“Alma, I didn’t mean to make you…I’m sorry, it’s just I thought…I was worried about you.” He swallowed again around the obvious lump in his throat and she lost the battle.
Alma curled in on herself, arms around her midsection, and cried.
Strong arms wrapped around her and she let herself use them for support, pressing her cheek against the chest that was now in front of it. She slipped her arms around Carlos’s waist and returned his squeeze, unable to check the sobs that wracked through her. He was masculine and warm and smelled like clean soap, the soft brush of his shirt against her face the most comfort she’d felt since this whole thing had started.
This whole thing…like it was a singular event she’d be able to eventually get around. A hard time that would come to an end. That was how her family viewed it. But it wasn’t like that at all. It was a blow from which she could never recover; she’d lost a part of herself, it had been laid to rest in the coffin with Sam’s cold, lifeless body.
But Carlos was not cold and was not lifeless. He hugged her hard, his chin resting on the top of her head and his hand rubbing soothingly up her back. He didn’t say anything – he knew there was nothing he could say – just shushed her quietly like she was a baby and rocked her side to side.
“I’m sorry. I know, babe, I’m so sorry,” he said in a loop, repeating the phrases over and over.
**
“You don’t have to do this.”
“It’s no trouble,” Alma insisted.
Once she’d managed to wrangle her emotions into a suitable level of display, she’d pulled away from Carlos and had blotted her face with a paper towel while he looked on guiltily. Now she was pulling casseroles from the fridge and dipping him up a plate. Having something to do was good for her fried nerves, she found, as she covered the dish and popped it in the microwave.
She could only stay busy for so long though, she was realizing, as she turned around and leaned back against the counter, the buzz of the microwave the only thing disturbing the heavy silence between them. Carlos had obviously been staring at her because he whipped his head away, staring through the glass-paned back door and fiddling with the salt and pepper shakers on the table in a vain attempt to appear like he hadn’t been looking at her. She shocked herself by admiring him a moment.
His features were perfectly imperfect – the big brown eyes and roman nose – he was no male model by any stretch. But was masculine, buff and bulky, boyish at times, dead serious at others. He had Sam’s tan skin and prominent spiderweb of veins running along his arms like ropes. It was oddly comforting to look at him and find the same things attractive in him that she had in her late husband – a reminder of the vibrant, vital life that Sam had been.
Just as quickly, though, she acknowledged that it was Carlos and not his cousin, and then sadness descended again, heavy like a lead apron.
“I’m glad you came by,” she said. “I was starting to worry about you.”
He shot a glance her way, his smile ironic. “Worried about me? That’s a little backward, sweetheart.”
She returned his smile, but could feel her lips quivering. “You loved him too though.”
Carlos nodded and looked away again. His laugh was hollow. “’Bout half as much as you did.”
Alma felt her smile become brittle, and then fall away completely. She turned around and busied herself with removing his plate from the microwave and sliding an oven mitt beneath it so her countertop and hands wouldn’t get scorched. The distraction didn’t help though, and she felt tears threatening again. No! You cannot cry in front of him again!
When she turned around, she had managed to regain some semblance of composure, and even tried to force a smile when she set the plateful of reheated casseroles in front of him. Carlos lifted his fork and poked at a loose craisin in the cornbread stuffing, but didn’t dig in right away.
“It looks a little gross, I know,” she said in apology, taking the seat beside him, “but it tastes good. That’s mom’s stuffing and, well…” she felt choked up again “…please eat. I can’t and there’s just all this food…”
Weak, she called herself. She could see her mother’s face before her, her wide lips puckered in a frown, could feel her gently touch her on her brow. Diane had never liked Sam very much, but she still grieved for her daughter’s loss. Had still held her hand. Even though she thought she was weak. Alma knew the time was coming when the consoling would end and the ridicule would begin.
Carlos nudged the plate toward her. “Maybe you should try,” his eyes moved over her. “You’re losing a lot of weight, Alma.”
