Healing Love

by Jennifer Slattery

  Brooke’s jaw tightened. What was this, the 1950s? Caleb’s crew needed to step into the twenty-first century. And take a course on sexual harassment.

  She straightened and jutted her chin. “I don’t play games, Mr. Garrison. In case you weren’t aware, I have a master’s degree in mass communication with a BS in journalism. My success in this business will be due to hard work and perseverance, not how well I bat my eyelashes.”

  The waitress returned with drinks and Brooke used the opportunity to calm herself before her cheeks—and tongue—caught fire. She grabbed her soda and focused on the melting ice.

  “Yeah, you and about fifteen other chicks.” Gary sipped his rum and coke. “Ever seen an ugly anchor?”

  Her mouth went slack. Images of her graduating class flashed through her mind, those who found coveted intern positions after graduating pressing to the forefront.

  Gary leaned on his elbows. “You know why Mr. Echo assigned you to the Home Haven, right?”

  What was she doing here? When she could be home, reading. Or saturating her stress with obscene amounts of chocolate—that’d look great on camera.

  In other words, Gary was right. To some extent. But being photogenic didn’t negate talent.

  “Home Haven’s ratings dropped.” He raised an eyebrow, like Brooke should’ve caught on to some hidden meaning. “For three weeks in a row.” He raised an eyebrow, like Brooke should’ve caught on to some hidden meaning. “With your exotic beauty—raven black hair, olive-toned skin, ice-blue eyes ...” He whistled. “Course, you might want to lose that Sunday school teacher garb for something with a little more flavor. Not street-corner sleaze, mind you. Just a hint of sexuality—enough to get the imagination going.”

  His gaze traveled south and Brooke clutched the collar of her shirt and stood, ready to bolt. Except she’d ridden with these jerks. Although she could always catch a cab.

  “Everything all right?”

  She spun around and stared into Caleb’s smiling eyes. “I think it’s time I head home.” Despite her efforts to the contrary, her voice held a slight tremor.

  Caleb’s smile vanished. “Oh. Okay. I’ll …” He held out his hand to Gary. “Give me the keys.”

  Snickers brought the heat back to Brooke’s face. “No. That’s okay. You stay. I’ll take a cab.”

  To think, she had to work with these Neanderthals. Unless Mr. Echo cut her, a very real possibility after her performance today.

  Chapter Ten

  Fatima lay on her back and stared at the stars through the holes in their palm frond roof. Irma’s words replayed in her mind again and again, “It’s only a matter of time before he hurts Dinora.”

  Her gut clenched as she turned to watch her sister’s chest rise and fall. With eyes closed, wisps of hair rested upon Dinora’s face. Fatima reached out and traced her hand across her sister’s cheek.

  What if Irma said something, to her mom or Fatima’s? What would become of her and her sister then? Would their mother try to protect them? Even believe them? What if Uncle Alfonso and Aunt Almita kicked them out?

  Fatima shivered and rolled onto her stomach, buried her face in her arms. Images of her cousin coming after Dinora swirled through her brain. Of him coming after the both of them. Irma was right. She couldn’t keep her sister safe forever.

  As the moon was just beginning to dip toward the horizon, she fell into a restless, nightmare filled sleep.

  In the morning, she woke with a start when someone jerked her arm. “Fatima, up. Hurry.”

  She pushed up onto her elbows and stared into her aunt’s scowling face. “There is work in San Miguel.”

  “Brick makers!” A deep voice called from outside. “Workers! Brick makers needed!”

  Her aunt gave her a shove. “Hurry before all the work is taken.”

  Fatima fumbled to her feet. “But I do not know—”

  “Then I suggest you keep your mouth shut and learn.” She spun around, her long, black ponytail slapping Fatima’s arm.

  Dinora sat up and rubbed her eyes.

  Fatima waited until her aunt waddled away to drop to her knees beside her sister. “I’m sorry, but we won’t be able to go to the market today.” She kissed her cheek.

