Elevator, The

by Hunt, Angela

  She glances at Isabel, whose upper lip is adorned with pearls of perspiration. The sight reminds Michelle of a corresponding dampness under her own arms. No wonder—the air-conditioning isn’t working and there’s no outside ventilation. In an hour or two, maybe less, they’ll be sweating like marathon runners.

  She has to get a grip on her emotions. They all do.

  Michelle turns to face the others. “You’re right. I’m sorry I lost it.”

  “Now we’re even.” The redhead rests her chin on her hand as a smile curves her lips. “Now—back to your story. Obviously, you learned something from your childhood misery. You came down from the mountain and made something of your life. How’d you manage college?”

  “A scholarship,” Michelle answers automatically. She glances toward the door, unhappy with the sudden change of subject. In another moment this woman will be asking questions about where, when and what Michelle studied. Though she has lied about those things a thousand times, it doesn’t seem prudent to lie when her life is hanging by a cable.

  No sense in tempting God…or whoever is controlling the universe today.

  “I wish,” she says, lifting her gaze toward the shadowy ceiling, “we knew what was happening outside. If we knew how the storm was progressing, maybe we could guess when they’ll send rescue teams into the area.”

  Isabel lifts her head with a sudden snap. “Oh!”

  Gina’s eyes flick at the girl. “Don’t be shy, speak up.”

  With a pained grimace, Isabel pulls something from her pocket, then pushes an object into the light: her pink CD player.

  Michelle looks at the cleaning woman. How on earth is that supposed to help them?

  Gina’s mouth twists in bitter amusement. “Don’t tell me—all this time, you’ve had a radio.”

  “I forgot.” Isabel ducks as though she fears Gina will slap her. “I always listen to music while I vacuum. I never listen to la radio. But I have it.”

  When the redhead reaches for the player, Michelle blocks Gina’s reach. “Why don’t you listen,” she says, nodding at Isabel. “See what you can tell us about the storm.”

  Gina withdraws her hand, annoyance struggling with humor on her face as she stares across the car. Michelle leans into the corner, not caring that she’s nipped the older woman’s pride. The redhead carries herself like a perfect lady, but a mile-wide bullying streak lies beneath that polished veneer. There’s something about the way she avoids looking at Isabel unless she absolutely has to….

  Isabel slips the earbuds into her ears, then clicks the power button and twirls the dial. She listens, her brows lowering, then bites her lip and looks at Michelle.

  “Well?” Michelle brings her hands together. “What’s happening?”

  Isabel switches the machine off. “Winds are one hundred forty-three miles per hour,” she says, speaking slowly, “and it is raining hard. The radio man is worried about flooding.”

  “Flooding where?” Gina asks. “Along the Gulf?”

  Isabel’s gaze flicks at the older woman. “Sí. And the bridges and downtown Tampa.”

  “Rain.” Gina lifts her gaze to the ceiling. “I thought that’s what I was hearing.”

  She’s been hearing rain? Michelle blinks, then closes her eyes to concentrate. At first she hears only the shriek of the wind, then her ears catch a susurrant whisper that seems to come from far away. So that’s what the shushing sound is—the heavy rains serving as Felix’s opening act.

  “I’m surprised we can hear anything,” Gina says, “dangling in the center of the building like this.”

  “But we’re dangling in a shaft that opens to the roof,” Michelle points out. “It’s hollow, and you know how sound travels through open spaces, so maybe that explains it.” She glances at Isabel, whose eyes are growing wider by the moment. “You made a good point a minute ago,” she says, not wanting to panic the housekeeper. “We should talk about something to pass the time. Something positive.”

  “Like how you’re positive that mechanic is going to get us out of here?” The curves of Gina’s mouth go flat as she slips out of her trench coat. “I can’t see how he’s going to do that without help, and I don’t know where he’s going to get help when nearly everyone in the county has evacuated.”

  The cleaning woman leans forward, her eyes searching Michelle’s. “The man you called…he is coming, no?”

