Fourteeners

by Sarah Latchaw

  “You mean, this all began when a teenager propositioned Antonio Cabral Treiño because she thought he was part of the Treiño crime family in Nuevo Laredo? And he totally went with it?” I sank onto the bed beside him.

  “Yep. My birth dad was a real winner.”

  “Let me see if I’ve got this. This affair produced a daughter whom nobody, save you, knows about. The daughter gets caught up with this dangerous drug cartel, but she wants out. So you paid mucho dollars to a hacktivist group on the Dark Web to illegally smuggle your sister into the U.S., thus ticking off said dangerous drug cartel. Now you steer clear of Mexico to stay off their radar. Sam…” I shook my head, stunned. “And you call skydiving dangerous?”

  Samuel ran a hand through his hair, sheepish. “There’s a bit more, but that’s the crux of it.”

  Stuff like this didn’t happen to people from Lyons, Colorado. “You can’t ever go back,” I rushed on. “I don’t want us to end up on a Forensic Crimes episode.”

  He reached for my limp hand. I let him take it. “I promise, Aspen Kaye. Believe me, no one wants me to live more than myself. Now let’s never speak of this again. I don’t want you entangled in this.”

  I bobbed my head, speechless.

  “Kaye? I hate that you know. But…I’m glad that you know.”

  Once again, it hit me that I would never fully know Samuel Caulfield Cabral: husband, childhood friend, baseball golden boy, brilliant and mentally complicated artist, former drug user and, seemingly, duper of deadly drug cartels.

  At least he’d come clean with the truth, crazy though it was. And because he’d told the truth, a bit of trust chiseled through that wall.

  Chapter 10

  Going to Church

  When climbers skip Sunday church services to tackle a mountain.

  I needed a change, so I grasped the most immediate, most attainable form of change that wouldn’t leave me jobless, homeless, or limbless.

  The day before Easter, I went to HeadCase Hair Salon.

  Cynthia, the owner, was one of TrilbyJones’ first clients. In fact, the salon’s name was mine and Molly’s brainchild (which might have been projection). But it lent itself well to quirky ad campaigns and became a favorite among the CU students who bothered with haircuts.

  I watched Cynthia in the mirror from her styling chair as she fluffed my long curls.

  “Chin-length? Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “That’s what I like to hear—confidence. I’m going to bob it, glam it up silent film style, like Anita Page.” Ooh, old Hollywood. Cynthia knew my kinks. “I’m thinking coifed curls.”

  “I’m thinking you’re a genius.”

  “I’ll show you how to fix it…”

  A half hour later, six-inch clumps of wet hair were scattered under the chair and I turned my head, eyeing the new cut. My giddiness soured because I did not see Anita Page glam. Just Kaye, but with an old lady haircut (lacking the strange blue rinse that had permeated the church potlucks of my childhood). “Wow. I look older.”

  “Not older. Professional.” She studied me, her red penciled eyebrows shrewdly slanted. “Hmm, I know that look. Not happy?”

  “I like it. It’s just…” I sighed and tugged at a short blonde curl, let it spring.

  “You can relax your curls.”

  “Not enough.”

  “You want me to take off more?”

  “Definitely not, it’ll be a ball of frizz.” I tapped my chin. Well, if I was going to embrace my inner granny, I might as well do it thoroughly. “Let’s go blue. Bright blue.”

  “You serious?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Later, when I returned home, Samuel mumbled a “hello” from behind the screen of his laptop.

  I shook my cerulean-hued waves and dumped my purse and jacket on the table next to the door. My dress felt confining in the comfort of my home, so I unzipped it and shrugged it off on my way to the bedroom. Oops! A resounding “¡Pollas en vinagre!” hit the walls behind me.

  As I hung my dress in our closet, Samuel’s arm snaked around my bare waist. I stiffened automatically. Crap. Before he could retreat, I turned around and wrapped my arms around his waist.

  “Do you think I look like your abuela with a blue rinse?”

  Wary eyes searched my face. Hands skimmed my hipbone, all the way up to the ridges of my neck, now missing its heavy curtain.

