Anabel still seemed shell-shocked, but she was always practical and wanted to know the details.
“So it’s official and legal?” she asked.
I knew exactly what Anabel was getting at. We needed to know if this was a done deal before we went any further. If the adoption had already gone through, there was no point bringing up the obvious arguments about Vivian adopting a child on her own.
“The paperwork is finished,” Vivian said. “All the little girl needs is a visa from the U.S. Consulate. I’ve been told it’s just going to be a couple of days before she comes to Miami, a week at the most. One of the nuns from the orphanage is bringing her here.”
I had to admit, Vivian had a glow about her that I’d never seen before.
“Do you know this child?” I asked. “I mean, you’ve met her, haven’t you?”
I knew about bait-and-switch tricks, when a prospective adoptive parent was shown a picture of a cute, healthy child, only to end up with another one entirely. I had heard horror stories about children adopted from Third World countries, with problems that didn’t surface until they reached America, so I was skeptical.
“I’ve met her twice,” Vivian said. Then she told us about the adoption and how it took place. Vivian had heard about the agency that arranged the adoption through her church. She was close to her priest, Father Tomas, and he had been telling the congregation about an orphanage in Honduras and the sad plight of the children living there. Sermon after sermon, he mentioned the poverty, hopelessness, and despair there. He brought pictures to Mass and described the conditions. The little girl Vivian was adopting had lived in the orphanage since her birth—her parents were dead, and she had no known relatives. It was a tragic story. Along with Father Tomas and three other members of the congregation, Vivian had flown to the Honduran capital of Tegucigalpa. When Vivian met the child, she fell in love with her instantly.
Anabel and I listened spellbound. Vivian, who talked over everything with us, my friend who could not keep a secret, had gone to Honduras and back without ever mentioning a word. And, hell, I never knew she had a maternal bone in her body. I don’t know how Anabel felt, but I was a little hurt that Vivian hadn’t confided in us. I suspected Anabel felt the same. I wondered if Vivian feared we would have disapproved and tried to talk her out of it. We both knew how stubborn Vivian was; how if she wanted to do something, no one and nothing in the world could discourage her from her goal. Throughout her life, that had been both her greatest strength and weakness.
Vivian must have sensed we were not wholeheartedly enthusiastic about her plan. She held up the little girl’s picture like a magic totem.
“Look, chicas, I know you think I’m nuts to do this,” she said. “But I’ve thought it all out carefully. I’m financially secure enough to be able to take care of a child. I love my house, but I know it’s too small, so I talked to my neighbor with the house on El Prado and made an offer to buy the place. I know he’s taking advantage of me, and I’m paying too much, but I can’t help myself.”
Vivian shrugged, as though resigned to the injustices of life.
“I need the space to expand,” she added, “because I need to put in an extra room for a live-in nanny. I’m going to need one because, obviously, I’m not going to put her in day care while I’m at work. I’m not bringing her all the way here to do that.”
She caught her breath. “The architect is drawing up the plans right now,” she added. “Once the city of Miami approves the drawings and the permits, then we’ll begin construction. I wish everything could be ready when my daughter arrives, but it can’t be helped. I’m making everything happen as fast as I can.”
“You’ve already done all that?” I asked. I was flabbergasted on two fronts: hearing how little I really knew about the intimate details of my friend’s life, and hearing her use two words, “my daughter,” in a sentence. I couldn’t understand how she would casually discuss with us the most intimate details of her affairs with married men, but kept mum about wanting to adopt a child.
“It’s a good thing I won the Carrillo case,” she said breezily. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to afford all this. I hope I keep on a roll because I’m going to need the income. I mean, think about it: I’m going to have two extra mouths to feed—and a salary to pay.”
Vivian laughed, seemingly carefree about the difficulties she had ahead of her. All I could think about were the layers of secrets in people’s lives. Vivian had gone to Honduras, adopted a child out of a Third World orphanage, bought the property behind her house, and drawn up plans to build an addition on it. And I had known nothing about any of this.
But, of course, I was in no position at all to pass judgment on Vivian. I hadn’t told my friends anything about the situat
ion with Luther since the first lunch at Nemo’s. Probably I didn’t want to hear them tell me I was crazy for jeopardizing my life with Ariel and Marti for an old lover from law school. And I feared them judging me, and losing respect.
Vivian and Anabel, I’m sure, would have sworn that they knew everything about my life, but the envelope of keys in the zipper pocket of my purse proved that not to be the case. I looked over at Anabel, wondering what secrets she was keeping.
“What’s that look for?” she asked, blinking.
“Nothing,” I said. Anabel went back to trying to see the photo of the little girl, holding the magnifying glass right up to her eye, struggling to see what she could.
For all I knew, we were all keeping secrets. Everyone I knew might be keeping secrets.
Anabel put the picture back on the table. I picked it up again.
“Does your daughter have a name yet?” I asked.
Vivian blushed and looked down at the table. “Margarita Anabel. I’ve decided to name her Margarita Anabel Mendoza.”
Now it was our turn to tear up.