“I can’t keep anything down.”
“Well maybe - ”
For the first time since the funeral, something besides sadness flooded her system. Sam had always been the object of her affection, but Carlos had always been the one trying to mother her, take care of her. An old stab of anger spiked inside her. “I can’t,” her tone was sharp. “I told you.”
She waited for it, and it came, that big-eyed look of his that spoke of her youth and impetuousness, how he felt bad for her and wanted to save her from herself. She tried to move her hand off the table and his big, tan, callused and vein-laced one dropped on top of hers, keeping her still. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do, but - ”
“I’m pregnant,” she blurted, and his mouth snapped shut, teeth clicking together. “I have morning sickness and that’s why I can’t eat.”
The clock on the wall ticked. Thunder rumbled overhead. When he released her, she stood on shaky legs and went into the next room, hostess duty forgotten. She didn’t collapse onto the battered old sectional sofa, but perched on its edge, facing the window so she could watch the rainwater slide down the glass. Lightning flickered in the distance.
“Alma.” Carlos had come to the threshold and she refused to look at him. He shouldn’t have made her admit that. She hadn’t even told her parents yet, she hadn’t wanted him to be the first to know. “Babe.”
“Don’t call me that please,” she bit out, clenching her hands together.
He was silent a moment and she could imagine the muscles in his arm bunching up as he scratched the top of his head in one of his familiar gestures. “Why not?”
“Because it makes me want things I can’t have.”
He lingered a moment longer, and then she heard the door open, the pounding of rain intensifying, then it was shut again and he was gone.
She didn’t cry this time. Just watched the rain.
2
Diane Harris had been a pageant queen in her hay day, and Alma supposed she had her mother to thank for her looks, but she didn’t find much comfort in the shiny, plastic exterior the woman had developed at an early age. Everything was always “quite alright” and Southern charm was Diane’s utmost concern at all times: all the appropriate laughs and gestures and smiles.
Okay, so maybe that wasn’t being fair to her as a mother and PTA hostess, the warm hands that had braided her hair as a little girl and the moist, lipsticked kisses that had chased her hurts away. But as she adjusted her bag on her shoulder and followed her mom through Macy’s, the whole outing had the air of torture about it.
“Ooh, these are pretty!” Diane gingerly lifted a white-on-white piece of china embellished with raised grapevine detail. “Isn’t it?” She thrust it beneath Alma’s nose.
“Very pretty,” she agreed, taking a step back. In truth, her head hurt, her stomach was empty, angry and growling, and the overhead fluorescents were reflecting off the dish with a blinding glare. She supposed the outing was her fault though. It had been two weeks since Carlos had visited and after that, keeping the pregnancy a secret had become impossible. Onward and upward, she’d resolved, throwing herself back into life in order to stop thinking about Sam’s death.
It wasn’t working, though, and today was proving to be another day of being comatose on the inside, pale and drawn on the outside, and completely at her mother’s mercy.
/> Diane regarded the plate a moment later and then set it back in its rack. “Some other time, though. You need a proper set of china but right now, we need to get to the baby department.”
“Mom, I’m only ten weeks along,” she felt a tremor of fear in her voice. She followed Diane as she took off in a new direction, crystal vases and hundreds of dinnerware displays fracturing the light into a million diamond shimmers, shoppers bustling around them with big smiles and fat bags full of purchases. With only a month to go until Thanksgiving, the good people of the metro Atlanta area were already Christmas shopping in earnest, and the mall was full to bursting. “Mom…” but it was no use, so she plunged ahead, bottling up her worries. If she could plow through work and sleep and nibble at mealtimes without Sam, what was one more thing?
Across the white tiles through bedding and bath, up the escalator, the baby goods department was an explosion of powder blue and princess pink. There was a big display of wooden blocks and pastel stuffed animals at the entrance to the department, an electric train chugging laps around the vignette. Racks and racks of everything baby-related aside from diapers and wipes stretched before them, and while Diane beamed, Alma couldn’t even scrounge up a smile.
