Woman in Black (24 page)

She was near collapse when a battered yellow pickup pulled over onto the shoulder in a plume of dust and a pink-faced
gringo
in a battered straw hat stuck his head out the window. He called out to her in English, something she couldn't comprehend. It wasn't until he hooked a thumb toward the open bed of his pickup that she understood he was offering her a lift. She hesitated but an instant before climbing in. He might have been looking to turn her over to La Migra, he might even have been a murderer or a rapist, but at that moment she was too exhausted to care.

The
gringo
proved harmless, though. He dropped her off at the nearest filling station, in a sleepy little burg that didn't look to be much bigger than her village back home. She had a little bit of money—American dollars sewn into the hem of her dress—and, after quenching her thirst at the water fountain, she used some of it to buy a small carton of milk and some crackers and cheese in the convenience store. Luckily, the young man who waited on her was Hispanic. She asked him how to get to Los Angeles, and he pulled a road map from the rack by the counter. He was showing her which route to take when she stopped him, explaining that she was on foot. He gave her a peculiar look, taking note of her bedraggled appearance and perhaps guessing at the reason for it, before directing her to the nearest bus station. But by the time she reached it, it was closed. She was forced to spend the night on the hard wooden bench outside, which mattered little, as it turned out. She was so exhausted, she was asleep the instant she stretched out. The following morning, when the ticket counter opened, she purchased a one-way ticket to Los Angeles.

Four hours later, she arrived in LA, which she soon discovered wasn't so much a city as a loose sprawl of neighborhoods linked by freeways. It wasn't long before she was hopelessly lost. She would get off one bus only to board another that took her to some new, equally confusing location. Each neighborhood, she found, was like a separate nation unto itself, with its own set of inhabitants, its own culture: white, black, Asian, Hispanic. By the time she reached the one from which Eduardo's last letter had been sent, a Latino neighborhood called Echo Park, the sun had nearly set.

She spent the night on a park bench before resuming her search as soon as it was light out. Hours later, she finally arrived at the address on the envelope tucked in her pocket: a run-down apartment complex on a quiet, residential street. She didn't even know if Eduardo still lived there. There had been no word from him in some time. Had he even received her letter informing him of Milagros's death? For all she knew, he could have been caught and sent back. In one of his earlier letters to Milagros, he'd written about an incident in which INS agents had burst into the house he'd been living in at the time with a dozen of his
compadres
, and arrested everyone they could round up. Luckily, Eduardo hadn't been around when the raid had taken place or he, too, would have been put on a bus and sent back across the border.

She climbed the stairs to his apartment and knocked on the door. She was sweating, and her grumbling stomach reminded her that she'd had nothing to eat since the day before. There were no sounds of anyone stirring inside, but she waited even so, knocking again, harder this time, until her knuckles were bruised. The door, however, remained stubbornly closed. It was with a keen sense of disappointment that she finally turned away.

Still, she told herself that there was no cause for alarm just yet. It was half past eight, according to the clock outside the car wash across the street; Eduardo might have already left for work. In his last letter, he'd written excitedly to Milagros of having found a steady job as an automobile mechanic. In this country, he'd written, husbands and wives each had their own car, so there was always plenty of work at the garage where he was employed. He'd been hoping to finally be able to save enough money to send for Milagros. One day he would even buy her a house. Anything was possible in the land of the
gringos
.

Concepción cared nothing for houses or cars. All she needed right now was a place to stay until she could earn enough money to get to New York, where the Señora lived. That prospect seemed very distant at the moment, when she scarcely had enough money to pay for a decent meal.

She sank down on the patch of scruffy brown lawn that bordered the patio at the center of the apartment complex, under the shade of a palm tree that looked as if it, too, had seen better days. She would just have to wait until Eduardo returned, all day if need be.

She instantly fell into a deep sleep, waking hours later to find the sun high in the sky. It peeked through the palm fronds and cast long shadows over the grass where she lay. One of those shadows, she realized with a start, belonged to a man standing over her. She jerked upright, running her hands through her hair, which had begun to grow out and which was now sticking out all over her head like a tumbleweed, studded with burrs and foxtails and bits of grass. What a pathetic sight she must make! Like some common
vago
, sprawled there on the ground. She squinted up at the man, heart in throat, wondering what his intent was—was he planning on turning her in to the authorities … or robbing her of what little she had left?—but she couldn't make out his features with the sun's glare on his face.

It was a relief when he inquired politely, in Spanish, “Are you all right,
señora?
”

She nodded, finding it difficult to form words. Her mouth felt as if it were lined with cotton flannel. At last she was able to croak, “I'm looking for my son-in-law. Eduardo Sánchez. Do you know him?”

The man squatted down so that they were eye to eye, and now she could see that his was a kind face. Neither young nor old, handsome nor ugly. Just … kind. With a flattened nose above a wide, expressive mouth and thick, dark eyebrows that flared, as if in surprise or perhaps amusement, above a pair of eyes the color of strong coffee. She noted that he had good teeth, and that his curly hair was threaded with gray. Mainly, and most importantly, he was a fellow countryman. Even his clothes were different from the ones the
gringos
wore, with their fancy designs and garish logos displayed like bumper stickers on cars—plain jeans and a brown work shirt, a cap he held in one hand while he scratched his head, frowning as he struggled to recollect anyone by that name.

“There was a Sánchez who used to live in one of the apartments upstairs,” he said, pointing toward the row of faded aqua doors along the walkway that wrapped around the second story of the complex. One was the door on which Concepción had knocked earlier. “I don't know if he was the same man you're looking for. It's a common name.”

Her heart sank. “You say he
used
to live here?”

