Fourteeners

by Sarah Latchaw

  “What do you suggest?” I said quietly.

  “I don’t know. Counseling?”

  I dropped into a chair, the metal cold on my back. “Together or separate?”

  “Together, of course. Marriage counseling.”

  “Fine. But the only way this will work is if we do it right. No more hiding things.”

  “That goes both ways, Kaye.”

  I rubbed my eyes, exhausted. “Do you want to call, or do you want me to?”

  “I suggested it. I’ll call.”

  “Alright. Back to my original question—you’ll be home tonight?”

  “I’m planning on it, as soon as I check out of this hotel. I’ll catch a redeye.”

  Despite Samuel’s plans, he did not return from New York Saturday night. Berkshire House’s marketing team asked (begged) him to attend a launch party for an author whose sales needed a boost. I grumbled but saw the necessity. His professional image needed polishing, so it was the perfect opportunity to drop bread crumbs about his freshly inked deal to write the mountaineering series. “Keep the bloggers buzzing,” he told me early Sunday morning.

  “That’s two parties in a handful of days. How’s your health?”

  “I’m okay. I’ll definitely be home Tuesday night. We’ll repair this, together.”

  Which meant I had to explain to an already concerned Sofia why her son skipped out on one of their most treasured family holidays. His head on a platter, not mine.

  After lunch on Palm Sunday, she pulled me into their quiet library.

  “He’s not in trouble again, is he? Is the bipolar making him out of control?”

  “No, nothing like what happened in Boston. He’s kind of volatile right now, but life’s also been volatile, and I haven’t been the easiest of people. It’s a perfect storm.”

  Sofia wrapped her warm, pillowy arms around me. “I know, mi corazón. I see more than you think I see.”

  Of course she did. She was a mother.

  Monday night passed, and no word from Samuel. I assumed he planned to return tomorrow, though doubt and dread stomped through my head.

  Wrapped in a throw blanket, I toyed with its tassels as I watched the sun sink below the mountains. The spring breeze still carried a hint of snow and a shiver ran up my back. My phone rested on the patio table beside me, silent.

  I should call him.

  No, I should give him space.

  I picked it up, scrolled through my recent calls, then cursed and dropped it on the table. A pick-up truck bellyached and lurched into the parking lot across the street. Hector. Seeing my blanket-burritoed form, he saluted.

  “Hey mamacita. How’re the calf muscles?”

  I groaned. “As stiff as a corpse’s. I’m way too out of shape to ski Dead Dog like we did.”

  “Nonsense, you owned that little bitch.” He peered behind me, into the apartment. “The ol’ ball and chain back yet?”

  “Nah, not ‘til tomorrow. Change of plans.” He plopped next to me, at the base of the stairs. “What brings you to this neck of the woods?”

  “I was at the hospital to see the Guzmans’ new baby. Looks a whole lot like Luca.”

  “Which means she’ll have a baby face forever, sweet girl.” Luca was known for (and plagued by) his angelic, baby-like face. I tucked my knees into my chest. “Do you ever think about it, Hector? Having kids?”

  “With you? Sweetheart, I’m flattered!”

  I shoved his shoulder. “Be serious.”

  Humor drained from Hector’s face, and he suddenly seemed worn down, weathered. “I dunno, Kaye. With our risky lifestyles, kids would suffer.”

  “You wouldn’t give up the dangerous stuff for them?”

  “Sure I would. But I’d hate it, you know? Miss it, too. I mean, you gave it up for Samuel. Don’t you miss it?”

  “Half the time I’m scared out of my mind to try it again, and the other half I miss the rush so much, I physically tremble like a junkie. Isn’t that insane?”

  “Nope, it’s an addiction. I know I’m addicted and I’m fine with it. If I go down in flames someday, I won’t regret that last hit. It makes me feel…like I’m a god, and I’ve seen the world from places regular folks never tread. I’ve been awakened.”

  A cold finger of fear poked me. Hector was strong, invincible. Nothing would ever bring him down. “And if you went down in flames, where would this leave Tricia?”