“Mom,” she tried again, hooking her hand through her mother’s elbow. “I think this is a little premature, don’t you?”
“It never hurts to look,” Diane patted her hand. “And it might cheer you up.”
She let herself be towed over to the fully-assembled cribs: black and white and natural wood with blue, pink, yellow or green dust ruffles and little lace pillows. Mobiles of cars and ponies dangling over them. Alma passed her hand along the smooth, lacquered black rail of a crib with the most ornate, carved rails and tried to imagine a squirming pink baby nestled in the blue bunting. It made her want to vomit. She pressed her hand over her belly and forced herself to take a deep breath, and then another.
It didn’t seem real to her. She’d been to the doctor, Diane watching over the exam and chatting with Dr. Laramie, asking all the appropriate questions Alma had been too numb to think of. She remembered the prick of the needle when they’d drawn her blood. The cartoon ducks on the nurse’s scrubs. And the kind smile on the doctor’s face when he asked her about the “child’s father.” “He’s dead,” she’d told him woodenly. “And he didn’t even know I was pregnant.”
That had enraged Diane. She’d taken a firm hold of Alma’s arm as they’d left the office. “You can’t go around just telling people that, Alma! Have a little class.”
But she didn’t, did she? Or she never would have been with Sam Morales in the first place.
It was suddenly much too warm in the store. She could feel tiny beads of perspiration sliding down her spine beneath her sweater. Sam…if Sam were here he’d hate all the frills and lace. Would make faces at the mere notion of baby shopping. Sam…he’d put his hand over her belly though. He’d be proud, even if he hadn’t asked for it, he would have smiled that white smile that looked like his cousin’s.
“I have to get out of here,” she mumbled. Bile rose in her throat and she swallowed it down with a gasp. “Mom, I have to -” she didn’t finish, instead lurched away from the crib and broke into a jog, breathing in ragged gasps as she rushed for the door that would lead out into the mall parking lot and away from the dreaded baby section.
“Alma!” Diane’s heels clipped along after her.
Shoppers leapt out of her way, but one lady wasn’t quick enough and Alma knocked their shoulders together in her haste, making the woman drop her bag.
“Hey!”
“I’m sorry,” she heard her mother apologize for her, but she kept going.
There were the registers, the promotional posters, the mannequins in the windows, and then she was free, bursting through the glass doors and out into the weak, late afternoon sunshine. She pitched forward at the waist, hands on her knees, sucking in air and trying to suppress her gag reflex. Sam…what was she going to do without Sam? How could she be here alive and carrying his baby and he was…was…
She was sobbing before she knew she was, not recognizing the pained, jagged sounds as coming from her own throat. Her tears pattered the sidewalk like rain, dripped off the end of her nose.
A hand settled on her back and she knew it was her mother before Diane was pulling her gently upright again. An arm slid around her waist and urged her away from the door over to a bench. “It’s okay, baby. I’m sorry. It was too soon. Shhh, you’re alright.”
But it wasn’t alright, and apparently that was all anyone could say to her. It stiffened her resolve some, enough that she was able to suck in her emotions until she was left with only tear-stained hiccups as she eased down onto the bench next to her mom. She’d been soothed so many times now that it felt empty. Ineffectual. If that was the best anyone could offer her, she supposed she’d have to get things squared away herself.
“I hate this,” she said on a sniffle.
“I know you do, baby.” Diane coaxed her head down so it rested on her shoulder and she stroked her hair like she had when she’d been a little girl. “It’s not fair that a sweet girl like you should have to go through this.”
“It’s not about me going through this. It’s about…Sam not deserving to…to go like that.”
Diane sighed and she knew it foretold another of those you-chose-this-life chats that only made her feel guilty. But she held off, just stroked her hair some more. “I wish I had an answer for you. I really do.”
