Elevator, The

by Hunt, Angela

  She pulled on her best gold bracelet, the pearl necklace she’d inherited from her grandmother and a sterling silver ring that had cost her the proceeds from twenty quarts of wild blueberries.

  After glancing ruefully in her closet, she wished again for a fairy godmother—a pair of glass slippers would have been highly appreciated. A collection of dirty sneakers littered the floor, sprinkled with old socks, two pairs of stuffed-animal slippers and one pair of sandals. The white sandals matched her dress, but the left shoe’s ankle strap had lost its buckle.

  Shelly pulled the broken shoe onto her lap. She could cut off the useless strap, but she wouldn’t be able to walk with a shoe that wouldn’t stay on her foot. She had no choice, then, but to try to repair it.

  After searching every drawer in the trailer and the shed, she came up with three options: duct tape, adhesive bandages or staples. The staples bit into the top of her foot and then gave way. The bandage strips lacked staying power (no surprise, since this bargain brand barely stuck to a cut finger). The duct tape wouldn’t be the most attractive solution, but it was certainly the strongest.

  With an eye on the clock, Shelly slid the tongue of the strap into the broken buckle, then encased both pieces in gray duct tape. When she was sure the repair would hold, she put on the other shoe. Standing, no one could see the tops of her feet. Sitting would be a problem, but if she kept her right leg crossed over the left and her skirt pulled down, maybe no one would notice.

  At three-fifteen she was ready to go.

  She paced in the living room, the skirt of the white gown swishing against her legs as she walked from the TV wall to the kitchen. Her mother lay on the couch, a cigarette between her fingers, her free arm thrown over her head, her eyes glued to a rerun of M*A*S*H. At every commercial break, she lifted her head, gave Shelly a bleary look and said, “Face it, girl, you ain’t the type to drink tea.”

  By the time the four o’clock soap opera faded from the screen, Shelly realized Brian wasn’t coming. She sat in her dead father’s recliner and watched the shadows lengthen across the room. Had Brian met his buddies at the diner and told them what he’d done? Were they heehawing about her even now?

  The thought lacerated her.

  She wouldn’t let them laugh. They might think her a misfit, they might not invite her to their parties, but she had every right to accept an award she’d earned. She would go to that tea in her mother’s yellowed wedding dress and her own duct-taped sandals. She would show up, sweaty and defiant and late, and she would revel in secondhand glory.

  Because one day she would leave Bald Knob. She would exchange her hopelessness for success. She’d forget about this trailer and these people. When she broke a shoe, she’d throw it out, and she’d never, ever wear anything with even a teeny, tiny stain on it.

  And if by chance one of her classmates found her in the great, wide world, she’d look at him in consternation, furrow a brow and say, “Bald Knob? You still living in that flea-bitten town?”

  She tucked her battered purse under her arm and headed toward the door. “Bye.”

  “You going somewheres?” Her mother rose up on an elbow and cast a wide-eyed look over the sofa pillow. “In my weddin’ dress?”

  “See you later, Momma.”

  Gripping the last shreds of her courage, Shelly Tills stalked out the door, marched down the creaky porch steps and grabbed the handlebars of her bicycle.

  Twenty miles lay between her and Oak Hill, with ten of those miles spread over a strength-sapping incline.

  But she’d find the energy to pedal up Mount Everest if doing so meant she could confront Brian Hawthorne and his friends and shame them into silence.

  Gina leans forward and stretches the ache from her shoulders, then lets her hands fall back into her lap. If only she’d remembered to grab a magazine from the nightstand before she got in the car…

  She grimaces at the absurdity of the thought. If she’s not careful, she’ll drive herself crazy with if-onlys. What’s done is done; the present and future are all that matter. She must endure this interval of confinement, then she’ll be free to do whatever she must to protect her children.

