Love a Foot Above the Ground

by Anna Burke

  When the time came, I almost could not do it—could not let Guillermo go off alone. In fact, I tried to stop him, suggesting instead that we have Grandma Consuelo visit us. She could join us in San Felipe, as she had done for our wedding. Or, perhaps, he should bring her to LA before out trip to San Felipe so she could see for herself how a scholar lived. She would have been thrilled to hear how well others spoke of him as a man and as a scholar.

  I believe I almost had him convinced, but in the end, he left. He was so handsome, dressed like a Los Angelino man. He wore a short-sleeved, madras plaid shirt with an American made sport coat and a pair of jeans. I wept as we said goodbye.

  “It is only three days, Bernadette, my love. Hasta luego is not goodbye, remember?” He spoke so tenderly, held me so tightly that I felt what he said was true. Nothing could separate us or cause us to really say goodbye, ever. So I let him go, waving as he drove off.

  14 THEN HE WAS GONE

  “Then he was gone. That was the last time I ever saw him, spoke to him, or held him in my arms.”

  When Bernadette uttered those words I began to cry again. I knew from the beginning that her story would end with Guillermo’s death. I hoped that if only I learned more about Guillermo, their life together, and what happened to him, it would all make more sense. It did not.

  Even now, in my thirties, I am still mystified at how such a thing could have happened. Since then, I have experienced betrayal at the hands of a loved one—my husband, caught in flagrante, as they say. I wondered, over and over again, how I had missed such deceit in a man who shared my bed, smiled at me each morning, and said he loved me! I flashed back on the story of Guillermo and his family. In my case, at least, the act of betrayal was obvious, the culprit exposed. The murky circumstances surrounding Guillermo’s disappearance remain shrouded in mystery.

  The bigger question for me now, as an agnostic who still hopes there’s more good in the world than bad, is why? Despite dabbling in religion, I have never possessed the kind of faith Bernadette demonstrated, all those years ago, and still commands today. According to Bernadette, God called Guillermo to heaven and she, eventually, found consolation in that belief. I do not.

  At nine, I had a child’s faith. I wanted to believe, to find hope. Not so much because of a faith in God, but faith in the stoic virtue of the woman I loved. She would not lie to me, she loved me. She took consolation from God and I took consolation from her. It still sometimes works that way for me now, so many years later, when I’m faced with events that make no sense. That is why, when my own life fell apart in my thirties, I sought refuge at her side.

  “He was only supposed to be gone three days. When the third day ended, I was grateful I had spent the time with my family, rather than waiting alone in LA, for his return. That had been another option we considered. I was so glad I had family at my side during the days that followed.”

  So was I. The thought of Bernadette being alone crushed me. I climbed into her lap, not wanting her to feel alone. The truth is, I didn’t want to be alone either. If I got closer, maybe my heart could hear her better, or maybe we could protect each other from the sorrow that went with Guillermo’s disappearance.

  She took a couple deep breaths and began again. What amazes me, today, is how Bernadette, only sixteen years old at the time, took command of the situation so quickly.

  ****

  That third night I was so excited I could not sleep, so I sat up, waiting for his return. He was to take the last flight out that night, from Juarez to Tijuana then, planned to drive to San Felipe. I wasn’t sure when his flight departed, but imagined he would surely be back by dawn. When he had not arrived the next morning I knew something was wrong. By noon I was pacing the floor, trying to decide what to do and wondering who to call. As much as I hated to do it, I paid a visit to Juanita and Carlos. Carlos agreed, right away, to make calls for me. Juanita, taking advantage of the situation, demanded that I pay for the cost of those phone calls.

  “You want to be sure you have something new to confess to the priest, I suppose, Juanita,” Carlos said, shaking his head as I put cash, U.S. dollars, into the witch bird’s outstretched hand.

  “Go home, Bernadette,” Carlos advised. “I will find you when I have learned something.” I trudged home, wearily, taking no joy from the sound of the sea or the blue skies above. When I reached home, grief met me. Not just in my own heart, but in the faces of my family. They knew something was terribly wrong, too. I could not bear to see those sad faces so I sat, outside, in the courtyard.

  It seemed like hours before Carlos returned from the hotel where he had placed phone calls, but he had information. Guillermo had arrived at that town near his family’s ranch, as expected. Several people saw him around town, picking up a few things, later the same day he had left San Felipe. His brother, Roberto, who had picked Guillermo up in Juarez, drove the family truck as it headed out of town toward the ranch.

  “So he arrived as expected. Did he leave that way, too?” I asked.

  “Yes, Bernadette, it seems so. He did not stop in town on the way back to Juarez, but waved as the truck sped by. Roberto honked the horn and waved, too. Everything seemed to be fine. The drive would have taken a few hours, so it is likely they did not stop in order to make sure they had enough time.” Carlos stepped closer and spoke in a low voice so that Juanita, who had come along to my family’s house, could not hear him.