  “Sometimes I wonder if I was meant to marry Tricia.” He looked at me. “I wonder if I was meant to marry someone else. My soul mate.”

  I looked at the ground. “There is no ‘meant to,’ Hector. Your soul mate is the person you choose to give your soul to. If you made the choice that she’s it for you—which you did when you married her, may I remind you—then she will be. But you’ve got to be in it together. It sounds like Tricia’s in it for the long haul.”

  “You’re right. Absolutely.” His tone lightened. “And listen, I love you. You know I do, and I always will. I think you could have been a person I’d give my soul to.”

  “Hector—”

  “But it takes two, right? You’ve never been into me like that. I get it. You gave yourself to him before I was even in the picture.”

  “Think of how happy you and Tricia could be. Let her be your adrenaline rush, not the stupid stuff like skydiving in the rain and cliff-hucking.”

  He nodded at my advice, but I might as well have given it to a polar bear. “Do you ever see Jaime?” he asked.

  “No. I think she wishes that avalanche had carried me off three years ago.”

  “Don’t say that. Her pride was hurt, but she cared about you, as much as Jaime can actually care about someone.”

  “I think her feelings run a lot deeper than anyone gives her credit for.”

  “Yeah, mamacita, you’re probably right. Todo está bien.” He slapped his palms on his knees and hopped up. “Let’s grab dinner. I need to reclaim my man badge after all this talk about feelings.”

  I tossed my blanket inside the door and yanked on my shoes. “Perfect. I could kill for a burger and fries.”

  My jeep rumbled along the rutted dirt road Tuesday after work, the faded Spanish signs and Madonna statues of the Mexican-American neighborhood in my rear view mirror. I hadn’t been down this private drive in ages, not since Jaime Guzman told me to “go fuck a duck” (her words, not mine), and slammed the door in my face. But Dani suggested I swing by.

  “I saw her at the diner the other day, alone. She looked sad,” Danita had said as I left the Cabral home on Palm Sunday.

  Of course Jaime was sad and alone. That’s what happened when one alienated their friends and family. But I’d always grieved the premature end to our friendship, twisted though it was, and with great leeriness I sought her out.

  Her car still ticked as it cooled in her driveway. Just as I reached her back steps, she pushed through the door, already changed into chore clothes, kibble bucket in one hand and an unidentifiable tub in the other.

  Her eyebrows shot up and she froze. Then she strode past me with a casual nod, as if we’d only spoken three days ago. “Hey, Kewpie doll. What can I do ya for?”

  “Just thought I’d swing by.”

  She snorted. “You’re the crappiest liar this side of anywhere. Let me guess—your sister-in-law told you I was hoarding pain pills and razor blades after she saw me eating at the diner all by myself.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Ridiculous. I was waiting for a client. Woman and her ex spent four hours arguing over the meat in their deep freeze. Cost them three hundred an hour on both sides. While you’re here, you might as well entertain me as I clean out the kennels.” Jaime raised purebred Labradors. She swore they were better company than humans.

  I racked my brain for something that would entertain a semi-sadist. “What do you want to know?”

  “I see you and your nutcase husband are doing that benefit concert again. Fourth Annual such-and-such, blah blah.”

>   Indignation fizzed. “Watch it, Guzman. No one likes a playground bully.”

  She scoffed but dropped the name-calling. “I assume volunteers get into this thing for free, right? With food vouchers?”

  “Are you volunteering?”

  “I wouldn’t mind a day at Planet Bluegrass. Hold this.”

  She handed me a plastic tub of what looked like ground up raw meat and smelled like it, too. I wrinkled my nose. “Please don’t tell me you’ve murdered someone and are feeding them to your dogs.”

  “Relax. He was a Denverite.”

  We talked for the next hour as she dished up something I wouldn’t feed my worst enemy, but swore up and down liver was the Godiva chocolate of doggy world.

  “How’s that caveman ex of mine? Still wrapped around your wrist like a slap bracelet?”

  “Let’s not talk about Hector, okay?”

  “Does he ever ask about me?”

  I squirmed, uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “Jaime. He’s married.”

  “Doesn’t stop you from spending time together.”