[21]
As soon as lunch was over I left Vivian and Anabel, returning to my car, which I’d parked by one of the meters on Commodore Plaza. I felt drained by what Vivian had told us and the reality of how well she’d hidden her secret from us. I couldn’t decide what I thought about her decision to adopt, and I was looking forward to the inevitable debriefing with Anabel. I reminded myself not to judge my friend’s actions. It was her life, to live as she wished. And that little Honduran girl was surely going to be better off with Vivian.
I hadn’t known about it in advance, but Vivian’s decision to become a mother must have been crucial and fundamental; she had decided to share her life with a little girl who had few opportunities otherwise. For that, Vivian deserved praise—not skepticism or criticism. I needed to be respectful and supportive, especially in the beginning. Vivian had been around kids before, but she didn’t know what it was like to be a mother. She was in for a rough time. Adjusting one’s life to the presence of a child is one of the most difficult things that life offers. At least I had gone through the wars with Marti, and I would be in a position to offer support.
I walked slowly whenever I was thinking of something, almost at a snail’s pace, and by the time I reached my car I was sweating in the hot noonday sun. I felt droplets of perspiration rolling down my back. It was so hot and steamy that I could smell the street asphalt melting as I rummaged in my purse for my car keys. The sidewalk under my feet felt sticky, a sensation I remembered from visiting New York in the summertime. My outfit was doing nothing to help me cool off—my jacket and dress stuck to my skin. The air felt alive with heat, and even the slight breeze carried more warmth. It was a feeling that everyone in Miami knew well.
Once I was inside the car I turned the air conditioner on full-blast and aimed all the vents directly at me. I sat back and waited for the car to cool off, and for my internal temperature to return to tolerable levels. I looked back at the restaurant, and realized that the entire journey to my car had been about twenty yards. I had no idea how anyone survived South Florida summers before the advent of air-conditioning.
I closed
my eyes for about twenty seconds, then opened them again. The air-conditioning was starting to do its job. It sounded like a jet airplane taking off, but I didn’t mind. Now that I was feeling fairly human, I reached for my purse. Without really thinking about what I was doing, I unzipped the side compartment and found the envelope Luther had given me. I upended it and gently shook it until the key ring and folded piece of paper fell into my lap. I unfolded the paper, realizing that I hadn’t seen Luther’s handwriting in years. I immediately recognized the pointed, stark lines of his script. He hadn’t changed at all.
In this age of e-mail and electronic greeting cards, I’ve often found that I wouldn’t recognize close friends’ handwriting if my life depended on it. I’ve gotten so used to typing everything out that my own handwriting had deteriorated to the point of illegibility. Luther was obviously the exception to this trend—his pen was still crisp, clear, and unmistakable.
One style of handwriting that never changes is the script taught by the nuns of the Order of the Sacred Heart. A girl who attended that school is forever identifiable by her even, sloping letters. You can graduate from Catholic school, but part of you never gets out.
I was holding the piece of paper in my hand. With the other, I took the cell phone out of my purse and punched in a now familiar number. It was almost as though I was watching myself perform in a play, acting out a script that had already been written. My flesh was weak, as far as Luther was concerned. My resolve of the night before to stay away from him had dissipated like the early morning mist over Biscayne Bay. And once the mist burns away, I thought, there was nothing left but light and heat.
There was also more to my actions than lust. Listening to Vivian talk about adopting a child, I realized I needed to resolve the situation with Luther. Maybe I was rationalizing, but I admired Vivian for taking a risk. I had never risked anything in my life, no matter what I’d accomplished. When had I ever been true to myself, and damned the consequences? I knew I was going to have to live with myself, but that future was somehow pushed into another category of experience. The future was the future. Now was now.
I felt a lurching sensation. What was I thinking? I was going to have to go home and spend the evening with Ariel.
I shook my head. No, I had to do it.
I had never been unfaithful to Ariel, I’d never even come close. For me, fidelity was a reality of marriage and not a great sacrifice. I never felt as though I had given up anything by marrying Ariel; it had simply been the logical progression of our relationship. I had gained, not lost, by joining my life to his. I had done it happily and willingly, with no hidden agenda or feelings of regret or recrimination.
Ariel’s proposal, years ago, had made me think long and hard. Once I decided to accept, I took my vows seriously. I had never once succumbed to the temptation of a passing fling with anyone. I’d seen the pain and damage that infidelity inflicts on a family. I didn’t want to be like my father, with an Ofelia in my life, or even a one-night stand. I knew there was no way Luther would agree to being kept a secret for a decade, like my father’s mistress. If Papa hadn’t had his heart attack, he and Ofelia would probably still be secret lovers, and might have remained that way until one of them died with their secret.
My beliefs and convictions had been clear-cut and straightforward. Now I was listening to the phone ring. Luther picked up. I imagined him recognizing my number on his caller ID screen.
“Daisy,” he said. “I was hoping you’d call.”
His voice sounded hearty, and he was obviously delighted to hear from me. After our lunch at Bice yesterday, there was no need to pretend I had called just to chat.
“Are you busy right now?” I asked him.