  “You heard him.” Michelle drops her gaze before Gina’s skeptical stare. “He said he was on his way.”

  With uncommon care, Gina folds her coat into a square, then props it between her back and the wall. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up. The weather’s worse than it was an hour ago, so he may not be able to cross the bridge. We may have to ride out the storm in this elevator—in fact, maybe we should count on it.”

  The housekeeper looks at Michelle, her dark eyes brimming with threatening tears. “My son needs me. Do you…do you have kids?”

  “Not yet.”

  Isabel dashes wetness from her lower lashes. “My son, Rafael, is only eighteen months old. A baby.”

  The redhead snorts softly. “Enjoy him while you can. Babies grow up and turn into toddlers, and toddlers turn into teens. My kids are well behaved because I’ve never tolerated foolishness, but even my kids are occasionally challenging.”

  When the wind unexpectedly ceases for a moment, silence settles around them, an absence of sound that has an almost tangible density. Michelle inhales that silence, then finds herself about to choke on the strangely thickened air.

  This won’t do. If they stop talking, they’ll begin to think of their loved ones, and when they think, they worry…

  “Well,” she says, her voice strangled, “we can’t sit here and stare at the walls or we’ll go crazy. We could…I don’t know. Talk about our men?”

  Gina arches her brows into triangles. “You like to play games at parties, don’t you?”

  “What’s wrong with games?”

  “Nothing, if you’re fourteen.”

  Michelle meets the older woman’s gaze. “I like ice breakers. They help people forget how miserable they are when they’re forced into unfamiliar group situations. I could take a roomful of type-A personalities, assign them a social task, and have them interacting like old friends in ten minutes.”

  Gina snorts. “Interacting like competitors, you mean. My husband likes games, too, but he doesn’t play for fun. He plays to win.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  The redhead draws a quick breath, then smiles slowly and turns to the cleaning woman. “You said you had a son. Want to tell us about him?”

  Despite the stuffy warmth of the elevator, Michelle feels her cheeks flush with heat. Gina has purposely changed the subject in order to avoid an argument, and with that simple, graceful gesture, she has taken control of the conversation.

  The woman is a master manipulator, but Michelle is no novice.

  Obviously uncomfortable under Gina’s directive, the housekeeper swipes at a hank of hair clinging to her damp forehead. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Come on.” Michelle swings around to face Isabel. “You can take your time to think of something, but make it a happy story, okay? Maybe your happiest moment. After all—” her mouth twists in a confident smile “—we’re not going anywhere until Eddie arrives.”

  Isabel swipes at her nose with a tattered tissue and wonders what she can say. A happy story? These gringas barely talk to her, then they ask for una historia feliz? Is she supposed to clean their building and entertain them?

  Still…maybe it wouldn’t be bad to remember a time before the trouble started. Before Ernesto.

  She thrusts the tissue back into her pocket and breathes deeply, forcing herself to move past a cloud of raw memories. She had a happy childhood, but these women would not appreciate the simplicity of life in Monterrey or understand how food in the belly equaled happiness in the heart. They might not value the care her mother took slicing homegrown pepp
ers or grilling tortillas on the griddle. Yet while they might not be familiar with hand-prepared foods or poverty, they might understand love.

  She dabs again at her wet nose and searches for the right words. Hard as it is to remember happiness, it’s even harder to translate the feeling into English.

  She looks at the younger woman. “I grew up in Monterrey, where almost everyone worked in the cotton mills,” she says. “My mamá, papá, y hermano—my brother—worked there, too, so I started at the mill when I was fourteen. I was too young, but my mother said nothing when I told the boss I was older. We needed the money, but I also wanted to be with my family. Everything was good until my papá caught his arm in one of the machines. He died.”

  The brunette holds one hand up and places the other across it. “Time out,” she says, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “We want to hear about good things, not industrial accidents.”

