Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t entirely uncomfortable. They shared a strange communion in the middle of that mercado, with people rushing past.
“Someday, I would love to take my Laura to Chicago,” Marta said.
Laura.
That must be the name of the little girl Nick Kelly walked to school every day. Inexplicably, Caía felt a fierce and inescapable protectiveness over both mother and daughter.
As she stood there, Marta dropped her baguette and Caía reached for it, catching it before it hit the dirty floor. “Here, let me help.” She slid the bread beneath her own arm, reaching out again to take more of the burden from Marta’s hands, leaving Marta’s hands free to hold her shopping basket. “It’s heavy,” Caía said, surprised by the weight of the brown sack.
Marta smiled again. “Aceite de oliva,” she explained. “My friend María orders the best of the best from Baena and tonight I will make a paella for my Laura’s fiesta de cumpleaños.”
“Oh. Well . . . then I should buy some,” Caía said. She shouldn’t feel such an affinity with this woman, but she did. “One can never have enough olive oil, I say.”
“Well, yes, I agree. Please, you must allow me to thank you properly. María’s shop is very close by.” She reached out to grasp Caía’s arm, squeezing gently. “Only wait for me,” she commanded, and then returned to the vendor, ordering two dozen mejillones. Smiling, the woman placed Marta’s mussels into a bag, tied off the bag, and handed it to Marta. Marta placed the mussels into her basket. “¿Cuánto es?” she asked the woman behind the counter.
“Doce,” the vendor said, and Marta produced a stack of bills from the front pocket of her jeans, counting out twelve euros and handing them over to the woman. The woman thanked Marta, and Marta turned to Caía, looping an arm about hers in a familiar way, “Venga,” she demanded, “follow me. It is the best I may do for my new amiga from Chicago.”
And that was that.
Open and forthcoming, Marta chatted on and on about her love for the city in which she’d been born. Jeréz, she explained—shifting easily from Spanish to English and then back again, and sometimes using both in the same sentence—was a wonderful place to live.
Was Caía thinking of moving here? How exciting! Barrio Santiago was the most renowned flamenco neighborhood “en todo el mundo.” And, of course, it was the sherry capital of the world, which was to say, if it wasn’t made in Jeréz, it wasn’t sherry. And by the by, her friends owned a bodega in the city; maybe Caía had been there already? And if not, she would love to take her. As far as olive oil was concerned, simply no oil was better than the aceite produced in Baena, a very tiny village in the Provence of Córdoba, very close to the river Marbella. “Un pueblecito muy bonito,” Marta said. Although she had never been anywhere besides Andalusia, she didn’t have to leave Andalusia to know good olive oil. “Tell me, Caía, have you visited the Plaza de España in Sevilla?” she asked, without segue. “If not, you must go at once. This is where I met my husband and his brother. Nico is a such a good man,” she said. “I would love for you to meet him.”
Nico, she’d said. Nick. And hearing his name, it took Caía a dizzying moment to respond. “Yes, I’m sure he is.” She tasted bile in the back of her throat. “I would . . . love . . . to meet him.”
“Truly?”
“Yes, why not?”
“¡Maravilloso!” Marta exclaimed. “You are both from Chicago. How strange is the world we live in. Yes?”
“Yes,” Caía agreed. “Quite strange.”
Acutely aware of the arm looped about hers, they made their way down the street, chatting endlessly—or rather, Marta chatted on and on, none the wiser that Caía knew precisely where she’d procured her oil. They passed the shop, and Caía stiffened as they walked by without stopping.
Marta was so immersed in their conversation—thrilled over the prospect of Caía meeting her “Nico”—that it never occurred to her that the familiarity of their stroll might give Caía reason for discomfort. Why should it? They passed by other women on the street, walking arm in arm, even holding hands. Caía longed to pull away, but some part of her clung gratefully to the gesture of friendship. Even Lucy had distanced herself from Caía, unwilling to hear Caía’s endless ruminations about Jack—even less willing to hear that Caía held Nick Kelly responsible for his death. The day Caía told her she was coming to Spain was the last time they’d spoken.
“Caía, why can’t you let it go?” Lucy had asked, and Caía’s anger was explosive.
“Let what go, Lucy? My son?! I don’t have a choice, do I? He’s gone and that son of a bitch is to blame.”
The deep, unbearable silence that followed eroded years of friendship. And then Lucy said, “No good will come of it, Caía.”
But Lucy couldn’t possibly understand. She and her husband had never even wanted children. This had always been a point of contention between them, because Lucy felt judged, believing wrongly that Caía thought less of her because she didn’t long to change diapers. Except it wasn’t true. “I have to go,” she’d said, and she’d meant to Spain, but Lucy took it as an out.
“Yeah, me too. I’ve got things to do.”
“What things?” Caía had wanted to ask, but she didn’t. They’d hung up the phone, and that was the last conversation they ever had.
Inexplicably, Marta made Caía feel comfortable in a way she hadn’t known with Lucy since the day Jack was born.
As they made their way down the cobbled street, surrounded by elaborate buildings that were older than any Caía had ever seen, Caía learned Marta was the great, great granddaughter of an ambassador to Portugal. It was her great, great grandfather who’d built the house on Calle Lealas. But the family lost it during Franco’s rule. Her father reacquired it during the eighties and left it to Marta when he passed. Listening for the most part, Caía drank in the wealth of information Marta seemed so eager to oblige her with. Many of her questions were answered with Caía never having to utter a word. But it wasn’t only Marta spilling her guts. The urge to confess herself was strong, and Caía found herself telling Marta about her divorce and the bitter disappointment she’d felt when Gregg turned out to be such a fair-weather husband.
