Disappeared

by Francisco X. Stork

  “What are you doing?” Sara asks. Emiliano sees her look at the shoe box on the floor. When he doesn’t answer, she says, “I can’t sleep either.”

  He closes his eyes. Why he thought of reading that particular letter now is something he doesn’t fully understand. It has something to do with the decision he needs to make, he realizes that. But how is that letter going to help one way or another? And, besides, hasn’t he already decided? Didn’t the conversation with Mr. Esmeralda and that kiss with Perla Rubi pretty much seal the deal?

  “How was Mrs. Esmeralda’s birthday party?”

  “Okay.”

  “Did something happen? With Perla Rubi?”

  Emiliano shakes his head. Then, with his eyes still closed: “Why can’t you sleep? Did something happen at the quinceañera?”

  That’s enough of an invitation for Sara to pull out the desk chair and sit. Emiliano opens one disapproving eye but doesn’t say anything. The truth is that his sister’s presence makes him feel better. “It’s not just the quinceañera. Stuff at work.” She grabs her head with both hands.

  Emiliano pushes some of the letters out of the way and sits up. “Like what?”

  Sara raises her head. He sees her hesitate. “Oh, things, you know. My work with the Desaparecidas. It gets to me sometimes. My bosses don’t want me to write about them anymore. I’m supposed to write about happy things. Show how much better Juárez is now than five years ago. So tourists and businesses can come back.” Her words have a bitter tone.

  “Things are better. Aren’t they?” Or maybe the bad people look more like the good people, he thinks. Armando, Mr. Reyes, Mr. Esmeralda. They don’t look like your typical narcos.

  And what about you, Emiliano? You getting ready to be a narco too?

  The words in his head sound distinctly like his father’s. In place of reprimands, he liked to ask questions. How do you think Paco is going to feel when he finds his favorite marble is missing? He knows he didn’t lose it. He loves that marble. He’ll know it was stolen. What if someone stole that collection of soccer cards you treasure so much? Those kinds of questions.

  “Are you sure you’re okay? You’re white as a sheet. Tell me,” Sara insists.

  “I hate parties.”

  “I know. They can be hard if your mind is full of other things. They’re probably more fun if you drink. Although, I don’t know, Mami had fun tonight and she didn’t drink.”

  Emiliano is quiet. It’s not really true that he hates parties. What exactly did he hate about Mrs. Esmeralda’s birthday party? He loved Perla Rubi’s house. The terrace, the turquoise pool, the kitchen the size of his own house, the Mexican paintings adding touches of color to the solemn rooms and halls. It’s the kind of house he would like to have someday. The kind of house he dreams of building for his mother and sister. Perla Rubi was beautiful. That Federico guy was a jerk, but he doesn’t hate him. And Mr. Esmeralda? He made clear the conditions under which he would be allowed to be Perla Rubi’s boyfriend.

  It’s those conditions that you hate. The conditions for having a house like Mr. Esmeralda’s, for being allowed to be his daughter’s boyfriend. That’s why you didn’t like the party.

  Emiliano shakes his head. He folds the letter next to him and sticks it in the envelope. Then he places it and the other unopened letters back in the shoebox. What would Sara say if he told her everything that happened that day? It’s clear she’s preoccupied with something heavy—probably another threat. The last thing he wants to do is add to her worries.

  “Speaking of happy things,” Sara says as Emiliano puts the letter in the envelope, “I’m supposed to do an article on the Jiparis.” She waits for him to say something. When he doesn’t, she continues, “I told my boss that I would try to go on an overnight hike with you guys. I know you have one next week. Do you think it would be okay if I come with you? Interview people, take some pictures?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “The article will be great publicity for the Jiparis. Brother Patricio will get some good donations, I’m sure.”

  Emiliano had forgotten about next week’s hike. He wishes he were out there now, under the stars where things are clear. He could use a few nights by himself to think things over.

  Do you really need time to think? Haven’t you already made up your mind? You’ve already decided deep down. You know you’ll say yes to Mr. Reyes.