  Isabel draws a breath between her teeth. She had been about to add that those first few weeks were a happy time, but how can she talk about the mill without mentioning Papá’s accident?

  She looks away and searches for another story. “My marriage day,” she finally says. “When Carlos married me, I was happy. But the happiest day was when Rafael was born an American citizen.”

  The woman called Michelle turns to face Isabel and leans against one of the bronze doors. “Tell us about Carlos,” she says, hugging her knees. “Did you date for a long time? Is he handsome? Does your baby look more like you or your husband?”

  Isabel blinks, then gives the woman a bland smile, remembering that she and this gringa are from two different worlds. She met Carlos only three minutes before he saved her life; he married her three weeks later. And the baby, who had been in her belly when she met her husband, looks nothing like the man he calls Papá.

  Her gaze shifts to the pattern on the tile floor. “I owe Carlos everything.”

  “Where’d you meet him?”

  “A town in North Carolina…where I got off the bus.”

  When the red-haired woman lifts a brow, Isabel knows they want the entire story. But how can she speak of Ernesto? Already these gringas think her poor and stupid. If they knew about Ernesto, they would also think her wicked. And if they knew what happened in the office on the thirty-sixth floor…

  They must never, ever know that.

  Still they keep watching and waiting, so what can she tell them?

  “I love my Carlos.” She gives each of the women a brief, distracted glance and tries to smile. “When I got off the bus I had no money, so he took care of me and bought me a ticket to Florida. He found me a place to stay and three weeks later he took me to the church where a priest married us. He is a good father, and he keeps me safe. What more could any woman want?”

  “What, indeed?” the red-haired gringa says, and even across the gulf that separates them, Isabel recognizes the tang of bitterness in the woman’s voice.

  11:00 a.m.

  CHAPTER 13

  “Baby, if you love me, you will.”

  Isabel stared at Ernesto through a haze of nausea. How could he be so insensitive? He knew about her pregnancy, he knew she was enferma. So how could he insist that she go to New York?

  “Ernesto.” His name, once so lovely on her tongue, tasted like bile. “Ernesto, please, I am sick.”

  “It’ll pass, baby. Soon you will be feeling good.”

  He reached out, cupped her chin in his broad hand and looked into her eyes. “Doesn’t being my woman make you feel good?”

  Yesterday she would have said yes.

  Six months ago, during their first dance, she’d given Ernesto her heart. Two days ago, in her bathroom at home, she’d discovered that he had given her a baby. This morning she’d broken the news; he’d smiled and told her to go home and rest. When she’d come looking for him this afternoon, he’d barely glanced at her before asking her to go to New York.

  If he’d meant to take her on a vacation, she’d have been thrilled beyond words. She’d have forsaken her family and lied to her madre for a chance to see New York on Ernesto’s arm.

  But he didn’t want her to go as a turista. He wasn’t planning una vacaciones or a sightseeing trip; he wanted her to deliver drugs to his New York contacts.

  He wanted her to hide cocaine in her belly.

  “No, Ernesto,” she begged, searching for some sign of yielding in his eyes. “It would not be good for the baby.”

  His hand rose to stroke her hair. “Nothing will hurt the bebé. You will be safer than most of my girls. If you are stopped, you will not be arrested because the Americans will not X-ray a pregnant woman. No X-ray, no proof.”

  She shook her head like a dog stunned by a swift and unexpected blow. “What if they don’t believe I am pregnant?”

  “They will make you pee in a cup, then they will see for themselves. You will be safe, chiquita. No one will bother you.”

  Sick with the knowledge that he could use her in such a way, she placed one hand on her stomach. “Ernesto, I don’t want—ohh!”

  His hand twisted in her hair until the pressure ripped at her scalp. She cried out, then closed her eyes and gasped as he leaned closer to exhale a beery breath in her face. “This isn’t about what you want, chica. This is about what you will do for me. Other girls have done it, and look at them—they have happy babies, no? So you will do it.”