  “If Mamá Marieta had paraded around like a blue-haired Betty Page, Tia Mariángel would have had her committed.” He lowered his lips and I sighed, having missed his touch for too long. “Let’s leave my grandmother out of this conversation.”

  I traced the contours of his chest over his tee shirt. He flinched in that good way, the one that told me he desired my touch. “Let’s leave the conversation out of this conversation…”

  Reactions to my experiment in geriatric fashion varied.

  “Only pop stars and teenagers have blue hair,” Dani said, pointing at my locks. I noted that her fingernails sparkled with purple glitter.

  “Nonsense. The Queen Mother wore it very well.”

  Thanks Alonso.

  “How festive. Like an Easter egg,” Sofia added, her dark eyes round with forced sincerity.

  My cheeks flushed. “It’s only temporary.” I peeled an Easter egg and flicked pastel-dyed shell bits from my fingers. “I’m going to grow it out again, change it back to blonde in a couple of months.”

  Dani sagely nodded. “It’s not exactly appropriate for a thirty-year-old professional.”

  Samuel rose to my defense. “Why live and die by the code of some fashion editor? I think Kaye looks sexy.”

  I winked at my husband, grateful. “It is growing on me.”

  “Then you should keep it.” His eyes burned with candor. Despite our issues, he always captured me with the depth if his devotion.

  Alonso shrugged and grabbed a bright pink boiled egg. “Niños.”

  One night several weeks later, Samuel went to bed early so I mellowed on the balcony of the old TrilbyJones Victorian. Hidden in the cluster of trees across the street was a pair of Great Horned Owls. Their gravelly hoots had reached through the window and called me outside (Molly said the Audubon Society named the Great Horned Owl the “Barry White of birds”). I cradled my guitar in my lap and strummed soft chords until I matched their pitches. Not content to leave the crazy on the strings, I added lyrics. The owls hooted and again, I strummed.

  “Baby your screech and hoot and howl, makes me one Great Horn-y Owl, oh, oh, oh...”

  No answer. Perhaps they’d heard it one too many times.

  My ears attuned to the owls, I didn’t miss a conspicuous rustle in the brush. I leaned forward, listened. Another rustle, then all was quiet.

  My bad ear was acting up. I ditched my attempt at owl R&B and texted Molly:

  Singing Barry White and thought of you.

  Molly and I spoke every day about client projects, administrative issues, financials and investments. But we hadn’t had a long, personal chat in over a month. She didn’t text back, but moments later, my phone rang.

  “I’m so glad you texted, but Barry White?”

  “Owls.”

  “Oh, that makes sense.” That, right there, was why Molly was my friend.

  “I can’t wait until our rafting trip at the end of May,” she continued, “but it won’t be the same without Angel. How is he? Have you heard anything?”

  And so it went, as I caught her up on local news and she filled me in on life with Cassady in Alaska. “I hardly ever see him, our schedules are both so opposite. When we are together, sometimes I get the feeling he’d rather be alone, you know? It’s still so cold here, but the light is coming back so I’m hoping we can get out into nature more, see Denali even.”

  I stared into the black backyard and froze when something moved. Yes, definitely a shadow shape against the silvery trees. Too tall to be a coyote. Deer? No, it’s human-sized.

  Freaked out
, I abandoned my balcony and returned to the bright safety of my apartment.

  I refocused on Molly, answering with “oh” and “hmm” and “goodness,” wishing I could reach through my phone and pull her onto my balcony. We both needed an outlet, a friend. But she never asked about Samuel and I lost my nerve to blurt out “my marriage is rocky” without invitation. It was probably for the best. What was it my grandmother used to say? “Don’t go to your girlfriends before you go to your man. If you blab about your marriage, it’ll just make things worse when your gals give him the stink-eye.”

  Our marriage counseling began the first week of May. It was, to put it bluntly, a big, fat, blue-faced turkey.

  The therapist came highly recommended by one of my TrilbyJones colleagues, who had undergone sessions before his marriage ended in an all-out-brawl-of-a-divorce (that should have been a red flag about our new therapist).

  “Mother of pearl, you’re the one who insisted I climb mountains again with Hector, and now you turn around and accuse me of having an emotional affair?”

  “I didn’t say you’re having an emotional affair. I said you might be in danger of one.”