  Her plan has been postponed, that’s all, though the storm has added a new wrinkle to the situation. Despite Michelle’s blind faith in that mechanic, it’s going to take a dedicated rescue team to get them out of here. The governor will have learned from others’ mistakes after Katrina, so he’ll implement rescue efforts as soon as the storm has passed. Professional people will scour these buildings; the rescue may merit media attention. Sonny, who has to know where she is, will be on the scene, eager and solicitous about her welfare.

  When they are finally escorted from this building, photographers will snap their cameras and reporters will listen for sound bites to play on the six o’clock news.

  Sonny will take her home, where the kids will welcome her with open arms. She’ll soak for an hour in her whirlpool tub, then she’ll slip into her robe, take the pistol from her coat pocket and shoot her worthless husband between the eyes.

  She’ll be suitably distraught when the police arrive. With the children by her side, she’ll point to the door that leads from her bedroom to the pool. “There,” she’ll say. “An intruder. He came in and murdered my husband.”

  When the police wonder about a motive, Gina will gently suggest that the publicity attracted the attention of a wild-eyed lunatic, possibly someone who lost a relative in the hurricane. Crazed with grief, he came to the house because he thought Sonny didn’t deserve to have his wife safely returned to him….

  She lowers her head and rubs her temple. Okay, so there are a few problems with the scenario—fingerprints and gunpowder residue, all kinds of details to consider. But she’ll figure something out. She has hours to think and plan.

  She glances at the others. The maid, who seems more nanny than daredevil, is coiled into the shadows at the back; Michelle is watching the elevator buttons as if she expects them to spring to life at any moment. The woman is unrealistic to the core, but optimism might be part of her nature. She reminds Gina of her college roommate, Trina, who attacked everything from her studies to her love life with the confidence of a girl who knows the power of her charms.

  If she weren’t so damnably frustrating, she might be good company.

  Gina props her shoulder against the wall and lowers her head. Despite her distress, her thoughts keep drifting toward Sonny. Why is that? Force of habit? Like phantom pains from a limb no longer attached to a body, she may always think of Sonny as if he’s only in the next room.

  But even bad habits can be eradicated. One thing’s for sure—Sonny has never loved her the way this Carlos fellow loves the Mexican girl. Gina still can’t believe Isabel’s story—how can a man meet a woman, feel sorry for her and commit to her, just like that? He had to have another reason, some angle to play, but Gina can see nothing in the girl’s face or figure that would suitably reward a man for taking an unremarkable girl into his life.

  She finds herself recalling a moment clipped out of time, perfectly preserved by the alchemy of memory: Sonny at the kitchen table in navy slacks and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A sharpened pencil rests on his ear.

  Her younger self sits across from him, a secondhand typewriter beneath her fingertips, a nine-month-pregnant belly balanced on her lap. She is barefoot because the day is a scorcher, while a portable fan on the floor tries its best to move the heavy air.

  Sonny is poring over actuarial tables, preparing to send out quotes for a stack of prospective customers.

  “Sonny—” she frowns at a scribbled note on a page “—I can’t read this.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Your letter to John McKee.” She picks up the steno pad and turns it to face him. “See this?” She taps the spot with a fingertip. “What is that supposed to be?”

  She holds the notepad aloft while she finishes proofing an already-typed page; when she looks up, she finds Sonny st
aring at her. “What?”

  He says nothing, but leans his head on his fist and smiles.

  “Sonny, don’t tease. What are you doing?”

  “Looking at you,” he says. “At my beautiful, intelligent, wonderful wife.”

  And at his words her heart jolts, her pulse pounds and her first honest-to-goodness labor contraction steals her breath. “Ooooooh.” She drops the steno pad and pushes away from the table. One hand flies to the small of her back. “Oh, Sonny!”

  “Baby, are you—is it—”

  “Time,” she snaps between clenched teeth. “I think it’s time.”