  “I also called the airport about flights last night to Tijuana. There were only two, so it was easy to get information about his flight. He checked in—which means he arrived at the airport for his flight on time, but no one remembers seeing him after that. As far as I can tell he never got on that plane. I called the Tijuana airport and they said he had checked a bag. The bag arrived, but he did not claim it. Nor had Guillermo picked up a rental car he had reserved for his return to San Felipe.”

  I sucked in air and felt lightheaded when I heard those words. How could that be? Someone cannot just vanish in an airport, can they? Certainly Guillermo would never have left that place after driving so fast through town to get there on time. Where would he have gone, anyway? What could have happened?

  “I must impose on you once again, Carlos. Please can you call the police in Juarez?” Carlos looked over his shoulder. Juanita was not even paying attention, like she did not care what had happened to Guillermo. Perhaps she was holding a grudge toward Carlos about his comment earlier about taking money from me. For a fleeting second, a chill ran through me as I thought, “perhaps she does not listen because she knows already what has happened to my Guillermo.” That was a sickening thought. I was on the edge of panic.

  “I have done that already, Bernadette. I told them what I found out and they said they would look into it. They will call me back if they find out anything. If you have money to pay, Bernadette, I think you should hire an investigator of your own. Soon, too, since I believe the family waited far too long to start looking into the disappearance of Connie’s husband.” A wave of nausea overcame me and a feeling like I could not breathe. I fought, as best I could, to think, think, think! What would my Guillermo do? If I went missing he would fly to Juarez and look for me himself, no doubt. But, as a young woman, I could not do that.

  “How much money would I need?”

  “One hundred dollars, U.S., maybe two hundred depending on what the investigator finds out, and how long he continues to search.” I had half that amount, after paying Juanita for those phone calls. More money was in the bank account we used for our living expenses. Set up in both our names, there would be no trouble getting the money. However, I would have to return to LA to do so. Unless I borrowed money from my family, it would be another day before an investigator could start looking.

  “Please, Carlos, come inside with me and help me explain this to my father and mother, okay?” Father agreed, and in a matter of minutes, he went with Carlos to wire money to a location in Juarez. By then, the investigator was already on the job—trustin
g Carlos, who had spoken to him earlier, that the money would be there soon. The investigator had started checking hospitals near the airport in case Guillermo had been taken there after an accident of some kind. He was heading, next, to the airport to retrace Guillermo’s steps.

  I decided to stay in San Felipe for another day or two. I needed to get back, soon, to figure out what to do in LA. I tried to clear my head and think about the ordinary things—paying rent and utilities. I wanted to keep our life in order, for Guillermo, when he returned to me. I also had to let people at Guillermo’s school know what was going on, even though I knew very little myself at that point. I had visa matters to sort out, too. I was a sixteen-year-old bride from Mexico, living in LA, with a husband who had disappeared. I did not want any trouble moving back and forth between the U.S. and Mexico, so keeping my visa situation in order was critical. The list of other things to do went through my troubled mind, over and over.

  “Father, we should also prepare a telegram that can be delivered to town, so that someone can take it to the ranch as soon as possible. Guillermo’s family must be told that he is missing.” I was suddenly overcome by so many mixed feelings toward Guillermo’s family. So many factions and schemes—had one of them, or their schemes, somehow brought harm to Guillermo?

  I tried to recall what Connie had said about her husband’s disappearance. She was so sure he would not have deserted her. This news would cause Connie great distress and it would also be horrific for Grandma Consuelo. I doubted if other members of Guillermo’s family would be nearly so upset. I began to wonder if the witch birds were not the only family members I should have been worried about. Connie had been so guarded, speaking to me privately, hiding by duplicity in her manner, the distressing subjects we discussed. Was there a reason to hide behind such falseness? Were others in that family capable of such falseness too? Could Roberto or his father have covered dark intentions with feigned regard for Guillermo?

  “Of course, Bernadette, that must be done. They must know if there is trouble for Guillermo. I will go now.” When my father spoke, I suddenly felt great shame at suspecting that anyone in Guillermo’s family might be capable of harming him. The rivalry between Roberto and Guillermo never seemed a bitter one, and the news that Guillermo intended to pursue a life away from the ranch would have been good news to Roberto. Roberto would have succeeded in taking his place at his father’s side, next in line to run the ranch. Guillermo and Roberto seemed to be on smiling terms when the truck tore through town, headed for Juarez. The news that Guillermo intended to pursue a life of books might not have made Guillermo’s father happy. But how would harming his son have helped if his main aim was to convince Guillermo to take his rightful place at the ranch?

  The shame my suspicions raised was not so strong that it kept me from asking the investigator to find out where Roberto had gone after he dropped Guillermo off. I took off after my father and Carlos, intent on speaking to the investigator myself. I would ask him to visit the town where Guillermo and Roberto were last seen together. I wanted him to find out if anyone saw Roberto return from Juarez later that night, or the next day. And was he alone? I also wanted the investigator to pay the family a visit, take a look around the ranch, and speak with Grandma and Connie. I don’t know what I thought he might learn. Surely, if they had forced Guillermo back to the ranch, and held him against his will, they would not reveal that to an investigator. My mind was filled with such distress, I mistrusted wildly, and without reason.