  “All right,” Emiliano says, louder than he intended. “I’ll check with Brother Patricio. I’m sure it’s okay. We have a soccer game in a few hours.”

  Sara and Emiliano are quiet for a few moments. Sara is looking at Emiliano’s desk. The three piñatas from Javier that he has yet to sell lie there with Doña Pepa’s purse. Emiliano tried to glue the square that Alfredo Reyes had cut out of the piñata back in place when he got home from the party, but the best he could do was tape it. He doubts that he’ll be able to sell it.

  Sara picks up the purse. She touches the beads and then puts it back on the desk. Emiliano watches her face. How long has it been since he has seen Sara so sad?

  “You going to tell me about the stuff at work or not?” he asks.

  Sara doesn’t respond to him, or maybe she doesn’t hear. She reaches for Emiliano’s fake Bible and opens it. Finally, she smiles. “I still can’t believe Linda gave you this.”

  “Best birthday present I’ve ever gotten. Well, second best. The knife she gave me was the best.”

  “I was with her when she bought it,” Sara says, closing the Bible. “She knew it would be the perfect gift for you.” She places the book on her lap. “You had a crush on her, didn’t you?”

  “Who didn’t? Me, Paco, Pepe. Every kid in the neighborhood except maybe Joel. For some reason he preferred you. That guy never was the sharpest pencil in the bunch.”

  “Hey!” Another smile from Sara. That’s two. “So, you’re going to tell me what happened at the party?” she says.

  “So, you’re going to tell me what happened at work?”

  Sara lowers her head, thinks, and says softly, regretfully, “I can’t.”

  “I can’t either,” Emiliano says.

  “So something did happen?”

  He shrugs.

  Sara’s eyes focus on the shoe box. “Why did you decide to take out his letters tonight? I always thought you were throwing them away.” She looks at the sheet of paper with her father’s handwriting next to Emiliano. “I guess I was wrong.”

  “I don’t know why I saved them. I thought maybe someday I’d open them … in case they had money.”

  His sister grins the way she does when she doesn’t believe something he says. He doesn’t know why he saved the letters or filed them in the shoe box in the order they were received.

  “What does he say?”

  “He writes to you too, doesn’t he? What does he tell you?”

  “He talks about his new business. His new family. Life in America. He really likes to work, like you. He asks about you, you know. He misses you. Wants to know when you’ll forgive him.”

  “Is there something to forgive? You and Mami don’t seem to think so.”

  Sara exhales. “I think Mami and me accepted that some relationships are not meant to be. That it doesn’t do any good to force parts that don’t fit together, or people who don’t fit together. But yes, we forgave him. It’s not good for anyone to live with anger.”

  “Anger is good sometimes. It’s energy.” That’s what Mr. Esmeralda said.

  Sara shakes her head. “There are better sources of energy. Like love, or wanting to do something with your life. Anger makes you sick. It makes you go after hurtful things, as if hurting yourself is a way to get revenge on the person who hurt you.”

  Emiliano slides down on the bed and folds his hands on his chest. He stares at the peeling paint on the ceiling. He feels his anger most on the first days of the month, when the three of them sit at the kitchen table to pay the coming month’s bills. Every month is a mental struggle harder than a
trigonometry problem, trying to figure out who gets paid and who can wait another month. Every month he has to dip into his motorcycle savings. In the meantime, his father is in Chicago, living in an air-conditioned home, supporting his American wife and blue-eyed baby. So what is there to forgive?

  Sara is still sitting there. It’s nice to be with someone in silence. Linda liked to play a game with him that he always lost. They would stand in front of each other, stare into each other’s faces, and see who could last longer without making a sound. They could not move anything except their eyes. But Linda had the ability to cross hers, which always made him laugh.

