their own phones, or refusing to repair them, so people would have to buy cells. Paolina thought it was just kids messing with the phones, and as for why, well, it was because it was something to do, that was all, just something to do that wasn't boring for a change.

It wasn't boring because you might get caught
. Making the phone call was exciting, too, just because she wasn't supposed to do it. She quickened her pace.

By the time she made the right turn into the alley, the two quarters and the two dimes were already moist in her palm. Without reading the instructions, because in spite of her bravado she was really worried Ana would show up, she shoved them into the slot and dialed. She knew Aurelia's number by heart. She hardly knew the phone numbers of any of the friends she'd made this year. She didn't care about her new friends, but the thought that she might never see Aurelia again made something funny happen inside her throat. She hoped she'd be able to say hello without choking. She wondered whether she ought to disguise her voice in case somebody else answered the phone.

The phone rang once, twice, then a hand snaked around the corner, grabbed the receiver out of her hand, and slammed it back in the cradle.

Jorge had a weird look on his face and a hand clamped like a vise around Ana's thin arm.

“Yeah, you leave her for a minute, right, this happens. I told you—”

“Let go of me.”

“Yeah, let go of her,” Paolina said.

She could hardly believe it when he slapped her, slapped her hard, across the mouth. The pain made her eyes water and sting. She raised her hand to her cheek.

“You'll be sorry,” she said. “When my dad finds out—”

“Yeah, sure I will,” Jorge said. “Get in the fucking van.”

CHAPTER 8

Muggy
. My gray silk jacket and wool slacks,
too light for the Boston freeze, clung damply to my body as I wrestled my duffel bag into the cab line at the Miami—Dade airport. I shaded my eyes against sunshine so bright it seemed phony, like a late-night-TV ad for some lurid tropical paradise. Ahead of me, a man's floral-print shirt gaped over his belly; he carried a stuffed alligator in one hand and a box of pecan fudge in the other. I folded my jacket over my arm and fumbled in my backpack for sunglasses. By the time I found them, a cab beckoned.