A Blossom of Bright Light

by Suzanne Chazin

  “I’m sure Don Charlie and Steve Schulman’s old law partner are doing all they can for Manuel,” said Adele.

  “So he’ll be free soon?” asked Claudia.

  “That’s hard to predict.” Adele didn’t have a magic wand she could wave and stay Serrano’s order of deportation. People always attributed to her more power than she possessed—and then got annoyed when she couldn’t come through.

  Take Serrano’s ankle monitor. When he first got arrested, Immigration and Customs Enforcement, the federal agency that handles deportations, wanted to ship him off to a detention center in some distant part of the country and expedite his removal. Adele worked an all-nighter to convince a judge to release him on humanitarian grounds and monitor him at home while he fought deportation.

  It was a huge victory. And although Serrano was forbidden to work under the conditions of his release, he was extremely grateful for the chance to remain with his children. But as far as the rest of the community was concerned, Adele had slapped an electronic ball and chain on an innocent man and gotten him kicked off his job.

  She couldn’t even begin to explain to Esme and Claudia what Serrano was up against now: federal policy, judicial expedience, the whims of Washington on any given day. Steve Schulman might—might—have the influence to get a judge to issue Serrano a stay of deportation. Not legal residency, mind you. Just a promise not to deport him right now. But it would be political suicide for a candidate not yet in office to intercede publicly or try to call in those sorts of favors right before an election. Also, it could backfire. A judge could decide to spite a politician who tried to exert that sort of pressure. People got deported for a variety of reasons, not all of them logical.

  Adele couldn’t give Esme and Claudia the news they wanted, so she tried to change the subject. She gestured to the huge pile of food Claudia was ringing up and sorting into various bags and boxes. Esme appeared to be buying for an army.

  “I’ll bet three growing boys must eat you out of house and home,” said Adele.

  “These things aren’t for me.”

  “Doña Esme buys groceries for many people in town,” said Claudia. “Especially the ones who are too proud or too sick to visit the food pantry.”

  “How wonderful,” said Adele. “I had no idea.” The Gonzalezes already gave generously to La Casa as well as to the medical clinic, the town’s food pantry, and a scholarship program at Lake Holly High School.

  Adele noticed packages of hand warmers among the items Esme was buying. “Are you taking these to Mano Amiga?” Adele knew that, in addition to all their other charities, Esme ran Mano Amiga—Helping Hand—at her church. It was an outreach program for the homeless.

  Esme nodded. “Winter is coming.”

  “When are you going again?”

  “Tomorrow. Why?”

  “Zambo came to see me last night at La Casa,” said Adele. “I wasn’t there. I know he goes to Mano Amiga a lot, especially when it gets cold outside. If you see him, can you tell him to come by La Casa as soon as he can? I really need to talk to him.”

  Esme took out her checkbook and began writing a check for the groceries. Claudia didn’t take credit cards—the overhead was too steep. And besides, her customers mostly paid in cash.

  “I don’t think I’ll be seeing him again,” said Esme.

  “Why?”

  Esme tore off her check and handed it to Claudia. “The last time I spoke to him, he told me he was going back to Guatemala.”

  “He always says that. Every time the weather gets cold and the Lake Holly police dump him in Wickford.”

  “He was serious this time, I believe.” Esme stuffed her checkbook back into her handbag. She looked down as she spoke. She often looked down when she spoke. Adele suspected it had something to do with her teeth. They were straight and white, but according to Gonzalez, when he first married her they were very crooked. The dental implants came later—late enough, Adele suspected, that Esme never got used to looking people straight in the eye when she was talking.

  “Does he understand that if he leaves, he might not be able to come back?”

  “I only know what he told me,” said Esme. “He seemed very certain. Maybe he wanted to see you to say good-bye.”

  “Huh.” Adele felt like she’d just had the wind knocked out of her. Here was Manuel Serrano doing everything he could do not to get deported. And here was Zambo, heading back by choice. People were nothing if not surprising.