  “So you don’t trust me.”

  The therapist stroked his goatee as he leaned forward, barely disguising his glee in our fireworks. “Remember, Aspen, what we’re doing is learning how to resolve conflict in a healthy way. You need to hear what Samuel is saying, not what you think he meant to say.”

  “It’s Kaye,” I growled for the tenth time.

  “Mm-hmm.” Joe jotted in a notebook. I hoped it was my correct name.

  “I trust you,” Samuel pressed, a bubbling pot on the verge of boiling. “But you have a big heart and sometimes you give too much of it away.”

  “We’ve beaten this dead horse for years, but has anything more ever come of my friendship—I stress friendship—with Hector? No! Because there is nothing there, Sam.”

  Embarrassment burned the back of my eyes and produced hot tears. “And I have to ask, is this paranoia truly you, or is it a side effect of your disorder?”

  Samuel’s face darkened considerably. “Even if it is my bipolar disorder talking, does that give you a green light to race right over my concerns?”

  “Okay,” Joe said brightly as he made another mark in his notebook. “Let’s step away from this issue and go back to buying a black-market baby.”

  I threw my hands in the air. “I never said I wanted to buy a black-market baby! Only that we should consider nontraditional options.” Now I had to face off with both my husband and my therapist?

  “We’ve been blessed financially, and I’ll not use it for questionable purposes.” Samuel’s voice was calm and patronizing; I was a shrieking banshee in comparison.

  “So you were willing to pay off ….people with very bad morals to help your half-sister, but won’t consider using our substantial resources to help us have children? Do you not see the hypocrisy here?”

  “Careful, Kaye.” Sam’s eyes darted in warning to our therapist.

  “Don’t worry, Samuel. Therapy is confidential.” Joe popped the collar of his yellow polo shirt. I wanted to pop him one in his face.

  “How is it any different?” I argued.

  “Saving this woman wasn’t a choice. It had to be done.”

  “But both are doing a little evil for a greater good.”

  Samuel’s voice rose. “Perhaps if I believed being a father was a ‘greater good,’ which I don’t. Even if I did, I wouldn’t do it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Yes, why not, Samuel?” Joe Cool of the Popped Collar chimed in. I shot him my iciest glare.

  “Because I’ve bargained with evil people to make evil go away, and all it did was perpetrate more evil.”

  I couldn’t argue with this, but man, I wanted to. I felt like a bad person and in front of a complete stranger, to boot. Samuel may have won the argument, but it would be a bittersweet win.

  Joe Cool wasn’t letting us leave without one more piece of the action. He patted our backs as we filed out of his office. “The fighting? You may not believe it, but it’s good.” (I was fighting to keep in that eye roll—this was good.) “It shows me you still care about each other. Now, if all I’d witnessed was silent indifference, then we’d really have our work cut out for us.” Okay. I could hang my hat on this bit of wisdom.

  Turned out, Joe Cool was a prophet. Over the next week, silence hung between us like a soundproof drape, though our muffled words were louder than our shouts had been.

  Sunday morning, I stretched and contorted my arms until I zipped myself into a chambray dress (Samuel didn’t offer to help). Surely I could still dress myself. Cooking, cleaning, paying bills, taxes, servicing my car. I’d done it all alone for years but didn’t relish the prospect. I also didn’t relish that wretched absence of Samuel’s company. Even as Samuel dressed beside me, knotted a tie at his near-perfect throat, he was here, but not here.

  The shoes I’d selected had mud splatters, so I dashed to the closet for a last-minute switch.

  Perhaps this wretchedness had nothing to do with Samuel and was simply inside of me.

  Let’s explore this a little, Kaye.

  I dropped to my knees and dug through my pile of shoes until I found one of the flats I wanted.

  Was it fair to ask Samuel to fill an emptiness he couldn’t possibly fill?

  No, that’s on you and God.

  But he could at least be a present partner. Where was my other shoe? I shoved a row of dresses aside.

  I bet he thinks the exact same thing, Miss High-and-Mighty. Your shoe is behind the designer heels you never wear.

  Sometimes, my internal voice of reason needed to buzz off. I unearthed the missing mate, slipped them both onto my feet, and jogged to the front door where Samuel waited.