The man shrugged. “Was he an illegal? They don't stick around for very long.” Her disheveled appearance and the fact that she'd been sleeping out in the open must have led him to believe that the man she sought probably didn't have a green card, either. “The ones who don't get caught eventually move on to wherever they can find work.”

“Do they ever come back?” she asked hopefully.

He shrugged again, and she could see the answer written on his face, one she'd dreaded. “This Sánchez, you say he's your son-in-law?”

She nodded. Her disappointment was so keen that she could taste it on the back of her tongue, the salty-sweet taste of tears. Where would she go now? To whom would she turn?

“Do you know where I might find him?” she asked, struggling to keep the desperation from her voice.

The man shook his head, regarding her with sympathy. “I'm sorry,
señora
.”

“There must be someone who would know. He said he had a job, a good one. Wait, I have the name of his employer.” She pulled the letter from her pocket, smoothing it over her knees.

But before she could go any further, the kind-faced man informed her that even if she knew where Eduardo had worked, it wouldn't do her any good. “They pay the illegals in cash,” he explained. “That way, there's no record in case the INS comes around. Though usually the only ones who get caught are the
campesinos
breaking their backs for a few dollars a day.”

A new fear crept in. “What happens when they get caught?” She'd heard horror stories about beatings, and worse.

“Nothing much. Usually they're just bused back across the border. At least, that's what I've heard.”

“You know a lot for a man who's never been caught himself,” she said, growing suspicious all of a sudden. For all she knew, he could work for La Migra.

He broke into a grin, revealing a gap between his front teeth. “Not all of us are in this country illegally,
señora
. I myself am a citizen.” In fact, he'd been born in this country, he told her. Concepción remained wary, nonetheless. Suppose he was only trying to gain her confidence in order to turn her in? As if sensing her reluctance to trust him, he was quick to reassure her, “You have nothing to fear from me,
señora
. I don't know if I can help you find your son-in-law, but if you need a place to stay, that I can easily arrange. In the meantime, will you allow me the pleasure of buying you breakfast?” Still smiling, he rose to his full height and put out a hand to help her to her feet.

He seemed sincere, but she hesitated even so. Concepción had never needed a helping hand more than she did now. Plus, she was ravenous. Still …

“I don't even know your name,” she said.

“Ramírez. Jesús Ramírez.
Y usted?
”

She looked up into his smiling face, in which nothing appeared to be hidden—where would there have been room to hide in all that openness? Finally the last of her resistance gave way. With a sigh, she put out her hand, allowing him to help her to her feet. His hand was big, like the rest of him, its palm ridged with calluses, making her think of seasoned oak.

“Concepción,” she told him. He didn't need to know her last name.

“Like the Virgin Sagrada,” he observed.

“
Exactamente.
” She gave him a stern look, letting him know that, although she might be long past the age of guarding her virginity, she wasn't going to be had for the price of a meal, either.

Jesús Ramírez got the message and quickly let go of her hand.

Soon after, she was tucking into an enormous plate of
huevos rancheros
, refried beans, and yellow rice at a cantina down the street. When she'd had her fill, she pushed her plate away, groaning, “I don't know when I've eaten so much.” She eyed the bill that their waitress had left on the table. “Won't you at least let me pay my share?” She still had a few dollars left. She wasn't completely indigent.

“
Claro que no
. You're my guest.” Jesús withdrew a battered cowhide wallet from his back pocket, from which he extracted a few equally battered bills. He hesitated before slipping the wallet back into his pocket. “Do you need money? I could lend you some until you find work.”

Concepción shook her head, too proud to admit that she
did
need money. “Do you know of any jobs?” she asked.

“There are always jobs cleaning houses or looking after children,” he said. “How's your English?”

“I know a little,” she said. She'd been practicing, using a phrase book.

“Don't worry, you'll learn. And there are always classes you can take.”

She took another sip of her coffee, savoring its milky sweetness. “I won't be around that long,” she told him. “I just need to earn enough money to get to New York.”

“New York? That's a long way from here.” He eyed her curiously. “Do you have family there?”

No, no one.

“A job, then?” She shook her head. Jesús looked confused. “
Perdóname, señora
, but why would you want to go to a place where you know no one and you have no work?”

She deliberated for a moment, wondering how much she ought to tell him. They'd only just met, and they might never see each other again. Besides, she didn't know that it was any of his business. Concepción, thinking not of Jesús but of her daughter's restless soul up in heaven, replied simply, “I made a promise. A promise I intend to keep.”

9

“What are we going to do about a Christmas tree?”

Lila lifted her head from the crossword puzzle she was working on to look at Neal. “I don't know, sweetie. I hadn't really thought about it.”

In the past, she'd always gone all out at Christmastime—the tree decked in the ornaments she'd collected through the years, holiday gatherings of family and friends, tickets to
The Nutcracker Suite
, Christmas dinner with all the trimmings—but this year, her heart just wasn't in it. It would be their first year without Gordon, and their first one away from home. The most she'd been able to muster in terms of Christmas spirit had been to put out a scented candle and hang a pine wreath on the door to their little apartment over the garage.

Neal, seated on the sofa that doubled as his bed, paused in the midst of pulling on his snow boots to give her a reproachful look. In the week since he'd arrived home from school, she had yet to see his old, ready grin. He hadn't been himself, in fact, since his father's death. His initial attempts to put on a brave face, efforts that had bordered on manic at times, had given way to a sullen moroseness. She recalled how he'd looked, walking toward her across the platform, when she'd gone to pick him up at the train station, as if he'd been steeling himself somehow. He'd greeted her not with his usual rib-cracking hug but with a cool kiss on the cheek, saying with a queer formality, “Thanks for coming to get me. You didn't have to.”

Reeling a bit, she'd attempted to make light of it. “Don't be silly. Your first day here, you think I'd let you ride home in a taxi?”