The Dead Women of Juarez (6 page)

On Sundays she met with a dozen women, all older than she. Some could have been her mother and some her grandmother. To a woman they wore black: black dresses, black hats and black veils. They gathered near the open church doors in the bright morning, speaking to no one nor to one another. Each woman’s face was heavily lined from age, work and sorrow. The only time they smiled was when Paloma arrived and hugged each one of them in turn.

On Sundays this church gave the Tridentine Mass. Other churches served their flock in Spanish, but here were the Latin words recited by a pair of ancient priests with hair the color of ash and snow.

On Sundays Paloma sat with these old women and worshipped. She prayed fiercely, and when the time came for Remembrance of the Dead, she and the women linked hands and held tightly, as if the strength of their human chain was the only thing keeping them in the pew.

The air grew warm and thickened with the mingled odor of
flowers, incense and sweat. Lingering smoke drifted high in the vaults of the ugly old church, visible in the light coming through the upper windows. Sooty black stains remained on the stone where countless masses left their mark before.

When the mass was finished, Paloma and the women filed out with the other parishioners. They shook hands with the priests and emerged into the bright morning. Only now that they had said their prayers and received blessings did the women speak to one another. Paloma stayed with them.

The first question each woman asked was always the same – “Have you heard anything?” – because they had all lost someone. In Juárez the bodies of dead women were often found, but other times they vanished and never reappeared. To Paloma, these were the worst, because the women and girls could not be dead if they couldn’t be buried, so they existed forever out of reach in Limbo. When the old women in black held onto each other during the Remembrance of the Dead, they held onto their hope, too.

Paloma had no news for any of them this week. She let her eyes wander the half-dirt street, past a line of battered old cars, and settle on a pick-up parked along a broken curb.

New trucks weren’t unusual in Juárez; even when a family couldn’t afford a proper home and squatted in the
colonias
, sometimes and somehow they could still pull together enough money for a shiny truck. This one was black and had tinted windows and a long cab with double doors for a back seat. Four men lounged against it, the rims of their sunglasses glinting. One man pointed a little camera at the women in black and the ugly church. He was too far away for Paloma to hear the click of a shutter. He lowered the camera again.

Paloma stepped away from the women. The women were talking and would talk for a long time before walking to a late breakfast. The street was littered with yellow-slate rocks. She stooped to grab one. When she straightened again, the man with the camera took another picture.

She hurled the stone. The men scattered and the rock smacked the side of the truck, bounced and hit the ground. One of the men started toward her, but another held him back. Behind Paloma, the women in black fell silent.

“Go home!” Paloma yelled at the men.

One of the women in black made a hissing noise. “Paloma,
¿qué tú está haciendo?
”

The men by the truck lingered. One of them, the angry one, made an obscene gesture at Paloma. She stood in place, ready to pick up another rock, ready to yell or fight or even flee to the church. The men got into the truck. The taillights flashed, big tires in the back crushed gravel and then the truck was gone.

Paloma turned back to the women in black. They stared and suddenly Paloma felt embarrassed. At the door of the church, other parishioners were frozen in place and watching.

“
Vamos
,” Paloma said.

She went to the women and they left together, away from the ugly church and the empty space on the curb the truck abandoned. They would have a light meal together and talk some more and pray and hope before parting ways until the next week.

On Sundays that was the way it was.

K
ELLY WOKE LATE AND LAY IN THE
slanted rays of sun casting from the bedroom window. For a while he just stayed there, but in the end he forced himself to rise and visit the bathroom for a piss and a shower. He wrapped a towel around his waist. Maybe he was a little thinner lately; he wasn’t sure.

He opened a front window and the door to the balcony to let some air flow through the place. Breakfast was light because he hadn’t had time to shop, but with money from the night before he could afford to splurge at the
grocería
come Monday. Some Sundays he had a beer to wash it all down, but not today.

Sunday was a day for dressing up, or at least putting on a shirt with buttons and better shoes than his ratty high-tops. He shaved his neck but left his beard-growth alone. He wore a leather belt with a silver-and-turquoise buckle that was a Christmas gift from Paloma.

