Fourteeners

by Sarah Latchaw

  In the days that followed our fight, I tried to bargain with God. If he would just cause Samuel to have a change of heart, I would be the very best mother I could be. I would take our child to Sunday school, teach him or her about Jesus, all of it.

  I railed at God. What had I done to piss him off? Had I proven myself to be sub-par parent material? If he was God, why didn’t he show a little mercy and fix this?

  Late at night, as Samuel soundly slept off his latest episode, I pleaded with God to take this hurt away, to ease this bitter disappointment and anger I felt toward Samuel, toward my friends, toward the world in general.

  Nothing.

  Samuel and I reached an unspoken, uneasy truce to shelve the issue. On the tail-end of an episode had been a craptastic time to have the baby discussion. But I couldn’t blame his bipolar disorder for the lingering cold. Gruff goodbyes and hellos, three feet of personal space on the couch, in the bed. We’d never made good on what we’d started before our trip to Left Hand Canyon. In fact, we hadn’t had sex in three weeks and I was twitchy.

  One evening, as I hacked away at a pile of zucchini and onions he insisted on eating (you know, for his healthy eating plan) I felt particularly combative, even to the point of sautéing the whole thing in delicious slabs of butter. Oh, he could keep his secrets about a woman in Tamaulipas, but I had to tell him mine? And then he had the gall to be angry? How was this fair?

  Maybe he’s not angry, Kaye. Isn’t it possible he feels really bad about the argument, and even worse that he can’t give you what you want?

  But I wasn’t ready to let go of my anger. Samuel was in the living room, feet propped on my coffee table, tapping away on his laptop while two loads of unfolded laundry sat in the hallway. Was it too much for him to fold a rat-friggin’ basket of towels? Pungent onion fumes burned my eyes and tears streamed down my cheeks, blinding me. I pressed a towel to my face for relief and my kitchen knife clattered against the counter. His head shot up from his computer screen.

  “You hurt?” he asked. When he saw there was no blood, he turned back to his writing. Yep, he’s angry. Well, someone had to step up first, and I was just as capable as Samuel. I marched into the living room, wiping my hands with a dishcloth.

  “It’s your turn to talk.”

  His gaze flitted over my pursed lips, tear-streaked face. “Okay. About what?”

  “Despite my reservations, I told you my secret. Now will you tell me why you went to Tamaulipas the last time?”

  He clenched his jaw, refusing to take the bait. “No, Kaye. This isn’t quid-pro-quo. It’s about your safety and I won’t compromise that.”

  I slung the dishcloth over my shoulder with a huff. Five minutes later, when the irrational haze of anger and onion vapors cleared from my brain, I realized what he’d said.

  My safety? What did an ex-girlfriend in Tamaulipas have to do with my safety?

  The next morning I travelled through Lyons, making the rounds to our benefit concert donors. June would be here before we could say “gee-tar pickin’” and we’d need to advertise soon. But I was ahead of schedule and, on a whim, turned north toward Steamboat Rock. Dani had cut her hours at Jeff’s Welding and Machine to ten-a-week, to the despair of her admiring welders. I was pretty sure this was her morning off, and I wanted time with el changuito.

  The doorbell went unanswered. Sofia’s car was gone, though Dani’s car was in the driveway. I heard a high-pitched shriek in the house and I barreled through the door. Gabe streaked past my legs, tee shirt riding above his belly button and not a stitch of clothing from the waist down. He pivoted mid-run and skidded toward me. I caught up my little monkey in a hug, and he wrapped his arms and legs around me. For the sake of my pencil skirt, I hoped he was pants-free for reasons unrelated to the potty.

  “Aun’ Kaye, I go poopoo. Hurray!”

  Dang it. “Oh splendid, changuito! Such a big boy. What have you got here?” I tapped one of the fists he’d looped around my neck. He pushed the cloth into my face.

  “Underwear!”

  “Wow, are those trains? Your mama must be so proud of you.”

  Dani appeared, pull-ups and wet wipes tucked under her arms. Her black hair was piled and lopsided on her head, and flannel pajama bottoms sat low on her waist, underneath her growing mid-section. What appeared to be either pure heroin or baby powder was splattered against one leg. Of course it was the latter, though her desperate and pleading eyes gave me a split-second pause.