  Sara was right. He had a crush on Linda. But that crush was different from what he feels for Perla Rubi. There’s a hunger inside of him for Perla Rubi’s touch, for her whispered words, for the mischievous way she sometimes looks at him. With Linda there was humor and ease. With Perla Rubi there is an electric restlessness. Every time he thinks of her, he wants to hurry up and have more of the kinds of riches she has, so that he can be with her, in her world.

  “Some good things came out of Papá leaving.” He opens his eyes when he hears Sara speak, but he doesn’t look at her. “You joined the Jiparis. You discovered the desert. You started your folk art business. You give us some of the support that used to come from him. You became a man in his absence.” She stands. “I better go and try to get an hour of sleep. Of all the nights not to be able to sleep! I need to have my mind working well tomorrow … later this morning. I have to.”

  The way she says that scares Emiliano. Sara may not be powered by anger, but she always seems to have access to another constant, even deeper source of energy. Convictions, purpose, whatever it is, he wishes he had it. Except that, for the first time, Sara’s source seems to be depleted. What is happening to her?

  “What time you going to work?” Emiliano asks.

  “Early.”

  “I’ll go with you.” Then he remembers that he can’t go with her. He has to take the car back to Armando’s.

  “You don’t have to. It’s out of your way. I’ll be all right.”

  “You got another threat, didn’t you?”

  Sara shrugs. “It comes with the territory.”

  “I’ll leave some money on the kitchen table so you can take a taxi. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Me? Never. Good night, little brother. Be good.”

  He watches her close the door.

  Be good. What is good? Isn’t helping his family a good thing? If he accepts Mr. Reyes’s offer, he’ll make Sara’s and his mother’s lives easier. He’ll buy Joel Cardenas’s motorcycle and get a sidecar so Sara won’t have to walk through dark streets or wait for buses in dangerous places. He’ll buy his mother a commercial stove so she can bake at home. He and Perla Rubi can be long-term. There are little goods and bigger goods. A person needs to choose. He will choose what is good for his family, for everyone. He will do what his father promised to do. Whatever it takes.

  He places the letters back in the shoe box, no longer worried about the order.

  “God, help me today to do all that you would have me do.”

  Sara hears someone breathe next to her and nearly jumps out of her chair. Elias is leaning on the partition of her cubicle, looking down on her.

  “Geez, you scared the heck out of me.” She tries to laugh. “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Long enough.”

  Sara knows he heard her say her morning prayer. She pushes her chair back to see his face. He has dark circles under his eyes and he smells like stale perspiration. He looks as if he slept in his black silk jacket. “You look worse than usual.”

  He doesn’t smile at her attempt at humor. “It’s not human to make people come in on Saturdays,” he says.

  “That’s what happens when you have to put out two newspapers every week.” Sara pauses, lowers her voice. “Hey, I’m sorry about … last night.” She knows there’s nothing for her to feel sorry about, but she does have to work with the guy.

  He shrugs and makes a face as if to say that rejections from insignificant people like her could never hurt him. “Listen,” he says, businesslike, “what’s the status of that camping trip for your article on the explorer kids?”

  “It’s next Saturday evening. I told you at the quinceañera, remember?”

  “I don’t remember anything that happened at the quinceañera,” he says curtly.

  “Oh.” God, she thinks, he’s really, really upset . . .

  “Luis, you know, the kid from the mailroom? I’ve been training him in photography for the past couple of months. I told Felipe this place needs more than one photographer. I think it would be good experience for him to go with you. Pictures of kids in the desert, how difficult can that be?”

  “But—”

  “I’ll clear it with Felipe and tell Luis to come see you.”

  Before she can say anything, he walks away in the direction of the mailroom.

  Sara spends a good fifteen minutes trying to calm down. Was Elias really in love with her? Had she misled him in some unconscious way? Didn’t she respond to his comments and flirtations with the same deadpan, professional silence that she used with everyone? She treated his advances as if he were joking, ribbed him back whenever possible. Elias’s comments were at least on the witty side of the harassment spectrum, and she laughed sometimes. Was that what gave him the impression he could take his joking one step further? Sara thought he was a friend and treated him like a friend. Big mistake, I guess.