It was close to noon before Sevilla knocked on Kelly’s door. Kelly saw him through the open window first, leaning against the iron railing outside with his jacket open against the burgeoning heat, a holstered automatic against his side. Kelly opened up and Sevilla walked in without further invitation.

His full name was Rafael Sevilla and he was, to the best of Kelly’s estimation, closing in on sixty or just past it. His hair used to be black, but now was mostly white, though the whiskers of his little beard were still hanging on. He tended to short as many Mexican men did, but he made up for it with an upright bearing and presence.

“Good morning, Kelly,” Sevilla said in English. He always spoke English to Kelly, even though his accent was heavy.

“Señor Sevilla.”

Sevilla investigated the kitchenette, the empty pans and dishes. He had a large nose and dark eyes and a heavy, melancholy face. He joked he was part hound. Kelly stood by the open door. He glanced outside. Sevilla was alone.

“I hear you went to the clubs with Estéban last night,” Sevilla said. “All night long, club after club. You know, I wonder what the two of you are up to when you do that.”

Kelly finally closed the door. Sevilla wandered to Kelly’s couch and sat down. He had an old man’s belly, but he wasn’t fat. He always rested so his gun was available, never pinned beneath or beside him.

“Are you two selling drugs to the Americans again?” Sevilla asked.

“Wouldn’t the city police want to know?” Kelly returned. He went to the kitchenette and busied himself cleaning. It was easier to keep his voice steady when his hands were busy under warm, soapy water. “Not state police.”

“We’re all on the same side,” Sevilla said. “Besides, you know what drugs mean these days. Did you know they found six bodies without their heads outside the city limits last week? Who knows where the heads are.”

“Estéban isn’t cutting off anybody’s head.”

“Maybe I see a bigger picture. Maybe I’d like to know where Estéban gets his product.”

Kelly rinsed and dried his pan. “No one cares about a little weed.”

“Marijuana? Not really. Who hasn’t had a little
hierba
? But drugs are on everyone’s mind now. We have more federal police in the city than we have flies.”

“So, what, then?” Kelly asked.

“
Chinaloa
,” Sevilla said, and he looked over his shoulder at Kelly
with his dark eyes. Kelly couldn’t figure their color; maybe they were brown, or maybe green. He didn’t like to look too long, because it was the intensity behind them that made him uncomfortable more than the mystery of their color. Kelly watched his hands instead.

“I don’t handle that stuff.”

“Never?”

“Never. You should know that by now.”

“But Estéban deals it,” Sevilla said.

“You know that, too. Goddammit,” Kelly said, and he cracked two plates together in the sink. “Don’t you get tired of coming around here? I got nothing for you. Okay? Nothing.”

Sevilla made a gesture with his hands as if he were tossing an invisible ball back and forth. He half-smiled and turned away. “Maybe I just like to talk to you, Kelly. Nobody wants to talk English with me.”

“Talk to the
turistas
,” Kelly said.

“Even
turistas
hate cops. They think we’re all taking money or looking to bust them for having a good time. Why do they think that, Kelly?”

Kelly shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s you they don’t like.”

“That’s being cruel.”

They fell silent. Kelly dried the dishes and put them away. He didn’t look at Sevilla, but he felt the man at his back, eyes always searching.

“How is Paloma?” Sevilla asked at last.

“She’s good.”

“Have I told you I respect her?” Sevilla asked. “She does good work with that group of hers. Many families are touched by the tragedy. Some of them would surprise you.”

“I’ll bet.”

“You’re eating with her and Estéban today?”

Kelly turned back to Sevilla. The policeman’s face was the same: heavy and sad looking, with a touch of flinty purpose behind the eyes. His body seemed relaxed, but somehow Kelly knew Sevilla was
never at rest. “Yes,” Kelly said. “I always eat with them on Sunday. And I know you know.”

“Then do me a favor, Kelly: just ask Estéban the question. If he answers, you pass it on to me. When we know where he gets his heroin, we’ll leave you be. It’s like painting your door with lamb’s blood; we’ll pass by in the night and you won’t be touched.”

“What about Estéban?”