  “We’ve been working on the potty today. I want this boy out of diapers before this one goes into them.” She pointed to her stomach. Then she noticed the baby powder across her pants, chuffed, and shook them out. “You should see the daybed in the guest bedroom, looks like an ATF sting gone south. You turn your back for two minutes…”

  Last Saturday, as I babysat Gabe while Danita went into the shop, he’d emptied three boxes of elbow macaroni onto the kitchen floor in the time it took me to drop trou’ and empty my bladder, and was about to top it off with an economy-sized box of goldfish crackers when I caught him in the act. Knowing that Gabe also punked Dani made me feel better.

  My nephew slithered to the ground and held out his underwear. “On, Mommy, now!”

  “Saying ‘please’ will get you farther in life, changuito.” She helped him step into his underwear and he yanked it so high, I winced. He ran up the stairs, hopefully to vacuum the baby powder and shake out the quilts on Sofia’s daybed.

  Dani slowly circled the main room, her expression vapid and defeated as she took in the disaster of toys and random objects strewn across the room. Her gaze turned to me and she blinked, as if she’d forgotten I was there. “What brings you out to Lyons on a Wednesday afternoon?”

  I gestured to my skirt and heels. “I’ve come to watch my nephew while my sister-in-law takes a long, relaxing shower. Isn’t it obvious?”

  Dani’s eyes lit. “Kick off those heels, Kaye. I’ll be back in twenty minutes. Vacuum’s in the hall closet.”

  An hour later, Danita dropped onto the couch across from me, ten years younger and damp hair streaming down her back. El changuito sat on my lap. Two fingers were in his mouth and he absently rubbed his stuffed monkey’s tail across his cheek while he watched cartoons.

  I swiped hair out of Gabe’s sleepy eyes, sooty like his dad’s. “Have you heard from Angel?”

  Dani rubbed her rounded belly. “We talked a few nights ago. He’s okay, though he wouldn’t tell me otherwise, you know? Gabe has finally stopped asking about him. It breaks my heart.” She closed her eyes. “Three months down, six to go.”

  “It’ll go fast, with the baby on the way.”

  She smiled gently as I rested my head against Gabe’s fine hair. “Sure you don’t want one of those?” The expression on my face wiped away her smile. “Ave Maria Purisíma, I’m sorry. Sometimes I can be so thoughtless.”

  “Don’t worry, I wrote the book on speaking before thinking. It wouldn’t bother me, but Samuel and I got into it a few days ago.”

  “He still doesn’t want kids and now you do. Is that it?” I nodded. “Ay. That’s rough. But to be fair, he warned you.”

  “Believe me, I know.”

  She patted my knee. “This was bound to happen, but you two will work through it. Samuel’s not going to give up on your marriage again. And you’re not, either, or I’ll kick your birth-marked butt all the way to Clam Gulch, where Molly will kick it back.” There was my pushy Danita.

  I tucked straggling curls into my hair bun. “In retrospect, we probably should have waited to have that talk until he’s getting at least four hours of sleep a night.”

  “Is Samuel through this episode yet? We miss him around here, especially Gabe.”

  “He’s getting better.”

  She went to the kitchen, grabbed two bottles of water and handed me one. “Just because he’s a little wilder doesn’t mean he can’t be around his nephew.”

  “He doesn’t like being unpredictable.”

&
nbsp; “At least it’s not as bad as it was during those episodes in L.A. and Boston. His meds are still working, right?”

  I nodded as I uncapped my water and took a swig. Gabe pushed my hands down so he could see the television. “Speaking of L.A., Tía Lucia mentioned something curious awhile back, when we were there.”

  “Did it have to do with Mamá buying her that horrible vintage tunic off Etsy for her birthday? She swears it looked better online.”

  “Funny, but no.” I glanced at Gabe, who only had ears for his train show. “Ever hear of the Ciudad Victoria family asking Samuel not to visit again?”

  Dani puffed her cheeks and blew. “Yes, but not much. You know how my family is. Mamá said Sam and Tía Mariángel had an all-out smack-down over some loca in one of the mountain villages. Something about the gossip magazines ruining his reputation, and how she was bad news and he should stay away from her.” She widened her eyes. “I can see what you’re assuming, Kaye, but it was strictly platonic with this woman.”

