His Temporary Wife (19 page)

He went on, tonelessly. “We rarely went to school. We’d never heard of child predators,
and we made the little money we made talking to strangers. Someone had seen her out
in the street late one night and … she and I had made stupid, nine-year-old pacts
about how we’d marry when we grew up. She … didn’t grow up.”

His voice quavered slightly and he swallowed hard. Without thinking, she unbuckled
her seat belt and scooted closer, running her hand over his cheek. “I’m so sorry,”
she whispered, even knowing the words could never help.

Behind them, a horn blared. Few cars apparently used this street, but Rafael pulled
through the stop and parked at the edge of the lot. When the car passed, he put the
truck in reverse and backed up until he could turn and head back toward the streets
that would get them out of the desolation.

“When I saw that Cadillac, all gold and shiny, I just lost it.
Todos dijeron
—everyone said that some rich guy probably took Pioja. I grabbed an old hammer and
ran across the street. Put dents all over it, broke the driver’s side window—I did
a lot of damage for a kid. And then the Bentons came out of a house down the block,
apparently a house where Pioja should have been, but her parents …” He took a shuddering
breath. “They were addicts. Didn’t want her and had three other kids anyway.”

“What did they do about the car?”

“The police came. I never knew who called them, the Bentons or someone who lived around
there or what. They insisted the car wasn’t the problem and demanded CPS come. Wouldn’t
leave until the police went over to where I lived and started making arrests and calling
for medical help and social workers.

“I didn’t know who they were then, of course, but my dad asked what he’d done to me,
and said I should save fights for the ones who hurt others. My mom scolded me pretty
harshly, for her, for endangering myself. Asked if I knew what would have happened
if I’d cut an artery. Then she hugged me and asked if I’d like to go get food. They
talked to the police, took me to McDonald’s, and started making arrangements that
day to provide for me.”

Tears streamed down Esme’s face unchecked. How did children survive the situations
they were so often placed in? She’d seen horrible circumstances in her line of work,
even in Rose Creek, but Rafael’s story was unimaginable.

He saw her tears and tried to blot them, but Laredo’s downtown streets were narrow
and full of parked cars, and when a car swerved from the curb to cut him off, he cursed
and jammed on the brakes.

“There are tissues in the console. And much as I appreciate the company, you’d better
put your seat belt on again.”

Esme dried her face and threw the tissue in the bag he had hung from the glove compartment.
She wanted to smile at the incongruity of the fabulously appointed pick-up and a plastic
bag from a local grocery store hanging by a corner from the compartment door.

But she had a final question she needed to ask about the loss of his friend, sensing
that the change from penniless street urchin to successful heir couldn’t have been
easy. “Did you ever find out who killed your friend?” She couldn’t use the nickname
Pioja
, would not insult any child with the name of a blood-sucking, socially embarrassing
parasite.

“Years later, I found out that her name was Laura,” he told her. “Her stepfather was
in prison until recently … died there for what he did to that poor little girl.” He
drew a ragged breath. “I also found out that my mom and dad had gone there after they
heard about the murder to offer to pay for her burial and hire investigators to track
down her killer if the police had any difficulties.”

“Oh, my god,” she murmured.

He managed a short laugh. “Do you see why I would do anything—anything—for those people?
And why I cannot let them down again?”

“But you were a kid. You thought you were defending … or …” she couldn’t remember
the English verb for seeking vengeance, and switched to Spanish, “
vengando a
Laura. How can that be letting them down, if they didn’t know you?”

“No, but then there was Paulette. And Cody.” He wiped a hand over his face, roughly,
and stopped at a light. “Think we can swing by your parents’ a little early? Maybe
we can find a nice place for dinner, if they’d like. I do need to head back to Truth
tonight.”

“We’re not far. I guess we might as well.” She gave him directions that would take
him to the Heights area, where beautiful old homes in lushly landscaped yards had
been the “in place,” the residential area of doctors, politicians, and the very wealthy.

“So we take Clark Street?” he asked, and she nodded.