“If he wants to sell weed to the
turistas
, that’s his business and no concern of mine. Like you say, I’m a state policeman. If the locals want to go out of their way, they can.” Sevilla paused. “Well?”

“If I hear something about it, then I’ll tell you,” Kelly said at last.

“That’s not agreement.”

“It’s what you get.”

Sevilla nodded shortly. He rose from the couch and only then did Kelly venture out of the kitchenette into the larger room. They met at the door. Sevilla opened it. “I knew there was a reason I didn’t throw you back to the police in the States,” he said. “Some people think fighters are stupid, getting hit in the head all the time and not complaining, but we know better.”

“I’ll call you,” Kelly said.

“Of course you will,” Sevilla said, and Kelly knew they both understood it was all a lie; Kelly would never call and Sevilla would not deport him. This was part of a game only Sevilla seemed to understand completely. Kelly wanted him out.

When Sevilla was gone, Kelly paced the apartment. He waited twenty minutes before putting on sweats and running shoes. He would burn the agitation away.

He locked the door and was halfway down the steps to the street when he spotted Sevilla. The policeman lingered by the pink telephone pole, his back to Kelly, absorbed in the flyers. As Kelly watched, Sevilla passed his hand across the flyers as if reading them with his fingertips. He did it twice more before finally walking on. He crossed the road, got into an unremarkable blue sedan, and drove away.

E
STÉBAN AND
P
ALOMA LIVED IN A
small house that once belonged to their parents. Kelly found it old but comfortable, smelling of age and many fresh-cooked meals. He watched
fútbol
on the little television with Estéban while Paloma prepared the meal. When the food was ready, they gathered around the modest dining-room table. Paloma led them in a prayer and then they ate.

The character of their talk was different on Sundays. Paloma did not allow Estéban’s business into the house, and definitely not around the table. Instead they talked about sports and
turistas
and local news and even the weather. Paloma and Estéban discussed extended family Kelly had never met, but kind of knew from many Sundays before.

Paloma’s meals were never fancy, but always hot and filling. They ate green chile stew and hand-pressed tortillas, black beans and rice and eggs. When they were full, Estéban went out back to roll a joker. Normally Kelly would go with him, but today he helped Paloma clean up.

“Don’t you want to get stoned?” Paloma asked him.

“Not today,” Kelly replied.

They gathered dishes and scraped them into a plastic bucket. Later on Paloma would put the bucket outside and a trio of local dogs, lifetime strays, would gorge themselves on scraps.

“You look nice today,” Kelly said after a while. He told the truth;
Paloma always seemed lovelier on Sundays, even when she dressed down for work in the kitchen.

The kitchen was small, but Paloma knew the space well. She cleaned without wasting any effort. “You look good, too,” she told Kelly. “How’s your nose?”

“Better. I’ve been running, too. Getting a workout in. I figure I could lose ten, fifteen pounds easy.”

“What for?” Paloma asked.

“To get my walking around weight down. You know.”

Paloma glanced at him, and Kelly felt her instant appraisal. “For fighting?” she asked.

“Yeah. But
real
fighting, not the kind of stuff I’ve been doing. I’ve lived here long enough and I know some people. Maybe I could get licensed again.”

The dishes and pans were clean, dried and put away. Paloma wiped her hands with a threadbare towel. She wore no polish on her fingernails on Sundays, and the change made her hands look different, more honest somehow.

“I thought you wanted to stop someday,” Paloma said. “We talked about it.”

“I know. But what else am I going to do?”

“There are things out there.”

Paloma looked at Kelly and he looked back. He didn’t sense disapproval from her, but he couldn’t figure out the mind behind the face. Kelly lowered his head and pressed on. “I don’t know what else I could do better than this. Yeah, I’m thirty, but that’s not so bad; in my weight class, some decent training… I could win some fights.”

She was silent for a while, and then finally Paloma nodded. “All right,” she said.

They embraced in the kitchen. The smell of marijuana smoke drifted through the tiny window from the backyard and mingled with the pleasant odor of cooking and Paloma’s skin. “I think I’ve got it figured out,” Kelly said. “I’m trying.”