  “But we’ve only ever been friends.”

  “Have you?” She scratched the neck of one of her dogs. Its tongue lolled happily, and a string of drool dropped from its mouth onto her knee. She wiped it off with her sleeve. “He would have stayed with me forever if I hadn’t broken it off when I did. Man was in for a world of hurt. As my ex-husband is so fond of telling people, I’m the type of crazy that makes men sleep with one eye open.” She gave a strange, brittle kind of laugh. I’d long ago learned her hackles hid a soft underbelly. “I give it another two years.”

  “Can we not put an expiration date on their marriage?” I snapped. “Allow them a fighting chance.”

  “Be honest, Kaye-bear. We know Hector’s type and we know Tricia’s type. She’ll want him to stop with the dangerous stunts and have babies. He’ll complain she’s trying to cage him like a damned bird and ‘babe, don’ you know that birds gotta fly free?’” I smothered a chuckle. Jaime’s ‘Hector’ impression was spot on. “That’s how it’ll go down, I bet a million bucks. Isn’ dat right, puppy? Such a good boy.” The dog nuzzled her face.

  She didn’t know how spot on she was, though I’d never divulge it. I had been just like Hector for seven years, romanced by the adrenaline rush before Samuel came back into my life.

  “A man typically chooses his family over a woman,” she continued. “In this case, Hector’s ‘family’ isn’t Tricia. It’s the guys at Paddlers.” For a misanthrope, Jaime often had keen insight into humanity. Being a divorce lawyer will give that to you. But being a divorce lawyer will also make you a misanthrope.

  “Is there any situation in which a man will choose a woman over his family?” I asked.

  “Sure. If she’s family, too.”

  My eyes widened and my feet rooted in place.

  Holy mother.

  My mind raced back to Samuel’s mystery woman, and the questions I’d struggled to answer aligned with Jaime’s bit of wisdom, now perfectly clear.

  Samuel’s mystery woman in Tamaulipas wasn’t a girlfriend. She was family.

  Perhaps I was overreacting. Maybe this woman was simply a distant relative or friend that Samuel felt obligated to support. But an entanglement with the Zacatóns? Not even his inflated sense of chivalry would drive him to risk his family’s safety.

  Unless she was also family.

  A close cousin? No, Mariángel wouldn’t have banned him from the home.

  A relative on Sofia’s Llorente side of the family, then. But wouldn’t Tía Lucia have known…what was it she’d said? Mariángel had accused Samuel of being a drug addict and philanderer, just like Antonio…because Antonio had an affair with a local girl… Like that, out of the bluest of blue, it hit me.

  A sister.

  It was so ridiculous I wouldn’t know Sam had a biological sister, but entirely possible. Occam’s Razor: the simplest solution. My mind fitted together the puzzle pieces. He had a half-sister somewhere in Tamaulipas, someone the Cabrals wouldn’t have claimed because of Antonio’s affair. Especially if the cartels were mixed up in this. But the minute he discovered it, Samuel would have searched for her regardless of the family’s warnings, because that’s what you did when you were an adopted kid and you found out you had a biological sister. There was no other explanation that made as much sense, no other reason he’d risk a falling out with the Cabral familia and an entanglement with criminals. Only love would have driven him to do it.

  And if he had a sibling with ties to the Zacatón Cartel…

  My hands were clammy. I tried to shake them out, but they were welded to the steering wheel so tightly, my arms trembled. Oh crud, a panic attack was coming on. Somehow, I got myself to the side of the road before it hit. My chest ached. I gasped and gasped, never able to inhale enough air. Tears leaked from the corner of my eyes. I opened my mouth and sucked in air again, a gaping fish struggling to find water.

  Breathe.

  Breathe.

  I rolled down my car window and rested my head on the frame, incanting:

  I want to feel good. I want to feel good. Feel the upholstery under your hands. See how soft it is, against each tiny groove on the pads of your fingers? Feel your feet resting solidly on the floor mat? Ground yourself, Kaye.

  Minutes later, I wiped my sweaty face with my discarded sweater and breathed cold, fresh, spring air, deeply and fully. I had to be rational about this. Letting my emotions control me would not get the answers I desired from my husband.