“We can see how badly worn the
guacamayas
are,” she said gravely, using the Spanish name for the red and blue macaws decorating
boulders along the busy street. The artwork had been painted originally by high school
students and came under scrutiny off and on, with supporters defending the birds as
an integral part of Laredo, and detractors labeling the faded painting a major eyesore.

They drove down the broad, tree-lined street, both glancing instinctively at the former
Martin mansion, now purchased by someone new and completely changed from its simple
lines and beautiful front yard. Wrought iron circled the formerly unfenced property
and benches and statues cluttered the yard.

“Signs of the time that those fences are there?” he asked, and she shrugged.

“Probably.”

A few blocks later they parked on the curb of a corner lot. Esmeralda looked out the
window at the plain brick building, low to the ground, with little in the way of landscaping.
The grass was mostly gone, the victim of heat and lack of care, and she might have
been more embarrassed than she was if she hadn’t just heard Rafael tell her his story.

They walked up to the door together and Esme found herself clutching Rafael’s arm
for moral support, which she thought was ridiculous because this was her house, not
his. He didn’t seem to mind, smiling down at her reassuringly and tucking his arm
in closer so that her arm was pressed into the solid warmth of his torso.

Just before she reached the door, she saw the flutter of a curtain off to the side.
Her mother, undoubtedly, who had already noted the truck, Rafael’s casually expensive
clothes, and his good looks, and reported them dutifully to her father.

“Smile,” he whispered as the door swung open.

Esmeralda had expected the worst of her family, and they hadn’t disappointed. Her
mother and father sat down stiffly and tried to make conversation, but her mother’s
look of suspicion never changed, nor did her father’s constant channel surfing to
find sports games.

Her mother called her into the kitchen, supposedly to take tea out to everyone, but
really to ask the question that Esme had known would come.

“Did he get you pregnant?” her mother hissed, the minute they reached the refrigerator
and were somewhat out of sight of the living room.

“No. I’m not pregnant.” She snatched the tea pitcher and filled a glass, not volunteering
any additional information.

“Call me Adriana,” her mother ordered when Rafael called her “Mrs. Salinas.”

“Ernie,” her father put in gruffly, then went back to his game.

Just when Esme counted herself lucky that Beto wasn’t there, he walked in, smelling
of beer and cigarette smoke. Her mother introduced him to Rafael in glowing terms,
and he perched on the edge of the sofa and interrogated him.

“So, Benton. That’s not a Hispanic name. Anglo, right?”

Almost before Rafael could explain he was adopted, Beto started on the pick-up, about
how expensive it was, how nice it must have to be money.

And when Rafael invited him to join them for dinner, and his mother said she thought
maybe he’d like to go with them to a reasonably priced chain that had started in Laredo,
Beto was indignant.

“My sister’s getting married! Is that the best you can do, bro?”

After protests and complaints and an argument that had given her a headache, Beto
had convinced Rafael to try the Tack Room, a well-known, high-end restaurant on Zaragoza
Street. Part of La Posada, the restaurant served quail and similar delicacies, and
featured steaks named after classic horse races like the Belmont and Preakness.

Her mother and father sat across the table looking around furtively at the wait staff
and elegantly dressed customers, many women sporting expensive jewelry. Beto kept
gulping down wine the waiter brought and whispering crude observations until Esme
managed to kick him under the table. He glared at her, but perhaps because Rafael
was sitting so close to her, an arm loosely along the back of her chair, he didn’t
say anything.

“So, what do you do, Beto?” Rafael asked, conversationally.

Beto flushed and huffed. “I’m between jobs. No one’s hiring right now.”

“He was manager at a big auto parts store,” her mother interceded. “They decided to
make some cuts, and you know how Laredo is.” She nodded. “They let him go because
they could hire someone for less.”

Esmeralda could feel Rafael’s tension through the micrometers separating his skin
from hers. Clearly he found Beto as insufferable as she did, and he didn’t know the
half of it.