  The air hung still and clean, the griddle free from smoke for yet another hour. Fatima’s stomach cramped with hunger, but what about Dinora? Hopefully their mother would see that she ate this morning, even if the meal proved thin. But if not, Irma would bring something home from school. She always did.

  Fatima still had the fruit Irma’s mother had given her. “Here. If you get hungry.” She handed these, kept safe in a cloth, to her sister. “Or would like something sweet.”

  Dinora grinned and took the treats. “Hurra.”

  Fatima sat on her feet, smoothed her hair behind her ears. Inhaled a deep breath. Today would be hard, hot, but surely not worse than working in the fields.

  Her uncle stood near the door with a water jug in one hand and a tortilla in the other. Of course, his sons each held tortillas as well, leaving less for Mama to sell at the market.

  Fatima hurried to fill a plastic bottle from a nearby trough then scampered to the path where a fair number of men and one other female—an older woman whose husband had abandoned her with three children—gathered.

  Fatima moved to the woman’s side and waited until the men started down the path towards a waiting truck. Workers crammed in the cab and others stood in the back, leaning over the tall metal bars that acted as a cage around the bed.

  Fatima’s uncle shoved the remainder of his breakfast into his mouth then heaved himself into the truck with a grunt. Others, along with her cousin, followed until people stood shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip.

  The engine revved and Fatima jumped onto the back bumper. She looped one arm through the caging while reaching for the village woman with the other. “Hurry!”

  The woman clutched Fatima’s hand and clamored up the bumper, her feet slipping. Fatima gritted her teeth and leaned back, an elbow jabbing into her ribs, and heaved the woman up and over the tailgate. The truck jerked forward and the woman grabbed a metal bar with her other hand, dropping her water jug. It rolled down the trail as they drove away.

  “I will share.” Fatima lifted her container with a smile. “I have plenty.” Plenty for one, perhaps. Hopefully there would be some place to refill their jugs at the work site.

  The vehicle jostled forward. It lurched around oncoming cars, zipped into the adjacent lane, then swerved back moments before hitting oncoming traffic.

  Fatima thought back to her first automobile ride, the day they left the mudslide behind to live with their aunt and uncle. And what about this frail woman standing beside her? What had her life been like before her husband left and poverty moved her to their small village and a life of hard labor? Probably similar to Fatima’s before hurricane Ida leveled their home and her dreams—hard, but okay, with enough to eat most days and only a few sleepless, hungry nights.

  Pins and needles pricked her legs as she continued to stand with her feet braced to keep from flying out of the truck. When they jerked right, someone stomped on her foot, sending a jolt of pain up her cramped leg. Nearly slipping, she gripped the metal floor with her toes and held on tighter.

  They turned onto a dirt road. Thick groves of trees gave way to houses made from flaps of cardboard, sheets of metal, and tarps strung between wooden poles. Three children sat shoulder-to-shoulder in the dirt, shaded by their house. More than likely their parents worked in the fields or made bricks nearby.

  The truck slowed, bouncing over a large pothole, then eased to a stop in front of a mound of mud. To the right, a lopsided roof formed from sheets of metal propped by branches gleamed in the early morning sun. Cut logs, piles of trash, and stacks of red bricks surrounded a large, flat patch of dirt. Ashes and debris clung to the ground and dusted the air.

  Two men jumped over the side of the pickup bed, rounded the rear, and unlatched the tailgate. Me
n spilled from the truck, nearly trampling Fatima in the process. Squeezing her water jug under one arm, she hurried after them, motioning for her new companion to follow.

  “I’m Fatima.”

  The woman nodded. “I’ve seen you in the fields.”

  “What are you called?”

  “Eawinda.”

  “Mucho Gusto, Señora Eawinda.”

  Fatima wanted to ask her new friend questions, like where she had moved from and why, but a large man wearing a straw hat and a pale gray t-shirt called everyone over with a shrill whistle.

  “You’ll be paid $2 for each 1,000 bricks you make. The material is over there.” He pointed to two mounds. Five to six feet tall and perhaps eight feet wide, one was made of mud and another of straw. “The kiln is here.” He indicated the metal roof stretched over a five by three foot dug out.