  My husband. Oh no.

  My head thudded against the seat rest.

  Samuel was home by the time I slipped through our apartment door. His suitcase was already unpacked and I heard the washer and dryer tumbling in the laundry closet, so he’d been back for a good while. I should have called to tell him I’d be late.

  I fell onto our bed, drained. He emerged from our closet with a dress shirt and hanger in hand.

  “Hey. I was worried.”

  Sam looked at me more closely, my splotchy face, streaked mascara, and crossed the room to take me into his arms. The hanger in his hand dug into my back.

  “You had another panic attack. I know you don’t want to, but we need to bring this up when we start therapy. Or perhaps we should try a specialist this time—”

  I shifted out of his arms and he dropped them to his sides, confused.

  “Samuel, I have to ask you something really important. I don’t need details, but I do need the truth.”

  “Alright.” He slipped the shirt over the hanger and hung it on a dresser knob.

  “Do you have a half-sister?”

  He halted, and then his restless fingers burrowed into his dark hair. I absently noted that he needed a haircut. Finally, he nodded.

  “Is she affiliated with the Zacatón Cartel?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Do you still keep in touch?”

  “No. Five years ago, the last time I was there, I paid money—a great deal of money—to help her disappear into the States. We haven’t been in contact since, for safety reasons.” His eyes narrowed. “How do you know this? No one knows I have a sister, not even my parents.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He thought. “My Aunt Mariángel might have suspected, but she never pursued it. The Zacatóns…they’re evil, Kaye, and that’s putting it lightly. Please understand why I don’t want to involve you anymore than necessary. The less you know, the better.”

  “I understand.” My voice shook. “Just one more question, though. Have you ever, in any way, aligned yourself to the Zacatóns?” His silence spoke volumes. I groaned and bent over, resting my head between my knees.

  “If anything, I’ve made myself an enemy by helping her run. Her maternal uncle was in deep with the Zacatón Cartel.”

  “Do they know it was you who helped her escape?”

  “Not really. It’s complicated.”

  “Oh dear lord,” I groaned again. �
��I don’t want to know.”

  He gingerly touched me between my shoulder blades. “Now do you see why I won’t go back to Tamaulipas, ever? I made enemies when I helped her escape, but they didn’t know my identity. I’d like to keep it that way.”

  I closed my eyes. The fear I’d pushed down only an hour ago reared its ugly head, but I held it at bay. “Who did you pay to help her escape?”

  “There’s bad blood between the cartel and a radical group of hackers on the Dark Web who call themselves ‘Unknown.’ I used them to get the documentation she would need to start a new life in the U.S.”

  “I’ve heard of them before.” Vague clips from nightly news stories about the hacktivist group attacking corporations and government sites ran through my mind, their Guy Fawkes masks always prominently featured in flashy graphics. They were everything that was right and wrong about the internet: so loosely centralized, they had no agenda and no common morals and members did everything from protect freedom of information, to cyber-bully preteen gamers.

  Apparently, they also sold fake passports.

  “So the cartel could potentially trace you. Oh my God, Samuel.”

  “If it makes you feel better, all interactions were done via a third party. No one could connect my name and face.”

  “That you know of.”

  “And most of the Zacatóns with whom my sister was involved are now dead or in jail.”

  “Jail doesn’t seem to deter criminal activity.”

  “They were henchmen of Treiño-Herrera. When he was extradited to the U.S. and incarcerated in a federal prison, his followers scattered. The bottom line is, I believe I’m in the clear after five years, but better safe than sorry.”

  “Treiño…that’s your father’s second apellido. Sofia said the Cabrals’ Treiños weren’t any relation to the Nuevo Laredo Treiños.”

  “They aren’t. But back in the day, his last name sure caught the eye of a girl whose older brother was a smuggler for the Nuevo Laredo Treiños.” Samuel stretched across our bed, but his bunched muscles revealed he was anything but relaxed. “She was barely an adult,” he muttered, “but she became my father’s mistress. She thought he was someone powerful, not a washed-up, crooked lawyer from Boston.”