  “Then why would Tía Mariángel ban him from the family hacienda?”

  “You’ll have to ask him.” Great. We’d been down this road before. She bit her lip. “You already have, huh? Pendejo.” She grumbled some unflattering things about her brother. “Walk with me to the kitchen?”

  I settled Gabe into the corner of the couch, tucked his stuffed monkey in his arms, and followed. She tossed snack bowls in the sink as she collected her thoughts.

  “Okay. I don’t know why this woman was so special he’d choose her over his family. But Papá talked to Tomás not long after this happened, and he insinuated she had ties to the Zacatón Cartel. Tomás said if Samuel associated with her, he wasn’t to visit anymore.”

  “Wait, aren’t the Zacatóns those ex-police and military deserters who turned mercenary? The ones who are always on the news?”

  She rolled her eyes. “No Kaye, they’re a frat house.”

  Holy Tom. No wonder Samuel didn’t want me involved. The Zacatóns were butchers. Drugs actually made up only half of their revenue. The other half came from kidnappings, extortions, assassinations, and protection rackets. They didn’t use money to get what they wanted. They used brutality. Beheadings, wholesale slaughter, torture…the stuff of nightmares. The crime organization was headquartered just over the border from Texas in Nuevo Laredo, but they had operations throughout Tamaulipas, not to mention Mexico, Guatemala, and the good ol’ USA. Samuel might be of interest to them if he ever came to their attention. Wealthy, high profile, family in Tamaulipas...

  The idea of those murderers coming after Sam filled my gullet with ice. I’d once read a news article about how a man was kidnapped and kept in a standing-room-only box more than a year, until his family raised enough money to pay his ransom. Then the Zacatón Cartel killed him anyway.

  “Honestly, I kind of agree with Tía Mariángel,” Danita murmured. “Mexico is an amazing place to live—beautiful, friendly—as long as you don’t go looking for trouble. And no one wants their family on the Zacatón Cartel’s radar.” I didn’t argue.

  At the end of my workday, I drove past The Garden Market and saw my father’s car. I pulled into a parking space, grabbed my grocery bags from the trunk and pushed through the jingling door.

  “Is Audrey here?”

  Dad chuckled. “Hey flower! Nice to see you, too.”

  I looked around the store for the woman who loved my dad but would fire his cheating butt if she knew what he was up to.

  “Audrey’s at her brother’s place for the weekend, helping her niece shop for a prom dress. Remember when I took you prom dress shopping? First time I realized you were all grown up, so beautiful.”

  Man, Dad was smooth. But he tended to sentimentalize my childhood, because I definitely did not remember prom dress shopping going down like that. Tom Trilby may have been the ‘accepting parent,’ but then I dragged him to a dozen formal wear stores across the Front Range because I couldn’t find the perfect anti-prom dress: no bling, beading, ruffles, princess skirts, or anything girly. (What did he expect? He’d raised me to be a proper little bohemian.) Dad blew his Zen. Explaining why I didn’t need underwire was the superlative memory of that day.

  Snarky words withered on the tip of my tongue. I gave my father a hug. “I was in town so I thought I’d stop in, pick up a few groceries. You have big Saturday plans?”

  “Just work, maybe head out to Ol’ Man Elias’ place in Jamestown and restock on incense.” I gave him a charry eye. Ol’ Man Elias had a state-of-the-art hydroponics system that was the envy of the Front Range. “But I don’t have a date with your mom, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

  “Dad. Listen. It’s supposed to be none of my business, but it is my business. If this sours, you tear apart the fragile mends to this family. Not to mention Audrey will avoid us like anthrax, and I love her. I’ve known her half my life.”

  “Which is why she’ll never, ever bail on you, baby girl. My scumbag butt, maybe, but not you.”

  That was my dad, the dreamer. Maybe he was right. Audrey might want to see me when—and I meant when—their dying relationship ‘ran down the curtain and joined the choir invisible.’ But I knew heartbreak and I knew Audrey, so I knew this would always be between us. I looked too much like my dad.

  Dad rang up a customer and I dumped groceries in my cart. As I perused the bulk containers and scooped Samuel’s favorite cacao power bites into a bag, Dad found me again.

