Her Good Name

by Josi S. Kilpack

  Her father placed a hand on her shoulder, and the hint of tenderness caught her off guard. She looked up at him in surprise, and then narrowed her eyes. She was not weak. She pulled her shoulder away, an action that would be interpreted as disrespectful in any other circumstance, and looked at him steadily.

  “I am ready,” she said in English, the primary language she would speak once she reached her ultimate destination—once

  she was reunited with Frederico. He did not love her any more

  than she loved him, but they both respected the dreams of their fathers—a Guatemala free of foreign dominance and suppression. Their marriage had been one of politics, and the mixed blood of their offspring would join two of the largest militia groups in the Guatemalan rebellion. It was how tribes had made treaties many years ago, an old tradition of sharing power that, though she respected, she found to be very primitive.

  Her father smiled and she realized he’d been testing her, seeing if she was softening due to the advancing pregnancy. Nothing could be further from the truth. If anything, the more this child grew within her, the more her thirst for this war grew as well. Perhaps because, as they all hoped, it was a son. Or perhaps the child simply served as a constant reminder of her limitations and therefore increased her anger and resentment of her current role.

  The rain began to fade, the pattering of drops on the jungle leaves getting softer, more spread out. Only two trucks were left. One would take her father and her oldest brother, a prominent leader of the army, to join their soldiers in the new camp. The other truck would take her away from this life. It was all she could do to keep herself from refusing to do it, refusing to go.

  “It is better this way,” her father whispered, also in English, the words not as crisp and properly pronounced as when she spoke it. He had not attended Brazilian boarding schools eight months out of every year as she had, and so his English tones were muted and soft, the words strung together as if still trying to make Spanish music from the bulky English words. “This is your contribution.”

  “I just want to do what I must so that I can return.” She stared at him, wishing she dared to suggest she stay, wishing she could find a way to make her own place in this war without the swelling in her belly. What would she do with a child anyway? She didn’t know how to be a . . . mother. The word was foreign to even think about. Her own mother had produced three healthy sons, only to die in the jungle hours after birthing her only daughter. Her mother’s weakness was a curse that had followed her all her life. “This is where I belong,” she said, waving her hand to encompass the jungles of Antigua, Guatemala, the trucks coated in thick mud.

  “Bring me an heir,” her father said. “Through your sacrifice, you may yet create a place for yourself among the generals of this army.”

  No matter how hard her father or the other generals tried to convince her she was a queen—and set apart for a different kind of greatness—she could not overcome the insult of her role. They said she would usher in the next generation, raise the men who would rule the country once their agendas were fulfilled and the current government was uprooted. However, she was not stupid enough to fall for their false divinity. She was nothing more than a broodmare, a fact made even more apparent when her father had brought Frederico into the camp all those months ago and told her that he would be the father of her children. He had stayed only long enough for them to be sure she was carrying his child, then he left—returning to his life in the U.S., waiting for her to join him.

  “You are ready?” her father asked again. His tone showed that he was tired of the discussion. They both knew she would fulfill the role assigned to her; but it was up to her whether she would fulfill it with honor.

  “Sí,” she said, taking one more look at the rain-sodden jungle, so green, so comforting. “I am ready.”

  She would be a different woman when she arrived in America, with a different name, a different life. She feared and resented it, yet she would embrace it as well.

  It was her calling, and she would make her father proud.

  Chapter 11

  San Ysidro, California

  Wednesday, April 16

  She’d chosen to walk over the Tijuana border crossing, rather than fly, due to her pregnancy and security issues. At the entry point, she gave the birth certificate and replacement driver’s license of the real Chressaidia to prove she was a U.S. citizen. The advancing pregnancy had softened her own features to better match those of the real Chressaidia, and she’d worn her hair down so the similarities were even more apparent. However, she’d still held her breath until her documents were back in hand and she was allowed to continue out the doors and up the ramp that would lead her over the highway.

  When she emerged from the corridor, she looked beyond the buildings at the cars and the people. This is the United States? she thought as she made her way down the ramp. It didn’t look much different than the Mexico she’d just left with the noisy and heavily fenced freeway, desert landscape, and overflowing garbage cans—but it represented so much more.

  Decades earlier, America had convinced the Guatemalan leadership that democracy was the only way to have peace. Since then, Americans, along with others like them, had been slowly taking over her country. They moved their companies to Guatemala City. They took the people from their fields to work in the factories. In the name of democracy, they were slowly enforcing a different kind of bondage on her people. It made her angry to be on American land, to be in any way dependent on her enemies, but she took comfort in knowing that her being here was one more step toward an end in which Guatemala would be returned to the people who had lived there for centuries.

  Frederico stood on the sidewalk next to where a Hispanic family watched the portal that led the pedestrians from Mexico to America. Her husband was pacing and looking up every few seconds. She squared her shoulders and took confidence that thus far the identity procured for her was flawless. For all intents and purposes she now was Chressaidia Josefina Salazar, a Mexican-American woman who was returning to her homeland rather than fleeing from it. The story she’d come up with was that she had been traveling with a group of friends but wasn’t feeling well so she was coming back early. No one had questioned her. Why should they?