  “Mom! Can we go?” asked Sophia in English. Her ice cream was beginning to melt. Chicha the dachshund was looking up hopefully in case any of it dropped. Neto was reciting his favorite flavors, but he couldn’t get much beyond chocolate and vanilla.

  “One minute, Mija.” Adele turned to Esme. “If it turns out Zambo was just bluffing and you do run into him, can you tell him to come see me at La Casa?”

  “Of course,” said Esme. She kept her head slightly bent and didn’t meet Adele’s gaze. “I send everybody to you, Doña Adele. I’m sure you always try your best to help people.”

  There was something in the way Esme spoke the words, the way Claudia kept her own gaze on the scuffed counter, that made Adele feel the weight of their expectations and the sense that already, she’d failed.

  Chapter 8

  The Reillys’ house sat in the middle of a block of modest capes and split-levels all evenly laid out like a set of dominoes, all yellowing under the sodium glare of streetlights. Behind the pulled shades of picture windows, televisions flickered and dogs barked. People stumbled about taking out the trash, half hidden in the shadows of bushes hyper-pruned to the shape of cannonballs or Chinese takeout containers.

  It was not the sort of neighborhood where Vega expected to find a live-in nanny. He’d expected something more, well, upscale. Still, Dominga Flores was the best lead he had so far as a potential mother of Baby Mercy. According to Dr. Feldman’s records, she’d skipped her last three prenatal checkups and hadn’t been in to see him in almost six weeks. Her cell phone number—likely one of those pay-as-you-go varieties—was out of service. Her employers offered his best hope of tracking her down.

  Vega parked in the street and walked up to a front door with a plaque beside it. The family name was burnished into the plaque, the dot over the “i” replaced by a shamrock. The Gaelic words ERIN GO BRAGH were etched beneath. Vega smiled to himself. When he was a boy growing up in the South Bronx, every fire escape and bodega in his neighborhood sported a Puerto Rican flag, a symbol of pride that people outside his culture—particularly Anglos—tended to regard with suspicion. But really, how was this any different?

  A woman answered the door with a baby on her hip. She was dressed in oversized gray sweatpants and a sweatshirt with an assortment of pale splatters and stains across it. Her blond hair was carelessly gathered into a loose bun. Strands hung down the sides like she was a piece of corn in the process of being shucked. Vega wasn’t sure if she was the babysitter or the mom.

  “Sorry to bother you, ma’am. My name is James Vega. I’m a detective with the county police.” Vega showed her his badge and ID. “I’m looking to talk to Mr. or Mrs. Reilly. Are either of them home?”

  “I’m Mrs. Reilly.” The baby fussed on her hip. A boy, judging by the square heft of his body. He had blue eyes and a pale down of wispy hair that stood straight up on his head. He was making those low-level whines that promised to detonate at any moment. It was a long time ago now, but Vega could still remember how he and Wendy were always handling Joy like a grenade with a pulled pin.

  “May I come in?”

  “Um, sure.”

  Vega stepped in the doorway. A toddler ran past his feet with a push toy in hand—some sort of fire truck with bells and whistles. From the kitchen, he could hear a man’s voice trying to coax another child into eating one more bite of carrot. The child was screaming like the man was sticking needles into her flesh.

  “Have I got you at a bad time?” asked Vega.

  “Ac
tually, this is about as good as it gets.”

  She gestured to what Vega assumed was a living room on her left. It had no grown-up furniture, only a scattering of beanbags on the wall-to-wall beige carpet surrounded by piles of dolls, trucks, and blocks. On a single low table with padded corners sat a collection of sippy cups and spilled Cheerios. A flat-screen television blared cartoons.

  “How many children do you have?” asked Vega.

  “Three. It’s looks like more, I know. But with my three, it always does.” She nodded to the baby on her hip. “C.J. is eight months. Brody, who just ran past, is two and a half, and my daughter, Kayla,” she gestured to the kitchen, “is five.”

  A big bear of a man with receding reddish-blond hair walked into the living room. He had the shell-shocked demeanor of a soldier just off the battlefield.

  “This is my husband, Bob.”

  Vega identified himself again and shook the startled man’s hand. Vega wasn’t sure what was startling him, having a cop in his house or having all these kids. Vega realized he’d never gotten the woman’s first name.