She might not, but Alma knew someone who did.
**
Carlos had been tending bar at Flannery’s for four years. It had become his one constant gig: a steady source of income amongst the odd contracting jobs he landed here and there. Rather than some of the bars closer in to the city, Flannery’s had a seedier crowd than the college kids and club-hoppers who ventured downtown. Truckers, locals, constructions workers, biker-types and a small smattering of couples packed the place Friday through Sunday nights. And though slower during the week, there was always traffic. Always plenty of thirsty mouths in need of a fix.
The bar itself was a long rectangle in the middle of the floor, free floating with stools ringing it and tables spread across the floor. They had a game room in the back where poker and pool leagues had standing reservations each week. A jukebox, tiny dance floor, all of it sticky, grungy, dark and smoky. The water even tasted a little funny coming out of the taps. And Carlos was pretty sure something – or someone – had died in the men’s restroom judging by the stink.
Tonight was busy, the typical Saturday crowd swelling and swaying like a school of fish. There were peanut shells everywhere and the girls were complaining about customers playing grab-ass. The cigar smoke was thick enough to choke him and he’d coughed into his shoulder several times to the slight disgust of the customers at the bar.
He was pouring a flirtatious blonde another gin and tonic, wondering how serious she was about the winks and smiles she kept giving him, when he glanced up across the dance floor and saw her.
Alma Morales – just thinking her last name and knowing he shared it sent a jolt through him – looked like a ghost, her skin almost iridescent in the dim bar. She was so out of place, looked like some wilting flower amidst the tropical birds strutting around the dance floor – but she was somehow twice as stunning. She was in a fitted grey sweater with the hood pulled up, dark hair fanning around her shoulders. Tighter-than-tight jeans. I’m pregnant, her words came back to him. She wouldn’t be able to wear them much longer.
“Are you serious?”
He glanced down and realized that he’d over-poured the blonde’s glass and there was now G & T running off the bar into the lap of her mini skirt. “Shit, I’m sorry,” he leaned forward with a handful of cocktail napkins but she took them from him, dabbing at the spill herself.
“Think you’ve done enough for one night, honey.”
“I’m so sorry,” he apologized again, but was already looking at Alm
a, watching her move through the crowd toward him. He had no idea how he’d get away – there was a customer in every stool – but he knew that whatever had brought his cousin’s widow to the bar was important. And he had to talk to her. He kept replaying their last interaction in his head, imagined her sitting on the sofa like a broken doll, staring at the rain. I’m pregnant.
“Hey, Joe, can you cover me? I’m gonna take a smoke break.”
His co-worker grumbled, but nodded, sliding into his vacated spot in front of the taps.
Alma was waiting for him, hovering like a lost lamb at the edge of the dance floor, arms around her midsection like they had been a couple weeks ago. Subconsciously protecting the baby, he supposed with an odd tingling sensation in his stomach. She was still half a child herself, so imagining her with a baby in her arms was strange.
“You alright?” he ghosted a hand against the small of her back and leaned down low so she could hear him.
The eyes she turned up to his were startlingly clear; a deep, ocher color. “Can we talk?”
He took her outside and let his hand linger above her belt, guiding her around the side of the building to the outdoor party deck that was closed for the oncoming winter. Carlos held the gate open for her and then pulled two of the plastic chairs from the stack up against the wall and dragged them to the rail. Alma was silent the whole time, a carefully still expression making her face unreadable. He took note of the slow way she eased down into the seat, how the cool October breeze tugged at her hair. He started to dig a cigarette from the pack in his pocket, but nixed the idea when he remembered the baby, instead, clasped his hands loosely together and rested his forearms on his knees, turning toward Alma.
“What’d you wanna talk about?”
She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth: her first display of emotion. She looked so young – she was young, he forgot sometimes, but that was impossible now. Now he had the sudden urge to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve…I’ve been wanting to ask since that day, but just couldn’t bring myself to.”
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