North of the Border

by Judith Van GIeson

  “Jeez, I’m sorry,” he said. “It’ll just take a minute.” And then the phone rang again.

  “You need help,” I told him.

  “You’re right,” he replied.

  By the time I got back to Albuquerque the office was empty and still not clean, but there were signs that someone had been there as well as a pile of telephone messages on my desk. Call someone about a hearing in Clovis, call Judy Bates about her divorce, and at the very bottom of the pile a pink slip that said Carl Roberts wanted me to call him, ASAP, urgent.

  Carl Roberts. The name left a lump in my stomach like a cold burrito. Carl Roberts was a partner in the “prestigious” firm where I’d once worked—a partner, and both more and less than that. Carl Roberts. What did he want? I left the message where I found it, at the bottom of the pile, went home, had a couple of Lean Cuisines and a Cuervo Gold, and got into the rumpled bed. The Kid had found his way out. By 9:30 the clock radio was set, the blinds were drawn, and I was drifting out there alone somewhere between the lonesome highway and the endless sky.

  2

  I TOOK THE car to the Kid’s shop in the morning to have him check it out. I don’t trust people named Skye, but I trust the Kid. You hear it all the time: Mexicans are lazy. It’s not true. All the ones I’ve known work, although they have their own ideas about when. An appointment may mean something, or it may not; depends on how they feel when the appointed time rolls around. If it feels right they show. I don’t make appointments with the Kid, but I had an instinct he would be there. He was, looking beat.

  “Chiquita,” he said, and put his arm around me. I leaned my head on his shoulder. The Kid is tall, taller than I am, although he’s bony as a street dog. Actually, the Kid isn’t Mexican. His father is Chilean and his mother was something else, he never told me what. She died when he was only six, leaving eight kids behind, and he won’t talk about her. He grew up in Mexico City; the rest of them are down there somewhere needing money. He went to Volkswagen school he told me the first time I met him, when I took the Rabbit to the Sparkle Car Wash down the street from his shop and water got in through a loose seal on the antenna and shorted out the electrical system. I had driven two blocks from the car wash, losing first my windshield wipers, then the brake lights, then my directional signals. By the time it shorted out entirely, I was in sight of the Kid’s shop. He put in a new fuse. I helped him beat a speeding ticket. It was the start of … something.

  “Yo fui a la escuela,” he told me that day, and I spoke enough Spanish to understand him. At that point the Kid’s English and my Spanish were about the same, a few spots of blue in a murky sky. My Spanish hasn’t improved much, but his English got better and better. The clouds blew away and his mind cleared as the language came.

  “You look tired,” I told him.

  “I play the accordion till three in the morning,” he said.

  I told him about the breakdown. “Don’t worry, chiquita, I fix everything.”

  We had coffee and a couple of lumps at Dunkin’ Donuts, and he drove me to the office in his pickup. It was interesting to get there late for once and see that the office did function in my absence. Anna was at her desk with her hair rolled up behind her ears in a new hairdo. Anna can braid her hair, crimp it, straighten it, or slick it into a bun. No matter what I do with mine, I look the same—shaggy.

  “New hairdo?” I had to say something or she wouldn’t have done a thing all morning.

  “You like it?”

  “It looks good on you.”

  Brink wandered out of his office looking harassed, a permanent condition. He could spend the entire day lounging beside my apartment pool and still look harassed. Now that women can be cavalier bachelors, does that mean men have to be nervous old maids? Brink isn’t even forty, but you’d never know it. He’s already losing his hair and gaining a belly. Soon his belt will disappear altogether and the few remaining wisps will no longer filter the top of his head. His eyes are small and of indeterminate color; they blinked slowly behind his glasses.

  “How did it go yesterday?” he asked me.

  “Terrible,” I said, implying that I did not wish to discuss the matter.

  “What happened?”

  “I never got to it. Car broke down.”

  “That’s too bad. I’m having a little problem with this pleading I’m preparing. Think you could give me a hand?”

  “Later. Let me see what I’ve got going on first.”