  We sat side by side in our church pew, the Cabral family on either side of us. To my left, Danita squirmed in discomfort, her ever-growing middle causing her lower back to ache. I bunched up my red wool coat and passed it to her. She tucked it behind her tailbone and squeezed my forearm in mute thanks.

  I heard very little of the minister’s sermon because my brain overflowed. Did his family notice the ice between us? How would we ever get through a Sunday dinner? Heck, last month, Sofia had asked what was wrong before I’d even picked up my fork, and our relationship hadn’t been nearly as strained, then.

  As I stressed over Samuel, his fingers graze the top of my knuckles, soft, like tallgrass tassels. I glanced up to find his eyes already on me, dark and pleading. He offered me his hand again, and this time I took it.

  My ears opened as I really heard what the minister spoke about—forgiveness.

  Forgiveness from above. Forgiving others. Forgiving ourselves.

  Easier said than done. No babies. No trust. No honesty. But there were two babies to my left. And my hand was in Samuel’s…this was honest, wasn’t it? Trusting?

  Tension leaked away and I relaxed into the pew, content to sit in this moment of peace.

  It would end soon enough, but for now, I embraced it.

  Our truce extended into the afternoon, and we made it through our family dinner better than I’d anticipated (only one eyebrow raise from Sofia). I’d tensed when el changuito asked me if I was having a baby like his mommy. I played it off with a chuckle, asking him if he thought I’d eaten too many donuts like his mommy. Danita kicked me under the table.

  She still seemed weary, slouching as if two invisible sandbags rested on her shoulders.

  Beside her, Angel’s empty chair wasn’t empty at all—his absence was ever-present. But she’d video-chatted with him yesterday and today, so she managed to smile at her father’s jokes.

  After lunch, Samuel complimented his mother on the meal and rose from the table. He reached for my hand.

  “Kaye and I are going to walk out to St. Vrain.”

  Sofia tsked. “She’ll ruin her lovely shoes.”

  I flicked my wrist. “Oh, don’t w
orry about it. I always keep a pair of sneakers in the car, just in case.”

  Alonso licked the last bit of pie from his fork. “Sofia does the same. Sensible, our women.”

  “That they are.” Samuel winked at me, but there was no light in it. This wasn’t a simple stroll along our creek, and soon his fear was mine. Was this it? Was he calling it quits on our marriage, cutting me loose again? Perhaps the hand-holding, the peace and kindness, the forgiveness I’d felt during the worship service had simply been his peace. His goodbye. By the time I’d laced on my sneaks and the creek’s gurgles reached our ears, I’d worked myself into a frenzy. I wiped clammy palms against my coat.

  Samuel turned to me, emotion flowing as cold as creek water.

  “Do you want a child enough to leave me?”

  “What?” I asked, startled.

  “A baby. Will you leave me if we don’t have children?”

  I exhaled and laced my fingers over my head. He wasn’t ending our marriage. But then I really, truly listened. In a way, he was. Rather, he placed the choice at my feet.

  Water lapped against the bank of the creek bed. Sunlight dappled the surface and I looked up, seeing for the first time that fragile leaves peppered the branches. Green had returned. My heart ached as I pondered his question. The persistent lump in my throat whenever an acquaintance announced they were expecting. Hearing clients chat about the quirky things their kids did, how they never knew how much love they had inside of them until they held their children for the first time.

  But then I remembered the deep sorrow of living without Samuel.

  “No. Our marriage comes first. I made a vow.”

  “I made a vow, too.” He drew me into his arms and I went, reluctantly. Despite today’s ceasefire, anger and bitter disappointment still twisted my insides. “And I told you we’d explore our options, didn’t I?” His warm lips grazed my scalp as he breathed, coming to some sort of decision. “Very well. We’ll research our options.”

  My head shot up. “Really?”

  “Just research.”

  Hope burgeoned through the muck of disappointment. “I have piles of research already. Parenting with bipolar disorder, articles by doctors and therapists. International adoption guides, domestic adoption guides, foster care.” I ticked them on my fingers. “There’s even a support group in Denver for parents with mental illnesses who’ve been where we’ve been. There is so much information out there.”