  “And you are?”

  She seemed stumped by the question for a moment, as if she couldn’t recall any name except “Mom.”

  “Oh, sorry. I’m Karen.”

  The five-year-old must have realized her tantrum over carrots wasn’t having the desired effect. Her parents were preoccupied. So she walked into the living room and began screaming at the top of her lungs. The two-year-old made another pass through the room pushing his fire truck. The baby’s fussing seemed positively blissful by comparison.

  “Is Dominga here?” asked Vega. At the mention of her name, the five-year-old stopped screaming.

  “Do-ga? Do-ga? Where’s Do-ga? I want Do-ga!” Her two-and-a-half-year-old brother took up the cry while he smacked his truck into a wall.

  Karen smoothed her daughter’s blond hair. “She’s not here, sweetheart.” She turned to Vega. “I’m afraid Dominga doesn’t work for us anymore, much to my children’s disappointment.”

  The little girl kept up her chant. Vega wasn’t sure what was more annoying, her previous tantrum or her new fixation.

  “Sounds like your children really miss her.”

  “Oh my goodness, they do! We all do.”

  “Do you know where I can find her?”

  Karen gave Vega a wary look. “What is this about?”

  Vega studied the living room. There was nowhere to sit but on the beanbags, no way to talk over those cartoons and the screech of kids.

  “Is there someplace we can sit and talk? Perhaps the kitchen?” He knew he could never hope to catch the complete attention of both parents in this house, so he decided to settle on Karen. Women were more perceptive and often more accommodating in his presence. “Mr. Reilly?” he turned to the husband. “Could you keep an eye on your children, sir, while I chat with your wife?”

  “Um. Okay.” Bob Reilly looked like he hadn’t quite recovered from the last episode when Karen handed off the baby to him.

  “You can start C.J. and Brody’s bath,” she told her husband.

  Vega felt sorry for the guy.

  The kitchen was small and frilly, with flowery curtains across a window and school calendars and snapshots on the refrigerator. Tiny sneakers lay in a jumble by the back door. The table still had dinner plates across it. Kayla’s carrots sat in a congealed lump on her plate.

  Karen looked embarrassed by the mess and started clearing everything. “Can I get you some coffee?”

  “No thank you, ma’am. I’m fine. And you don’t need to clear anything on my account.”

  “I don’t really know how to sit still anymore,” she admitted. “Would you mind?”

  “Do whatever you feel comfortable with.”

  She grabbed a stack of plates and began scraping the remnants into the garbage. “You still haven’t told me why you want to find Dominga. She’s a wonderful young woman. I don’t want to get her in trouble or anything.”

  “This has nothing to do with her immigration status, if that’s what you’re concerned about. I just need to know whether or not she’s had her baby. Do you know if she’s given birth yet?”

  “No. I don’t. The hospital might know.”

  “Her due date was two weeks ago, but there’s no record she gave birth.”

  Karen stacked the plates in the sink and ran water over them. Upstairs, Vega could hear Bob Reilly trying to maintain order with an army in revolt. The tears and tantrums seemed endless.

  “I thought she’d stay in touch with the kids,” said Karen. “You saw Kayla. She adored Dominga. But Dominga just—left—and never looked back. I don’t understand how she could just abandon them like that.”

  “I was under the impression you let her go.”

  “We did. But not because we didn’t love her. We have a tiny au-pair suite downstairs. A room just big enough for one person. Look at this place,” Karen unfolded her hands, more prayer for divine guidance than any invitation to poke around. “We can’t manage with three children underfoot. How could we add Dominga’s baby to the mix? Where would we keep the child? How would we cope? I’m a third-grade teacher, Detective. My husband travels around the country selling data-processing equipment. We chose a live-in nanny because it was cheaper and afforded more flexibility than putting three kids in day care. We’re not rich. We’re at our breaking point already. As much as I love Dominga, we simply couldn’t do it.”

  “So you fired her.”