  After giving the investigator those instructions, I could think of nothing else to do. I said goodbye to Carlos and thanked him for all his help. It was eerily quiet in my family’s home when my father and I returned. Not just because the youngest children had gone to bed—without argument, I learned later. My mother, sisters and brothers were sitting silently, as if at a church vigil. I took out my rosary and began praying until we all went to bed.

  The next morning we had news, and it was not good. No body had been found, but Guillermo’s jacket—his American sport coat had turned up. There was blood on it and it was torn as though it had been slashed by a blade. Nearby, his wallet was found, empty of the cash that Guillermo surely would have had with him as he traveled. There was blood on the wallet too, and more blood, a substantial amount, in a ditch not far from the airport entrance. The police suspected that Guillermo may have become the victim of a robbery, but had no eye witnesses or suspects. If it had been a robbery then, where was he?

  The investigator checked all of the hospitals in Juarez. No one in the hospitals matched Guillermo’s description, so if he had survived whatever happened to him, he had not turned up in a hospital. He could find no one at the airport who had seen Guillermo leave the terminal after checking in.

  In those days there were no cameras. Nor were security guards posted at the entrances and exits to airport terminals. If someone had seen him it would only have been by chance, and most likely a passenger departing or arriving at the airport after Guillermo had checked in. The investigator was able to get passenger lists for several planes that had landed that night. He took another day to track down passengers who might have been exiting that night through the door near where they had found Guillermo’s jacket.

  One of the many people he spoke to said he might have seen Guillermo. He thought he remembered that sport coat, actually, worn over a black shirt with white stitching. I sucked in my breath. I was sure it was the shirt I had made for Guillermo. The one with my name sewn on it, to be worn over his heart.

  It was dark, but a light illuminated the area not far from airport terminal, near where the jacket and wallet were found later. The man in the sport coat was speaking to two other men. He had looked around him, as if he might be searching for someone else, but nothing about their interaction suggested violence or indicated alarm. And that was it. The investigator continued to look into it, but that’s all we ever learned about what happened that night.

  My father drove me back to LA, a few days later, in the family pickup truck. Paolo came along so my father would not have to drive back to San Felipe alone. My sister Theresa rode with us too, and stayed with me for some time after that. I had no body to bury, so there was no funeral to arrange. When I spoke to the faculty and friends at the university they organized a memorial service for Guillermo, that following fall, when there was still no word about him. So many wonderful things were said about him—dozens of people turned up. I was surprised, but only a little, to discover how many friends he had made in that first year at school.

  For months I moved through my life, numb and empty. I was sad and angry, wounded as though I had been attacked that night, too. How could God have let that happen when Guillermo wore that shirt I had made for him? Why was my love not strong enough to keep him safe? I swore, not realizing until then, how many swear words I knew!

  My sister forced me to eat and sleep and go through the motions of living. She helped me speak to people at the bank who handled our accounts, and the person at the university who dealt with Guillermo’s enrollment and his scholarship. We spoke to the lawyer who handled our visas made sure I would stay out of trouble with immigration as long as I wanted to remain in the country.

  I did not know what I wanted to do. Not about that, or anything else. I was drowning in misery. For weeks I kept hoping that, because no one had found a body, Guillermo might still be alive. I prayed for a miracle. I imagined that he had been hit over the head and wandered, without a memory, like in one of those amnesia movies. When no miracle happened, I became angry about that, too. At night I dreamed of him, sometimes sweet and vivid dreams, as though he was still next to me. Other nights the shadows of three witch birds closed in around him. Their claws tearing at him, they drew blood and I lost my breath, waking with a start.

  Guillermo’s family did little to console me. The only one I heard anything from was Connie. She wrote that Grandma Consuelo and Agustìn had both taken the news about Guillermo very hard. Connie said she and Izzy wa
nted to visit me in LA when Grandma recovered. In my heart, I was sure Grandma Consuelo would not recover, and I was right. Toward the middle of November, right before my seventeenth birthday, she passed away. At the start of advent Connie and Izzy came to visit, as they had said they would. Connie handed me a handwritten note, in Spanish, from Grandma.

  Bernadette, I am quite sure it will not be long now before I join Guillermo. If only I had done as he asked, signed over control of the ranch, and left with him for Los Angeles. I might have been able to protect him, but I did not understand how dire the situation had become. I was hurt, too, that he did not want to take his grandfather’s place at the ranch where he was greatly needed. I begged Guillermo to reconsider. He agreed, but only if I promised to visit you both in California. That is how we left it.

  I should have known that it was already too late. Even if I could have changed Guillermo’s mind he would never have been allowed to run the ranch, anyway. The practical men had already made their practical plans to take the decision from Guillermo, once and for all. Roberto avoids me, so I cannot say how it has left him. Their plan has taken its toll on Agustìn. He is now among the walking dead, no light left in his eyes. Eyes that cannot even meet mine, directly. I feel dread at the sight of him—not afraid of him, but for him, given the soul-killing step he and Roberto have taken.