“I’m in the office going through depositions,” Luther said. He paused for a moment, thinking. Like any good lawyer, he was pondering the options. “Look, it’s nothing I can’t take a break from. Why do you ask?”
“I’m…I’m taking you up on your offer.” I took a labored breath. My heart pounded as though I was running up a steep hill. “That is, if you can meet me soon.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Luther said quickly, not giving me time to back off. “Maybe less. I’m leaving the office right now.”
I heard noises in the background, papers being shuffled, then a drawer opening and slamming shut.
“I’m already in the Grove, so I’ll be there first,” I told him. “I’ll wait for you.” I had the keys to his place, but there was no way I was going into the apartment by myself.
“That’s fine,” Luther said. He sounded as though he would have agreed to anything I suggested. “We can meet in the parking lot, if that would make you more comfortable.”
“See you there.” And, without giving him a chance to say anything else, I hung up.
Although I knew perfectly well where his building was, I looked at the paper in my hand again. It seemed to communicate more than an address. I had crossed a bridge the moment I accepted the envelope from Luther. Now I realize we had both known it would only be a matter of time before I acted on the unspoken promise between us. My soul-searching on the terrace the night before had represented my last vestige of inner resistance.
I didn’t need to leave for fifteen minutes—the blink of an eye in the grand scheme of things, but an eternity if spent contemplating adultery for the first time. I started to think of Ariel, then stopped myself. I had made a decision, and I couldn’t take Ariel into consideration. I was going to meet Luther, and these errant thoughts weren’t going to stop me.
Instead of getting lost in the enormity of what I had decided, I would focus on practical things. I wondered whether I was too sweaty, and tried to remember which underwear I’d put on that morning. It had been close to ten years since I went to bed with Luther. I had gained a few pounds, and had a baby. I knew how sharp Luther’s memory was. I hated to think how much I might suffer in comparison to my younger self. And I was on the Pill, so I wouldn’t get pregnant, but I hadn’t thought about diseases. I knew I was clean, but I knew nothing about Luther’s recent sex life. I would need to protect myself, but I didn’t want to kill the spark between us.
Going to bed with Luther opened up a dizzying range of questions. In the decade since college and law school, sex had lost its simplicity. We had more money, we had more experience, but our complications and problems had risen in direct proportion to o
ur gains. I started to laugh out loud, alone in my car, at my situation. I was about to go to bed with a lover I hadn’t been with in ten years, who might or might not be turned off by my post-childbirth body. I was worried that I might catch a disease and pass it on to my husband. I was sweaty, I might even smell bad, and I was wearing a totally sexless dress and jacket that made me look like a junior executive at a third-tier credit union.
My worst problem, it turned out, was something I could do nothing about, given my time constraints. A quick check of my bra strap reminded me that I was wearing white cotton underwear, a time-honored lust killer. I had a drawer full of beautiful underwear from Wacoal and La Perla, but that morning I had worn underwear that my mother would have sent with me to sleepaway camp. I wondered if, subconsciously, I had been trying to sabotage my lustful feelings for Luther. Maybe so, but it hadn’t worked.
All this worrying had actually eaten up a lot of time; as a result, I was in danger of being late to meet Luther. I pulled out of the parking space and wondered if I was even going to enjoy the experience, with all of these thoughts and worries swirling in my head. I had always associated adultery with pain, betrayal, and hurt. It wasn’t supposed to be fun.
My heart was beating wildly with anticipation.
[22]
Luther and I arrived at the parking lot of his building at precisely the same moment. I followed him into the drive, where he parked his car in the spot reserved for Apartment 31 East, then I continued on to the visitors’ parking spaces and slid the Escalade into a spot closest to the wall.
I got out of the car, locked it, and looked up to see Luther approaching.
“It’s good to see you, Daisy,” he said as he placed a discreet peck on my cheek.
I nodded in response, incapable of saying anything. Luther was wearing a charcoal suit, a blue shirt, and tasteful striped tie. The parking lot was sweltering and my summertime misery index was rising just from standing there for fifteen awkward seconds. But he looked great, even in the harsh sunshine. He had never looked better.
“Let’s go,” Luther said, gently taking my arm and leading me toward the building. I followed, relieved to be led, and relaxed a fraction when we entered the air-conditioned comfort of the lobby.
“The elevators are this way, at the end of the hall,” he said.
We crossed the minimally furnished lobby and reached the elevator doors, where Luther pushed the button. I looked up at the numbers displayed over each of the doors. They were both in service. We would have to wait.
Luther’s building was in the heart of Coconut Grove, a block away from Biscayne Bay near Kennedy Park. I had driven by it countless times but never noticed it, much less been inside. It was relatively small, only six stories high, narrow, and painted green to blend in with its immediate surroundings. I hated to think this way, but Luther’s building was ideal for an illicit rendezvous. Though it was set on a small hill it escaped immediate notice because it was set back from the street and hidden by a row of tall and densely planted ficus trees. The building was in central Miami but it gave off a sense of reassuring privacy. It wasn’t even possible to enter the property without knowing an access code, and it seemed clear that unwanted visitors weren’t at all welcome. Which was just fine with me.
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