  “Fired her? We gave her a month’s severance and great recommendations. Plus I was the one who found her another job. At a beautiful estate in Wickford caring for an elderly woman who was absolutely delighted at the prospect that she’d have a little baby in her great big house.”

  “Is that where she is now?”

  Karen opened her dishwasher and began stacking plates inside. “I assume so. She left here about six weeks ago and promised she’d keep in touch. She promised Kayla. And then—nothing. She even disconnected her cell phone. I have a ton of stuff here that she was helping me sell on eBay. And she hasn’t even called me about that.”

  “Do you know if she’s all right?”

  “I called her employer’s house after she disconnected her cell phone. She was very cold on the line. Just ‘yeses’ and ‘nos.’ I called back and got her employer’s son, who was visiting. He told me Dominga didn’t want to speak to us anymore and hung up. I cried after that call, Detective. Dominga was with us for five years. She was like family. She raised Kayla. I’m starting to wonder if it was all an act, you know? Like maybe she never cared about my kids at all.”

  “So you never found out if she had the baby?”

  “At that point, she hadn’t. That much I know.”

  “And how long ago was that?”

  “Maybe—four weeks ago?”

  “You said you got her the job. Was this a family friend?”

  “At an estate in Wickford?” Karen Reilly laughed. Lake Holly had a wide range of income levels. Neighboring Wickford had just two: rich and richer.

  “I found the job for her through Craigslist,” said Karen.

  “Do you still have the address and phone number?”

  “I have everything.”

  “Can you show me?”

  Karen hesitated. “I’m sad that she didn’t stay in touch, Detective. But that doesn’t mean I want to cost her her job.”

  “I have no intention of making trouble for her outside of confirming whether or not she had her baby.”

  “Why do you need to know?”

  Vega put on his best cop voice. “I’m afraid I can’t divulge the specifics of an ongoing police investigation.”

  Karen sighed. “Okay. Come with me.”

  The Reilly house was a split-level with gates on both the upper and lower portions of the stairs. Karen unlatched the lower gate now and led Vega down a short flight of stairs into a room with boxes of clothes and children’s toys, all neatly arranged next to a desk w
ith a computer and a printer.

  “My sideline business,” Karen explained. “I sell stuff for people on eBay. Clothes. Toys. Bric-a-brac. You’d be surprised how much money you can make on commission doing this.”

  “You mentioned that Dominga helped you?”

  “She was terrific. She couldn’t open an eBay account herself because of her, uh, immigration status. But she was great at acquiring and selling things. I split everything with her, fifty-fifty.”

  Vega’s eye was drawn to a fuzzy zip-up jacket, the color of Pepto-Bismol, that lay neatly folded on top of a stack of clothes for sale. Joy owned a jacket just like that. It was impractical as all hell. Too short in the midsection, too long in the sleeves. When she reached for anything, it rode halfway up her chest. Maybe that was the point.

  “Where do you get all this stuff?” asked Vega.

  “From people I know, from people Dominga knew. Dominga knew all the nannies and housekeepers in town. They get a lot of stuff from their employers.”

  “And do you sell everything?”

  “What we don’t sell, we give to charity, so it’s all good.”

  Karen led Vega through a short hallway to a small bedroom with an adjoining bathroom. It was indeed as tiny as Karen had said. But the walls were papered in pretty floral paper. The bed looked comfortable. There was a chest of drawers, a closet, and a flat-screen TV with a remote. Vega didn’t know much about live-in nannies, but the situation looked decent.

  “You haven’t hired another nanny yet?”

  “We’d like to find someone,” said Karen. “But it’s so hard to find anyone we feel comfortable leaving our children with. Right now, we’re getting by with part-time sitters and my mom filling in, but we can’t go on much longer like this.”

  “Do you mind my asking how much you paid her a week?”

  Karen opened the top drawer on the dresser and began rummaging inside. “Dominga got room and board plus $400 a week in cash and two weeks paid vacation. She worked seven a.m. until seven p.m. weekdays, which is long, I know. But she only worked every other Saturday night for us and a very occasional weekend day. Plus, whenever she had the time, she did the eBay sales, and she made half the cash she brought in on that as well.”