  “Carl Roberts called again, twice,” Anna said, eyes gleaming brightly.

  “Um,” I mumbled. Maybe nobody knew about the affair I’d once had with Carl, but everybody sure seemed to suspect.

  “Listen, Anna, I wrote a note for you yesterday. “I fumbled in my purse trying to find it; it was hopeless. I remembered what it said anyway. “This office needs cleaning, badly. You think you could get it taken care of this afternoon?”

  “Oh, sure,” she replied. “Just as soon as I finish typing this pleading and the deposition and the contract and…”

  I gave up and went into my office, shutting the door. Carl Roberts. There it was, a pink slip, at the top of the pile this time. In all those papers on my desk there had to be something more important than Carl Roberts, and I rummaged through the pile looking for it. I took a few calls and kept myself busy until Anna buzzed me on the intercom.

  “He’s here,” she said.

  “Who?” I asked with a sinking feeling.

  “Mr. Roberts. Shall I send him in?”

  “Why not?”

  So it was to be on my ground, this meeting, in the cozy nest of my own making: mahogany desk, potted plants, piles of papers. Carl’s first trip to my office. He wouldn’t like it. Offices weren’t nests. Offices were places where business was conducted; desks should be kept clean and phone calls answered. His firm was run with precision and word processors. I tried to push my hair into shape. What was I wearing? A blue blouse, presentable enough, but there was a coffee spot on my cuff. Rubbing at it futilely, I looked up to see Carl filling the doorway, smiling like Burt Lancaster biting the air.

  “Neil,” he said, reaching for my hand.

  “Hello, Carl. Nice to see you again.”

  “I’m sorry for barging in on you like this, but I had to see you and you weren’t answering my calls.”

  “It’s been a busy day. You know how it is.”

  I walked around him, shut the door, and turned to take his hand. Carl shakes hands firmly and efficiently. I did likewise. I noticed that his hand felt smooth and cold and that there was not the slightest bit of electricity between us. He looked fit, as always, muscles pushing against the sleeves of his suit jacket. He was wearing a light-colored suit with a pink shirt and a striped tie in coordinated colors. Rather pastel for Carl. He was, of course, tan.

  “Been working out at the club?” I asked him.

  “Here and there, when I have the time.”

  “How’s the tennis game?”

  “Pretty good. I played your ex-husband in a tournament last weekend.”

  “Really? How did you do?” Carl playing Charles. Carl was Charles, in megawatts. They say men marry their mothers and women fall in love with their fathers. Neither of these men was the least bit like my father, an eccentric, gentle man, but they were enough like each other to make me wonder. I’d gone from Charles to Carl like a crab in lateral motion, scooting across the sand. It was definitely not a forward step, and not my finest moment, either, but what did it matter now? The past was the past, and I intended to keep it that way.

  “I beat him.”

  Of course.

  “But it was a good match; tiebreaker in the third set.”

  “How is Angelina?” I asked him. She was Carl’s longtime secretary, one of the nicer people at Lovell Cruse and the soul of discretion. People who aren’t discreet themselves have to hire others to do it for them. He could afford it.

  “Good.”

  “And Celina and the kids?” I asked him.

&nb
sp; “They’re great. Edward is four now, you know, and Emma is three. Looks just like her mother.”

  “How nice.” Celina Roberts, née Esterbrook, was considered by many a beauty. Blond hair, wide blue eyes, long legs, good bones—a prize filly, nervous and dumb. Carl was in perfect health. He ate right, kept fit, but I noticed right then that some of the fizz seemed to have gone out of him, a certain lack of effervescence, like Perrier left open in the sun. Probably no one else would have noticed, but I did. Perhaps he needed a cigarette.

  “Care for a Marlboro?” I asked him.

  “Neil, you know I don’t smoke.”

  “Mind if I do?”

  He shook his head. Something had gone out of Carl. In the old days this would have been cause for a lecture. I lit up, sat down, and motioned for Carl to do the same.

  “Well, enough about me. How are you doing?” he asked.

  “Can’t complain.”