The strained atmosphere lightened a little with the arrival of the appetizers. Beto
had demanded bacon-wrapped shrimp, a local version of crab cake, and panchos with
tenderloin. He reached immediately to serve himself, but Esme plucked the platter
away, hissing a little at the burn, and offered them to her mother first. Out of the
corner of her eye, she saw Rafael smile and pass another tray to her father.

“So, as we mentioned back at your house, Esme and I have decided we want to marry
next week,” Rafael said, while they waited for the steaks to come out. “We’d love
to have you there. It’ll be a simple wedding at my place, but I want Esme to have
her family with her.”

Esme doesn’t want them there, though.
Rafael had claimed to have anger management problems, but he was as cool as a cucumber
while fury bubbled through her. She hadn’t thought she could think less of her brother,
but the way he was behaving was inexcusable. And her parents had brought him up like
this, selfish and demanding and never accountable for any of his actions. Disgust
filled her. Maybe Rafael would have second thoughts about having her as his wife.
She wouldn’t blame him.

The entrance of the waiter with their steaks cut off her train of thought. She let
go of the resentment and worry and waited until everyone was served.

“Dig in, folks,” Rafael invited.

“Good,” Beto grunted. “Thought you might be one of those jerks who’d make us pray.”

Rafael sent him a scathing look, but said nothing.

“That was uncalled for, Beto,” her mother chided, and her father nodded, but was already
busy on the sizzling meat.

“We’ll try to go,” Adriana said eventually, addressing herself to Rafael. “It’s kind
of hard for us to get away.”

“My car’s in the shop and theirs is pretty old,” Beto offered.

“It’s not that old,” their father protested. “I’m older than it is. Just don’t like
to travel much anymore.”

“What if I had a car drive down from the Cotulla location and take you up? We’ll be
sure you have transportation while you’re there.”

“If the wedding’s on Saturday, we probably should go up early,” Beto said immediately.
“I mean, don’t fancy weddings have rehearsal dinners and stuff?”

“We’re not going to, but just let Esme know when and we’ll make arrangements,” Rafael
promised, but to her parents. He never even glanced at Beto.

A little later, the group wandered out, crossing the almost empty street to the bright
lights edging San Augustin Plaza. The cathedral towered over the plaza, lights soft
around it. The plaza still had strollers, many of them from out of town, some who
came to the cathedral regularly.

“Still one of the prettiest places in town,” Rafael murmured, as Esme waited to climb
into the truck until her family was settled.

She looked at him with some surprise, since she’d learned how he’d spent his childhood
here, but he shrugged.

“Beauty just is. The cathedral was never to blame for anything.”

Back at her parents’, Rafael firmly refused an invitation to go in for coffee or a
drink, insisting they needed to get back to Truth as early as possible. Esmeralda
climbed into the cab, hoping to hurry the process along. Her mother and father went
inside, but Beto stayed planted where he was on the other side of the truck. She saw
him say something to Rafael, adding an exaggerated wink, and held her breath as Rafael
turned away suddenly from the truck, stepping close to him and leaning into him. Whatever
he said had Beto moving away, face contorted with anger, but his movements also indicating
nervousness.

“What happened?” she asked as they swung out onto a street heading east toward the
interstate accesses.

“Nothing,” Rafael muttered. “Just forget it, Esmeralda.”

Embarrassed as usual by her family, Esme turned away and leaned against the back of
the seat, letting the darkness and light play out as the truck streaked along.

Eventually, Rafael seemed to notice her silence and withdrawal. “He was drunk, Esme.
Why let him get to you?”

“He got to you, didn’t he?” Esme demanded. “I did warn you about my family.”

“I’m not marrying—hiring—your family. Nothing they can do to me can hurt me. I just
hate that you all don’t seem to have a great relationship.” He smiled as she turned
on the CD player. “How did you pull off a day at school without music?” he asked.

She laughed. “Miniscule MP3 players during lunch, planning, and restroom breaks. No
one in Rose Creek knows I live for my country music.”

He laughed. “I find that really hard to believe. Anybody who has seen you at Tía’s
would know. Speaking of which, how’s your relationship with her coming?”