  She reminds herself one more time that she is not responsible for Elias’s anger or hurt or humiliation or whatever it is that he is feeling. Then she gets her mind back to her work. She reads the threatening e-mail again.

  If you publish anything of Linda Fuentes we will kill your reporter and her family.

  Why did the sender of the e-mail feel El Sol needed to be told not to publish anything about Linda Fuentes? If the puchi e-mail was sent to the hotline at two a.m. on Thursday, and the hotline e-mails were deleted at five a.m. on Friday, why send a threatening e-mail one hour later that would only attract attention? And why of Linda Fuentes instead of about Linda Fuentes? Of could mean “about,” but it could also mean “from.” Reading the e-mail as “If you publish anything from Linda Fuentes” means that Hinojosa thought something even more incriminating than the puchi message had been sent to El Sol.

  Sara jumps out of her chair and almost runs to the mailroom, a small closet-like space at the other end of the floor. Luis—her new photographer for the Jiparis’ overnight trip, apparently—is sorting mail into different piles, though it is impossible to tell where one pile ends and another begins.

  “Hey, Luis,” Sara says as politely and as calmly as possible. Luis does not deal very well with urgency.

  “Hey,” he says. He looks upset.

  “Is something the matter?”

  “Someone came in here and messed up all my mail. I still can’t find some things. They tried to put things back where they were so I wouldn’t know, but they put things in the wrong place. I’ve told Juana the mailroom needs a door with a lock.” He turns to face her. “Sorry. Hey, Elias just told me about the camping trip next Saturday. That’s so cool. But we should plan to get some shots before it gets dark. I’m not really good with night photography yet.”

  “Yes, we can do that.” She tries to smile. “But I’m here about something else. I was wondering if by any chance I had received a package or letter?”

  “No. No packages. Just the envelope I put on your chair yesterday.”

  “Envelope? Yesterday? When?”

  “Around six thirty in the morning. I found it in the mailbox downstairs—you know, the slot on the side of the building. I always look in there on the way out. It was around ten p.m. on Thursday and I was too tired to come back up. So I put the envelope in my backpack, and then yesterday when I came in, I put it on your chair. I figured you lost your cell phone and someone was returning it to you.”


  “My cell phone?”

  “It was a small, white, square envelope with something heavy in it. I’m pretty sure it was a cell phone. It felt like one. It had your name written on it in not very good handwriting. Like a kid wrote it, or maybe someone in a hurry.”

  “You put it on my chair?”

  “Yes. I put it on your chair when I came in. You didn’t see it?”

  “No.” Sara grabs on to the counter. For a moment there, it seemed as if the floor had tilted. But it isn’t the floor that’s moving. It’s her mind trying to comprehend the implications of what Luis is saying to her.

  “You okay?”

  “Yes. Why did you put it on my chair?”

  “I thought it was safer than in your inbox. People sometimes don’t bother to look in their inboxes. I placed it on the middle of your chair and then tucked your chair under your desk so no one would see it. Things sometimes disappear around here. I don’t know if you’ve noticed.”

  “Thank you, Luis.” Sara turns around and hurries back to her desk. She rolls her chair out of the cubicle and inspects the floor, then gets on her knees and searches under her desk. She peers behind her computer screen and empties her inbox, just in case. Nothing.

  She sits down and puts her head in her hands. How could an envelope disappear? Yesterday, she came in around seven because she needed to finish an article about some energy-saving buses the city was buying. That was only half an hour after Luis put the envelope on her chair. Who else was there at seven? Only four people were in the office that early: Sara, Juana, Guillermo, and Elias.

  Elias never gets to work that early. He must have taken the envelope—an envelope that contained a cell phone related to Linda and Erica. That’s why the threatening e-mail was sent even after the hotline e-mails were deleted. Linda’s e-mail was no longer a threat, but the cell phone was. She checks the timestamp of the e-mail threat again, then opens up her notepad and jots down a time line of events.