  “Nice place you’ve got here.” He looked around him at the potted plants, the papers, probably seeing exactly what he wanted to see: a mess. “What kind of cases you handling?”

  I told him about Joe Feliz’s DWI and the Bates’s divorce. “And what are you doing?”

  He mentioned the Sunlight Corporation case, a multimillion-dollar patent infringement suit. I told him I’d read about it in the papers. “We have an excellent chance of winning,” he added.

  Winning the Sunlight case… I wondered briefly how many hundreds of thousands of dollars that would bring in.

  “But that’s not why I’m here, Neil.”

  I hadn’t figured it was.

  He cleared his throat. “As you may know, I’m running for the House of Representatives next year.”

  I knew. I’d read about that in the papers too. So that was why he had come. There was a pause. I puffed on my cigarette. “You needn’t worry,” I said, mashing the cigarette out. “I never told anyone.”

  “Neil, how can you say that?” There it was suddenly, a purple wound beating on the desk between us. “I didn’t come to ask you that. I wouldn’t.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s all right, don’t be sorry. The reason I’m here is—well…” He reached into the pocket of his perfectly pressed suit and pulled out a dirty piece of torn paper. It didn’t belong in that pocket; it was too dirty. It was like letting the street into an elegant room.

  “What is it?”

  “Here, you read it.”

  I took the paper, worn and crinkled at the folds like an old map, and opened it. Lettered crudely in pencil were these words: YOU STEAL MY BABY YOU PAY. The message itself was grim, but the writing was equally frightening: block letters carefully squared off, the pencil pressed down so hard you could see places where the point had broken off. It looked as if it had been printed by a disturbed child. It gave me a chill, and I handed it back to Carl.

  “What does it mean?” I asked him.

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. A sick joke?”

  “I wish it were. It’s not the only one. I’ve gotten three so far at the office, always the same thing: a plain envelope marked ‘personal,’ postmarked Albuquerque. Do you remember, Neil, when we were seeing each other…?”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “I know, but it’s important. Do you remember how nervous Celina was?”

  “She had reason to be. We were screwing practically every day.”

  “Neil, please. We were making love.”

  “Whatever you want to call it. I was nervous too. Do you remember that?”

  “Celina never knew about… you.”

  “It doesn’t matter if she knew; I still felt guilty as hell. Besides, women know, they always know. They may not spell it out for you in black and white, but they know. I haven’t met a man yet who could keep two women happy.”

  “Believe me, Neil, that wasn’t the problem. She never knew. The problem was that Celina was desperate to have a baby. It was making her crazy. That of course was one of the reasons things were so bad between us. You knew all that. It is so difficult to adopt these days; it would have taken forever. And then we found Edward, so we went to Juárez. It was either that or a divorce.”

  “Right.”

  “You know we couldn’t have gotten a divorce. Celina’s so fragile… my family, my career… I was up for partner then. It would have been a nightmare.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well, you remember when we got Edward?”

  Perfectly. How could I forget? The bustle of papers and preparations, the trips to Mexico, and then one day Celina appeared at the office with Eduardo in her arms. The golden girl, the little brown baby; polar opposites and both so beautiful. Eduardo with black bangs and bright eyes, the kind of baby who smells sweet and doesn’t cry, whose hair and skin are so soft, who makes you feel your arms will always be empty without him to love. They should have called him Eduardo: he wasn’t an Edward. He was the death blow to Carl and me, although our relationship would have died sooner or later anyway. Shortly after that I quit Lovell, Cruse, and Vigil and teamed up with Brink to start Hamel and Harrison. Carl was made a partner, and in a few months Celina became pregnant with Emma, which happens often enough when people adopt.

  “Why are you worried?” I asked him. “It was all perfectly legal.”

  “What’s perfectly legal in Mexico? What does the law mean there?” he replied. “In my position, I can’t afford a breath of scandal.”

  “Probably someone saw your pictures in the paper; the blond parents and sister and Edward, beautiful in his own way—but not your way. They’re just trying to see what they can get out of it. Are they asking for money?”