  While Sonny races for the suitcase, the car keys and the list of family phone numbers, Gina stands and watches in alarm as her water breaks and floods the kitchen floor. Matthew comes into the world two hours later, emerging from between her legs to land in Sonny’s capable hands.

  And Sonny…weeps. He lifts the wet baby and kisses it, then he brings Matthew to Gina and kisses her forehead, her nose, her cheeks, all the while thanking her for giving him a son.

  She lifts her head and blinks the images of the past away. Sonny had been no less grateful and moved at the birth of his daughters, and with each child Gina felt that no two people could be more closely bonded than she and her husband.

  In those days, she never dreamed her marriage could die. But over the years she has gradually transferred her passion for Sonny to her children, who have thrived in its light and love.

  Sonny never even noticed…or did he?

  CHAPTER 15

  Isabel curls into the corner and wraps her arms more tightly around her legs. Though the car is warm and perspiration has dampened her forehead, an uncontrollable current moves through her body, shivering the coward that lives within her skin.

  These gringas are trying to act brave, but still they talk of dying. What do they know of death? The one with red hair says she has been reviewing her life, but her hand is weighted with a diamond big enough to choke an iguana. What will she review, all the presents she has received? The comfort she has known?

  The other woman, the younger one, speaks too loudly and too quickly. She is trying to fool herself into thinking they will be rescued at any moment, just as Isabel once thought the policía would protect her family.

  She used to dream of such crazy things. She dreamed of dancing with a handsome man and being called beautiful. She dreamed of having babies and going to church with her husband and laughing with the other village women as she worked to care for her own family.

  Yes, she has a family now, but she is too afraid to go to church, too terrified to hope for happiness and too ashamed of her fear to pray for courage. Carlos pretends not to care that Rafael is not his son, just as he pretends she is beautiful. He is a good man, sometimes a foolish man, and he will be dead if Isabel does anything to attract the wrong kind of attention.

  If she makes a single mistake, her family will be killed.

  Ernesto promised he would find her if she ran away. The authorities in America can be bribed, he warned her, and they watch everyone, all the time. So if you run from me, chica, I will find you. I will pay many American dollars to find where you are, and I will come in the dark and cut you while you sleep.

  Carlos does not understand why she wants to work the night shift.

  Why she can only sleep in the day.

  Isabel pressed her head into her mother’s lap and sobbed. As tears rolled over her cheeks, hot spurts of loss and shame, she confessed everything, even Ernesto’s threats. “I am only glad,” she finished, “that Papá is not alive to see the way I have disgraced him.”

  “Shh, Isabel.” Mamá stroked the tears from Isabel’s face, her fingers cool against her daughter’s flushed skin. “Silencio, chica.”

  After a while Mamá pulled Isabel into her arms, dried her tears and told her not to worry. “Your papá was not afraid of the drug dealers,” she said, her own tears barely dammed. “We will not be afraid, either. We will go to the authorities and tell them what Ernesto has asked you to do.”

  And then, to demonstrate her courage, Mamá went to the teléfono and called the police. A sergeant took her name and said he would see her mañana.

  Across the room, Isabel listened as tears flowed down her face. But she was no longer weeping; her tears were a simple overflow of feeling for her parents, both of whom had courage enough to stand up for what was right.

  She remained by her mother’s side for the rest of the night, keeping an eye on the clock as they folded laundry and listened to the radio. She dreaded Rodrigo’s approach because she would have to tell him what she’d done. He would listen. And then he would tell her she’d been a fool to approach Ernesto Fuentes.

  Rodrigo had not come home by the time her mother put out the lamp. “You know your brother,” Mamá said, a tight smile on her lips. “Young men stay out too late.”

  That night Isabel lay in a rectangle of moonlight that slanted through the window and drifted over her bed. Music came through the window, the soothing sound of her neighbor’s guitar, but though her thoughts were thick with fatigue, she would not let herself sleep until Rodrigo came through the door.