  The simple reminders calmed the anxiety that had grown during the hour-and-a-half wait in the customs line. Legitimate border crossers surrounded her: Hispanics in the U.S. on work visas, college kids still hung over from their weekend in Tijuana, and Americans who lived south of the border because of the cheap rent and free beaches.

  The wind was blowing, and though not cold, it wasn’t warm either. A white woman passed by, cursing about the wind ruining her hair. Her husband rolled his eyes and tightened his grip on the bag he carried, overflowing with cheaply made blankets and souvenirs. He walked faster, probably wishing he’d left her on the other side. Spoiled, arrogant, selfish people. Dipping their toes in a country they despised in the name of entertainment.

  Frederico looked up again, a guarded, cautious look on his face until he saw her. There was the slightest recognition in his stern features, but almost instantly, his face tightened again—the exact way she remembered him.

  When she reached the bottom of the ramp, they fell in step together. He barely looked at her, treating this as a transaction rather than a reunion. She’d expected as much. His cartel needed drugs and her father needed guns. Together they would fulfill the needs of both their interests and further both agendas by bringing their child into the world under the best of conditions.

  “No problems?” he asked in English, his voice quiet to be certain they would not be overheard. He nearly sounded like an American after so many years of living here. He even dressed like one, smelled like one. It disgusted her. Did he even understand what their fathers were fighting for anymore? His shoes were shiny, made of tight, solid-looking leather. She scowled at them before forcing herself to turn away. The soldiers made do with whatever shoes they could find, or ste
al—or kill for, if necessary.

  “None,” she said, concealing her judgments. “You?”

  “I’ve already set up the bank account and half a dozen credit cards in your name. The home equity loan should fund by Mon-

  day. Ms. Salazar has been a great asset to us. She even has health insurance. I’ve already sent in a change of address form. It’s all in place. I was able to use other IDs to get this one set up so there’s no trail. We’ll be married at a courthouse tomorrow.”

  “Again?” she said, hating that she’d have to go through it a second time.

  “The child must be of legitimate birth here in the U.S. as well—my father demands it.”

  Even if the mother has a different name? Frederico was the only person in this country who knew who she really was. On all the records, the baby would be born to Chressaidia Salazar. But one more pointless and loveless ceremony was not worth fighting about. “While I am here I want to manage my own affairs—these accounts you’ve set up in my new name.”

  “Good,” Frederico said. “I have enough to do already.” His long strides forced her to nearly run to keep up with him, and she had to put a hand under her extended belly as she did so.

  It felt heavy and every day seemed to get worse. Thank goodness they’d lined things up in time. The grandson of the most powerful man in Guatemala would not be put at risk by being born in the mountains—and she, unlike her mother, would not bleed to death in a makeshift tent. All her hatred of this country aside, it was a relief to know she would get the care she and this baby needed. With so much hostility toward the growing militia groups there was too much risk in a Guatemalan hospital.

  “I want to be clear,” Frederico said as they reached the car, a shiny automobile that, again, was American. He stopped walking, and though she wouldn’t have admitted it, she was grateful for the rest. “I have a life here.” Frederico glared at her from underneath heavy black eyebrows. “I do not want it interrupted.”

  “And I have a life in the jungles, fighting for freedom.” She met his glare with one just as heated. “I did not want it interrupted either. I will be here only a short time, then I will leave without regret.”

  He walked to the driver’s door, pushing a button on his keychain to save himself the effort of putting a key in the lock.

  Spoiled, arrogant, selfish.

  Chapter 12

  Idaho Falls, Idaho

  I have faxed the letter and the police report to you twice already,” Micah said, trying oh-so-hard to keep his anger and frustration in check.

  “Deed you sent eet to 1–888–555–9834?” The customer service rep on the other end of the line had such a thick accent that Micah could hardly understand what he said. He shouldn’t be surprised that his credit card company had farmed out its call center to India like so many other businesses had, but it sure didn’t make this any easier.

  “Yes, that’s the number.” He read the notes he’d written on the last notice he’d received. “I faxed it last Friday and then I faxed it again yesterday.”

  “Cun you fax eet wone more time?”

  “I can do that, but how can I make sure you’ll receive it?”

  The customer service rep went on to assure him that even though the fax had been lost twice now, he fully trusted he’d get it that afternoon.

  “Can I call back and see if it was received? Can I talk to you about it specifically?”

  “Yeahs, sir, of course.”

  “Okay,” Micah said, hitting send on the fax machine. As the machine hummed, the customer service rep asked if there was anything else he could do to help.

  “Yeah, get this figured out!” Micah said, banking on the fact that his call was being recorded. “I’ve been contacting you people for weeks now. I want the bills to stop and I want it removed from my credit.”

  “We wheel do our best. Tank you for culling us todeey.”