  “I don’t know what they want. You saw the note: you know as much as I do. But there’s something I have to find out. I want you to go to Juárez. I want you to talk to the lawyer who arranged the adoption and see if he is behind this. I never really trusted that guy.”

  Carl no doubt had never trusted anyone whose skin was two shades darker than his. And now Eduardo was his black-eyed son. It was probably the best thing that had ever happened to him. But how could he involve me? “Me?” I said. “That’s a terrible thing to ask.”

  “Neil, you’re the only one I can ask. If there is something, I don’t want anyone in the firm to find out. I trust you.”

  “What about Celina? Does she know?”

  “No, of course not. She couldn’t handle it. Edward is her pride and joy. He’s very bright, you know, and affectionate. A wonderful child. You can’t imagine how much having him has done for her.”

  Oh, but I could. “What makes you think I can handle it?”

  “You’re strong, Neil, and you’re a superb attorney. The best. I’ve always had the greatest respect for your ability; you know that. No one can handle people the way you can. Those cops in Gallup...”

  He would bring that up. That was how it began: Carl and I had been sent off to Gallup together on a case. One night he had a few drinks too many and ran his Mercedes into a telephone pole with me beside him. Carl’s precision behind his desk has always been balanced by a lack of it behind the wheel. He couldn’t afford one more moving violation, certainly not a DWI, so I climbed into the driver’s seat and took the rap. I, who had never gotten a ticket for anything, got one that night for reckless driving. It wasn’t a question of convincing the cops that I had been driving—I don’t think they ever believed that—but of talking them into giving the ticket to me. They had to give it to someone. I was willing; I got it. Carl thought I was Wonder Woman, I thought he needed help, and before the night was over we were lovers.

  “These cases you’re handling—divorces, incorporations,” he continued, skipping the DWIs, “it’s a waste of a fine mind. You could have stayed with Lovell, Cruse, Vigil, and Roberts. You didn’t have to go out on your own.”

  “Oh, Christ.”

  “I can afford to pay you very well.”

  “I don’t need your money.”

&
nbsp; “Please, Neil, do it for me. It’ll probably turn out to be nothing, and I need your help. Why don’t I call you about it tomorrow?”

  “Why don’t I call you?”

  “I’ll call you.” He leaned over and kissed my cheek, filled the doorway, and was gone. I sat at my desk with a yellow pad and listed the reasons why I should say no. I never wanted to have anything to do with Carl or Celina again. I am not a masochist, and besides, I had too much work of my own: divorces, DWIs, custody suits. They wouldn’t set any legal precedents, they wouldn’t bring in any six-figure fees, but they were mine. If I went to Juárez, I would probably get sick. It would be difficult, dangerous, scary. Blackmail, if that’s what it was, was a matter for the police, not for me. Anyone might want to destroy Carl, but could anybody want to harm Eduardo, that beautiful child? It would be difficult, but intriguing. At least the outcome would not be a suspended sentence or a divorce settlement that no one lived up to. I might get sick, but I might love being in Mexico again. Mexico is crowded and extreme, happy and grim. Mexico is another country.

  Anna buzzed me on the intercom. Judy Bates was on the phone, talking through tears.

  “Judy, please,” I said. “I can’t understand a word you’re saying.” She lived in a trailer in the Rio Grande Trailer Park, worked as a beautician at Hairport, and was thin and nervous as a whippet at the best of times. It’s a story I hear all too often: husband had left her for another woman. It would have been better if it had been another dog.

  “Ken took Peanut. I left him with a neighbor while I went to the store and Ken came by and took him. You can’t trust anybody anymore,” she sobbed. Peanut was their baby. I hadn’t met him yet, but according to Judy, Peanut was a prince among dogs—always shaggy, always affectionate, always glad to see her at the end of a tough day. Unlike Ken, Peanut didn’t drink, didn’t argue, and enjoyed the time they spent together. “It’s not fair,” she cried. “He has her, and what have I got? This.” I heard a tinny sound as she kicked the wall of the trailer. “It’s not fair.”