  Standing in the trench, a man in a sweat-drenched shirt shoveled straw and paper trash over burning logs, filling the air with smoke. Two children ran from the kiln to a heap of trash carrying armfuls of paper scraps. Ash covered their faces and clothes and their black hair glistened with sweat. They returned again and again, tossing paper scraps to the man before gathering another load.

  Fatima stepped back and waited for more instructions—how to form the mud mixture, where to take them when she finished—but the man turned around and walked toward a handful of men standing near a tower of bricks.

  “Come,” She touched Eawinda’s arm. “We’ll learn by watching.”

  Others knelt on the ground, kneading water and straw into the partially dried dirt like a woman might roll a lump of dough. Once they worked the material into a smooth mixture, they plopped it into a mold, then smacked it three or four times before setting the brick to dry in the sun.

  Fatima fidgeted at the end of the line, anxious to get started before the sun stole her energy and slowed her down. Tomorrow she’d make every effort to reach the mud-mound first. That way she wouldn’t waste so much time waiting on the others.

  Two hours in, switching between her knees and a squatting position to keep as much blood flowing through her legs as possible, Fatima’s back burned. She stood and stomped her feet until the pricks in her legs subsided. Sweat trickled down the side of her face. More dropped into her eye. She wiped it away with the back of her forearms and took a long gulp of her water.

  Beside her, Eawinda sagged like a rag-doll, the dark circles around her eyes more pronounced by her drooping skin. She ran her tongue over cracked lips, leaving a trail of saliva. Fatima lifted her water jug and peered inside. Frowning, she glanced around in search of a pump or water trough. Nothing. Although she barely had enough to make it through the day, she had more than her friend.

  “Here. Have a drink.” She held out her jug.

  Eawinda’s head jerked up and her eyes brightened. She fell back onto her rear, grabbed the container with both hands, and gulped. Fatima stared at the woman’s bobbing Adam’s apple. She wanted to tell her to stop, to save some for later. But surely the woman wouldn’t drink it all. She must know they had many more hours to work.

  “Gracias.” Eawinda returned the jug and wiped her mouth.

  “It’s nothing.” Fatima fought the urge to check how much water remained and grabbed a stack of straw. She broke it into five inch pieces like the men around her. Then she plunged her hands deep into the mud and worked the mixture until the straw was distributed evenly. The coarse material made her skin itch. She thought longingly of the stream at home. But then the image evoked another memory—that of her cousin coming toward her. What if Irma hadn’t arrived when she had?

  She shivered.

  Rocking back on her heels, she scanned the workers in search of him. He squatted ten, maybe twenty, feet away, with his back toward her, his arms covered to his elbows in dried mud. She gritted her teeth and turned her anger into her task, pounding the mud with trembling hands.

  Her cousin’s voice flowed through her mind like a toxic gas. “Let me show you how a man treats a woman.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and pounded the clay until her fists stung.

  A hand touched her shoulder and she whirled around.

  Eawinda stood over her with soft eyes. “Are you okay?”

  Fatima inhaled and shook her head, as if doing so could clear her thoughts, still her heart. “Si. I am fine.”

  She watched a cloud drift across the sky, thinking back to all the prayers Irma and her mother said they spoke on her behalf. Either God wasn’t real or He didn’t care.

  Chapter Eleven

  Brooke shoved her stack of papers into her tote bag. At nine-thirty a.m., the newsroom buzzed with activity as anchors, writers, and researchers flitted about. The morning weather hummed from mounted televisions.

  Stephanie, a part-time researcher who’d been assigned to the home show, met Brooke outside the meeting room door. She held a clipboard in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, a large portfolio draped over her shoulder.

  Brooke thought back to Gary’s conversation the night before. Had any of his accusations circulated the break room? The last thing she needed was to become the center of station gossip.

  She glanced sideways at her reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window. Was that why they chose her for this gig? Because of her tanned skin and long black hair? And just how far would they expect her to push things?