  “I am not like those other girls. I am too afraid—”

  “I will ask Jesus Malverde to give you courage. He will be with you and bring you back to make me happy.”

  “But—”

  “If you do not do this…perhaps you will never see your brother alive again. I know Rodrigo, I know where he goes after work. I think my son would like to know his uncle some day, but that will be your decision.”

  He released his grip on her hair, but as he walked away, a clump of long strands fell from his fist to the floor.

  Isabel pushed herself to a sitting position and couldn’t help noticing the billboard outside the apartment window. Stop, the government-sponsored sign read, Love Can Cost You Dearly.

  The picture beneath the words featured a young woman being led away in handcuffs while in the background her silk-shirted, blue-jeaned, drug-dealing boyfriend smiled and smoked a cigarette.

  As rain streaks the cab windows, Eddie Vaughn clicks his tongue and studies the wavering pavement. “Yesterday,” he tells Sadie, “the white lines on this highway told me where to drive. I know those lines haven’t moved, Sades, but I’m not seein’ them. If you spot one, give a shout, will you?”

  The dog shifts her weight on the seat and sits a little straighter, knowing she’s been asked to do something.

  Eddie chuckles and returns his gaze to the wet road. Sometimes he’d give his last dollar to know how much of his conversation the dog comprehended. Heather used to mock him, saying he put too much store in what Sadie understood, but sometimes he is sure the dog grasps far more than his ex-wife.

  “Whoa, girl.” He extends his arm to shield the retriever as he applies the brake. The instinctive action is unnecessary, for Sadie’s harness is attached to the seat belt, a precaution he insists on taking whenever his best friend travels with him.

  Ahead, on what looks more like a pond than a road, yellow beacons flash a warning. Swirling red and blue lights signal the presence of an emergency vehicle, so maybe a cop will be able to tell him what’s going on.

  The only other car on the road, a Ford Explorer, pulls a U-turn before it reaches the yellow lights. Eddie presses forward, driving as fast as he dares until he reaches the roadblock.

  The Pinellas County deputy draped in an orange poncho is a woman. Water streams from the brim of her plastic-covered hat as she bends toward the window to shout an unintelligible order.

  Unintelligible: fourteen letters, difficult to understand.

  You could fill half a column with that one.

  Eddie presses the window button and flinches as cold rain invades the sancti
ty of the warm cab.

  “We’ve gotta keep people off the bridge,” the deputy yells, her voice hoarse. “We’ve got storm surge coming in soon.”

  Eddie peers through the gathering gloom and studies the bridge ahead. The three-mile Howard Frankland links the peninsula of Pinellas County with Tampa. Most of the bridge rides about twelve feet above the bay, all but “the hump,” a towering, sloping span designed to permit the passage of tall ships.

  “Listen—” Eddie tries to speak in a normal voice, but the deputy shakes her head and cups her hand around her ear.

  “It’s like this,” he yells, leaning out the window. “I’m an elevator-repair technician. We’ve got some women stuck in a downtown skyscraper and I’ve got to help ’em out.”

  The woman stares at him for a moment, then his words fall into place. “You’ve got people in downtown Tampa? But those roads were blocked off last night.”

  Eddie grips the steering wheel. “I guess they found a way around the barricades.”

  The deputy rolls her eyes, then points toward the bridge. “If you go over, you won’t be able to come back for a good while. This bridge is going to be underwater in a couple of hours. The Skyway’s already closed and the Causeway will be swamped any minute.”

  Eddie squints at the long gray bridge, barely visible in the pouring rain. “I guess I’d better find a rock to crawl under, then.”

  Though the look in her eye makes it clear the deputy is questioning his sanity, she leans in again. “You got gas? There’s no gas within a hundred miles of here.”

  “I filled up yesterday. And I have a spare gas can in the back.”

  “Well…all right, I’ll let you through. But you be careful, you hear? Winds are awful strong on the hump.”

  “I’ll take my time.”