  Shortly after one, she heard footsteps in the courtyard. She threw back her blanket and padded to the front door, then peeked out the window. No one moved in the moonlight, but a pale shape lay on the cobblestone path.

  A smile tipped the corner of her mouth. Had Rodrigo come home drunk? If so, she would not be the only one suffering from shame in the morning.

  Drawing her nightshirt closer around her neck, she opened the door a crack. When no one jumped out from behind the courtyard wall, she opened the door wider and peered into the night.

  What she saw made her blood run cold. Rodrigo lay motionless on the path, tinged with blue and clad only in his underwear. His bare legs had been crossed at the ankle and fastened to the ground with a spike; his arms had been extended and firmly fixed through each wrist. Blood trickled from a stab wound not in his side, but at his heart.

  Above his head, where Pontius Pilate had posted This is the King of the Jews, another tyrant had staked a different note: Esta Puedo Ser Su Madre.

  This could be your mother.

  Isabel ran forward and clutched the note to her breast, then rocked back on her bent legs and shattered the silence with her screams.

  Michelle shifts her weight and tries to find a more comfortable position. One of her hip bones keeps grinding against the tile floor and she can’t deny that her bladder feels fuller than it did the last time she checked her watch. What are they going to do if they’re trapped for several more hours?

  Gina aims a perfectly painted fingernail in Michelle’s direction. “It’s going to get worse, you know.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The discomfort, the stress, the need for a bathroom.” Gina’s gaze drops to her empty hands. “We’re going to be a mess by the time we get out of here.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Michelle glances at the walls, which gleam like chocolate in the emergency light. “We might be tired and a little hungry, but I don’t think I’ll be in desperate need of a bathroom for a while. I can hold out until Eddie gets here.”

  The redhead’s mouth twists in bitter amusement. “You really think he’s coming?”

  “I do.”

  “Then I hate to break the bad news. That man is probably tucked away somewhere safe and he’s written us off. Face it, dear heart, no one is coming for us until after the storm has passed. Sunday night, maybe Monday morning, they’ll send out rescue teams. If we’re lucky, we’ll be out of here Monday. If we’re not lucky…” She lowers her head to her bent knees and clasps her hands around her ankles, then turns her face toward the closed doors.

  Michelle waits, but Gina doesn’t finish her thought. Hopelessness is seeping through the car like poisonous gas. Soon they’ll all be affected unless—

  “Maybe,” she says, looking at Isabel, “if we keep our minds off the hurricane
and try not to think about running water, we’ll be okay.”

  Gina’s shoulders contract in a shudder. “The last thing in the world I want to think about is water.” When she turns her head toward the center of the car, Michelle is glad to see that the woman hasn’t completely surrendered to despair.

  “Hey,” she says, nudging Gina’s foot with her sneaker. “Why don’t you tell us more about your family?”

  The corner of the redhead’s mouth dips in an odd smile. “So now we’re going to play Show and Tell?”

  “We’re just going to tell. I’ve already dumped my purse, so unless you two are hiding something, neither of you has anything to show.”

  Gina props her chin on her hand. “Okay. My husband is named Sonny, and for twenty-one years, I’ve been a faithful wife.”

  “And you have three teenagers?”

  “One handsome son and two beautiful daughters.”

  Michelle smiles, feeling for the first time that she and this aloof woman might have something in common. “My boyfriend,” she says, “has three children. But he has two boys and a girl.”

  Gina pulls her bent knees to her chest, but her eyes remain distant and abstracted. “Children are precious,” she says, her eyes drowsy and abstracted. “In fact, I think the happiest day of my life was when my son was born. I thought I would never love anyone as much as Sonny, but then my son came along. Suddenly my life began to revolve around that boy…and I’ve been centered on my children ever since.”

  She lifts her head and looks directly at Michelle. “They say women fall in love with their babies because of some temporary hormonal surge, but don’t believe them. I adore my kids. Always have, always will.”