  Micah hung up, checked his watch, and quickly put the growing pile of bills, notices, letters, and log items back in the file he’d titled “Bullcrap.” He put the file back in his drawer even though he knew he’d be working on it again this afternoon. Then he grabbed his laptop and headed out the door. He hoped the traffic gremlins would be on his side and help him make it to the office in time to meet with his clients for a few minutes before the closing. He’d spent countless hours this week trying to get items removed from his credit report and he was running out of patience. He was the victim, yet proving his innocence was taking over his entire life.

  He pulled out of his driveway and cursed under his breath when the first light he came to turned yellow two cars in front of him. Tapping his thumbs on the steering wheel he tried to think happy thoughts—it was getting harder and harder to do so, however, when he felt like the puppet at the end of someone else’s strings.

  Chapter 13

  You’re sure you won’t reconsider?” Brandon asked as Chrissy scanned the bottom drawer of her desk for any other personal effects. She saw a bit of pink and shuffled some folders out of the way to reveal a stack of Post-it notes. Printed in the lower left-hand corner were the words “Just do it my way and no one gets hurt.” The notes had been part of a gift basket Kent had given her for Secretary Appreciation Day more than a year ago. She smiled and put the notes in her box, almost forgetting Brandon was there until he continued with his thinly veiled begging. “This office won’t be the same without you.”

  It’s certainly not the same without your father, Chrissy thought. She tried to come up with something polite to say and looked up, but immediately realized that, by leaning over, she’d afforded Brandon a direct view down her shirt. She tried very hard to dress in a way that was modest, yet flattering. However, being well-endowed made it nearly impossible sometimes. She sat up quickly and adjusted her top. In the weeks since Kent had officially retired, she’d become the recipient of too much attention from her new boss. She was tired of wearing turtlenecks but wished she’d donned one yet again today.

  “It’s time for me to move on,” Chrissy said, shivering under his gaze, which was still directed at her chest. “But Carla will do great.”

  He finally looked up to meet her eyes. “You do yourself a disservice to think you’re so easy to replace.” His eyes moved back down. “Te voy a extrañar,” he continued—I’ll miss you. He often switched to Spanish when talking to her, another thing that made her uncomfortable. It wasn’t the language he used; rather it was the presumed intimacy that seemed to lace his words when he used it.

  “That’s very nice of you to say,” she said as politely as she could. Chrissy was always respectful to her employers. It was something Abuelita had taught her—to have respect and not cause problems at work.

  She stood up, lifting the box, anxious to get out and be free of this. The upside of Brandon’s behavior was that it convinced her of the need for a change in her career path. She had always been a meticulous saver and had almost six thousand dollars in savings for just such a circumstance as this. Though she didn’t look forward to living off of it while she decided what to do next, it was a better option than staying here. Maybe she’d look into becoming a hotel desk clerk. That sounded fun. Or maybe a massage therapist. She’d always had strong hands.

  She forced a smile and looked at him until he met her eyes, working hard to hold in all her evil thoughts of him. “Good luck,” she said, then hurried to the door without looking back. It was raining, hard, and she bent her head over the box she carried, but didn’t slow down.

  Once inside the car, she put the box on the passenger seat, leaned her head back and shouted, “I’m free!” The door didn’t seal completely, so rain dripped down the inside of her windows. It was why her car always smelled faintly of mildew, but air fresheners masked most of the smell.

  With a grin, she started the car and headed home, turning on her lights just to see them flip up from the hood—it was one of her favorite things about the car. Tomorrow morning she’d sleep in, take a walk if it wasn’t still
raining, clean out a closet or two—whatever she wanted. She wasn’t certain how long it would last, but for now, life was good!

  Chapter 14

  Chula Vista, California

  Saturday, May 3

  The pains were getting closer together and Chressaidia let out a deep, low breath. She put a hand on her belly—tight as a drum—and looked around the room as if something within the walls of the beach house could help her, but she was alone. She’d called Frederico hours ago, and he said he’d be back in time to take her to the hospital. But he wasn’t here yet. It was frightening to face this at all, much less to face it alone.

  He hadn’t spoken to her in the days since her arrest and she was sure this silent treatment from him was supposed to be part of her punishment. Her face still throbbed from where he’d hit her after picking her up from the police station. He was the one who had sent her out to contact a few of his dealers; he was the one who had told her she needed to earn her keep. But she hadn’t known what she was doing, didn’t fully understand the way things worked. Luckily, the police had taken pity on the poor pregnant girl, though she’d still been charged with possession.

  In the aftermath of her arrest, Frederico was angry, and yet, so was she—missing her father and the comfort of her homeland more than ever. In their silence to one another she’d tried to learn even more about what he did, determined to not make any more mistakes, and had even followed him a few times to high-end clubs. When he came home, she knew he had been entertaining himself with more than women and dancing. He was using the drugs he was supposed to be selling, she was certain of it. When the time was right, she’d take her revenge and tell his father. It would not be taken lightly. But for now, their paths were separating quickly. She had stopped seeing this child as his son. The child would belong to her, be raised and trained by her. Frederico had done his part eight-and-a-half months ago. He would take no glory from her now.