  Stephanie cleared her throat and glanced at the door handle.

  “Excuse me.” Stepping aside, Brooke motioned for Stephanie to go first, then followed into a large, olive green room void of decorations or wall hangings.

  The rest of their team, most of whom she’d only recently met, sat around an oval table. Caleb looked up when Brooke entered. He offered a smile and she forced one in return. A thousand questions swirled through her mind, all initiated by Gary’s little revelation.

  She tucked her tote beneath the table and sat beside one of the writers. Across from them sat their residential properties expert and a respected architect known for his creativity and extensive connections.

  “Shall we get started?” JD Norting, the show’s executive producer, settled back in his chair and crossed his arms. “As most of you know, our ratings could be better, although we did see a two point increase after our last show. But I think that had more to do with the eccentricity of our guest than anything else.”

  He paused. “That tells me it’s time to broaden our thinking. We need a new gimmick. Something fresh, interesting, because home tours aren’t cutting it anymore.”

  “Maybe we need to try more of a do-it-yourself approach.” William, the staff researcher, flipped through a spiral notebook. “Like a mix between Diva Designs and Mr. Fix It.”

  JD shook his head. “I’m not looking to piggy-back on what everyone else is doing. I want something unique, organic to us and our station.”

  William tapped his pencil on his notes. “Based on last night’s ratings jump, our audience loves Brooke. Anyway we can play up that angle?”

  “An interesting thought.” JD rubbed his chin. “Caleb, think you and Brooke can develop some kind of on-camera drama? Maybe a tit-for-tat deal like Regis and Kathy Lee used to do? Everyone loves conflict, right?”

  Caleb chuckled. “You’re not trying to turn this thing into a Jerry Springer show, are you?”

  “You find this funny?” JD frowned. “Because if we don’t turn things around, Mr. Echo will cut this show. In all honesty, I’m surprised we’ve been given another season.”

  “I hear you,” Caleb said. “We’ll figure something out. We always do.”

  “How about a hint of romance?” Stephanie asked. “Based on our Twitter feed, our viewers seem to like Brooke. We all know what they think of Caleb.”

  Everyone laughed and, with a boyish grin, Caleb held his hands out in a “what can I say?” gesture.

  “I suggest we add some sparks to the embers.” Stephanie jotted notes on a legal pad. “That’ll boost the ratings, guaranteed.”

>   This wasn’t how Brooke wanted to launch her career.

  And if the show tanked?

  ***

  After a disappointing day looking at cars that were either moments from the junkyard or out of his price range, Ubaldo returned to his apartment. It was becoming increasingly difficult to make it out to his parents’ village before or after work. But between his mother’s arthritis and stomach problems, he worried too much to stay away long. True, she had his father and siblings nearby, but …

  Was it his guilt at leaving that urged him home?

  Regardless, she was his mother, and he planned to take care of her. Distance or not.

  Shaking his thoughts aside, he climbed his complex steps, nodding to a neighbor in passing. Female voices emanated from an open window, and that of giggling children from somewhere beyond. The scent of fried fish drifted toward him, causing his empty stomach to growl. Upon reaching his apartment, he found a folded slip of paper attached to his door. The word “notice” glared back at him in red lettering.

  He yanked it off. If his landlord tried to raise the rent one more time, Ubaldo would …

  What? Find somewhere else to live?

  He read the notice. Unfortunately, the decision had been made for him. He had three months to find another place. Which meant Ubaldo needed to come up with a first and last deposit.

  So much for buying an automobile.

  ***

  Fatima’s muscles trembled with exhaustion and dried mud caked her hands, feet, and clothing. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She licked her cracked lips, watching a boy maybe two years older, gulp from his water jug. At least her day was over and soon she would return home to something to eat and her sweet sister Dinora.

  Hopefully she had earned enough to please her aunt and uncle. Her heart weighed heavy as she thought of the small pile of bricks she and her new friend had made. Even combined, they produced less than half of what the men had. True, she could’ve worked faster had she not worried about the old woman so, and yet she couldn’t turn her back on another worker.