  “You hear about the avalanche up on Huron Peak? Third in the high country this week. I’ll be glad when summer’s here.”

  “Avalanches happen in summer, too.”

  He frowned. “Word is you’re doing a fourteener challenge with Hector Valdez. No one knows mountains better than you and Hector, but…just be careful, flower. I get too much grocery store gossip not to worry about you doing that crazy stuff again.”

  “Dad, don’t worry.” I poked his smiley face tee and plastered on a grin. “Be happy.”

  Many years ago, not long after the demise of Samuel’s pet guinea pig, Mickey, Alonso brought home a kitten from the animal shelter. She had black splotches on her coat and tufts on her ears. Her paws were white and gigantic. Dani named her “Booty” (secretly, it was because of her huge rump). Booty hid under the bed for three days before she ventured out and, like a ninja, scaled the two-story heirloom quilt proudly hanging in the great room.

  Sofia didn’t speak to Alonso for an entire weekend because he’d brought that feral bruja into their home, but soon she softened to the little thing. It slept next to her face at night and purred. She bought endless toys for the cat, hoping it would play with them instead of her quilt (it didn’t). She rolled cloth mice in catnip. Booty gobbled up the nip, ran laps around the house, vaulted her huge rump over the back of the couch and latched her claws directly into the center of Sofia’s quilt, a bullseye on a target board.

  The only toy that lured the cat away from Sofia’s mother’s legacy was a laser pointer.

  The cat lost a few lives trying to catch a light that could never be caught. You’d think after years of disappointment, the cat would give up. But every time the key chain on the laser pointer jingled, like Pavlov’s dog (cat?), Booty would tear across the carpet and pounce on the glowing red dot. There the light would sit, on top of her paw. She’d shake it off, pounce again, and still, it escaped her kitty death grip.

  Five years ago, Booty could barely walk because her ancient joints were plagued with arthritis. She watched the red laser dot with cloudy, apathetic eyes. When she couldn’t rise at all, Sofia, heartbroken, had Booty put down.

  Samuel was in Tamaulipas at the time.

  I tried not to jump to conclusions about this female in Mexico as I rounded the foothill curves back to Boulder. Tía Mariángel could have been wrong about the Zacatón connection.

  Goodness knows you’ve been wrong, too. Still, fury bubbled in my veins as I suspected that, yet again, events of great importance had been hidden from me by t
he Cabrals. Had Samuel learned nothing from the abyss in which we’d found ourselves during the years of our separation? My rational voice told me surely they wouldn’t, not after the trauma caused by the concealment of Samuel’s bipolar disorder. No, I had to be wrong.

  Perhaps I still didn’t know them. Know him. And there was the crux of my lifelong dilemma with Samuel Caulfield Cabral (Llorente): just like that relentless cat and the laser light, no matter how much I chased him, I could never catch him. (And perhaps, if I got outside of my head and into Samuel’s, I would find that, to him, Kaye Trilby Cabral was also an elusive red dot.)

  Samuel was tossing an empty suitcase on the bed when I pushed into our apartment, my arms laden with grocery bags and TrilbyJones promo kits.

  “Where are you going?”

  “You didn’t listen to my voicemail?” I dug my phone out of my purse. Sure enough, a notification blinked in the corner. “I’m going to New York for a few days. Berkshire House wants to meet with me about shelving the Sea Rovers series and picking up the new book idea I pitched to them.”

  “But Holy Week begins this weekend. Your mom is going to flip.”

  Samuel chuckled humorlessly. “Understatement of the century. I plan to return Saturday night, though, so I’ll be back for Palm Sunday.”

  “I didn’t even know you were working on a new series.”

  “We haven’t exactly talked much, have we?” He grabbed a handful of boxers and undershirts from a dresser drawer.

  I ignored his arctic tone, determined to thaw the coldness between us. “What’s it about?”

  “It’s a surprise,” he said, a touch too sarcastically.

  Nope, still frigid. “I think I’ve had enough surprises for today, thanks.”

  He paused in his packing and frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I crossed my arms. Here we go. “This woman in Tamaulipas, the one who wasn’t a lover and was obviously important to you, but you won’t tell me a thing about?”