“So, divorce is what brings you to Spain?”
Caía inhaled sharply and slowly let it out. “Partly.”
“Well, my friend, Jeréz will treat you very well. How long will you stay?”
Caía inhaled once more. “I’m not sure.”
And then, suddenly, Marta stopped walking and stamped her foot. “Coño,” she said emphatically. “I forgot to take you to María’s shop. You see how I do not remember from one minute to the next?” She placed a hand to her temple and twisted a finger, making the universal sign for crazy, but if this was crazy, then what Caía was doing was certifiably insane.
Nevertheless, Caía too had been so lost in their conversation that even she hadn’t realized where they stood—outside the super mercado across the street from the house.
“Bueno, mañana,” Marta said, and once again, she reached out to squeeze Caía’s arm. “Tonight, you must come to my house for paella. I will introduce you to Laura and to Nico. Sí?”
Startled by the invitation, Caía’s mouth parted to speak, but no words emerged.
Mistaking her reaction, Marta insisted, “Yes, my dear, you must. There will be plenty to eat, and my daughter will love to practice her English with you. Please say yes.”
“Okay,” Caía said, fighting the overwhelming desire to look over at the house across the street, to see if a disturbingly familiar face was looking out from the upstairs balcony.
Completely unaware of her inner turmoil, Marta’s face split into a wide grin. Her eyes twinkled like black diamonds. “Bueno, chica, aqui está mi casa,” she said, lifting her chin and inclining her head in the direction of Nº 5 Calle Lealas. “Dinne
r is served tonight at eight, but you are welcome to join us now for a glass of sherry.”
“Now?”
She nodded once, emphatically. “Claro.”
Something like fire ants crawled into the pit of Caía’s gut. “Well, no . . . I can’t—” She shook her head. “Not now, but I will see you tonight . . . at eight? I have more shopping . . . to do.”
Marta thumped a hand against her forehead. “Ah, yes. Yes, of course,” she said. “Because I have taken you away from the mercado before you could finish. I am sorry, Caía, but then you must arrive at eight, sí?”
“Yes,” Caía said, forcing a smile.
Marta’s hand embraced her arm once again, only this time with a bit more force. “Que bien. I will eagerly anticipate you.” And then, she kissed Caía once on each cheek, the way she’d done with her friend from the olive oil shop. She turned away, and Caía kept her gaze trained on Marta’s back, waving when she waved, never once looking up at the balcony above her front door, where the figure of a man stood beside a little girl.
Caía heard their voices as she turned away, rapid-fire words from Marta, and the soft, calm tenor of a man’s response. A happy child. The familial sounds squeezed at Caía’s heart. Only now, at long last, she would have the chance to face the man who killed her son.
Mission accomplished, right?
So why did she feel so terrified?
Talk to me, Jack. Do you think I’m nuts?
Sensing three pairs of eyes on her back, Caía hurried away before Marta could call her back.
*
Chicago, Monday, June 13, 2016
Caía
“What are you doing?”
“Homework.”
“It doesn’t look like homework to me,” Caía told her son as she peered over his shoulder at the computer screen, only to verify that what she glimpsed on her iPad was true. He was ogling that skateboard again, the one with the marbled moon. Caía had already bought it for him for his birthday, along with an accompanying surprise box, but he couldn’t know that. His twelve-year-old brain—soon to be thirteen—couldn’t put two and two together. She could see everything he was doing. Because their computers were connected under Caía’s account, clicking that little icon on her finder took her straight to whatever Jack was looking at on his browser in the bedroom. That’s how she’d determined which skateboard to buy him for his birthday. However, his grades were down, so maybe the computer shouldn’t live in his room if he couldn’t stay focused. “Get up,” she demanded.
He looked shell-shocked by the command. “Ma?”
“Get up, Jack. We’re moving your computer.”
“Where?”
“Into the kitchen.”
“Ma,” he complained. “I’m not done with my homework yet.”
“I don’t care. Let’s go. Up,” Caía demanded.
“Mom!”
“I’m not going to argue with you, Jack. We’re moving this computer into the kitchen, where I can watch you work while I cook.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.” It wasn’t the most reasonable answer, but if Jack hadn’t yet figured out how she’d busted him, she wasn’t going to give herself up now. He was still seated, looking at Caía with a wide-open mouth, as though he meant to argue but had thought better of it.
Caía was grateful he hadn’t crossed that line yet, but she knew it was coming. She could sense it in his attitude, which was only getting worse and worse by the day. It could be his age, or it could be her husband’s influence, in which case, she would be even more furious with Gregg for turning her son against her.
But maybe he wasn’t doing it on purpose. Gregg was content enough to play the good cop, leaving Caía to do all the disciplining. He was an absent father, an absent husband, and God only knew, Caía had had enough. She swept in, unplugging the computer without turning it off.
“Dad says you’re not supposed to do that,” Jack said, his pubescent voice breaking slightly. “You’ll break it. You’re supposed to turn it off first, before you unplug it.”
“I don’t care what your father says.”
Jack leapt up from his chair, moving out of her way, hands out as though Caía meant to frisk him. “It’s not fair,” he said melodramatically.
“What’s not fair is that you don’t seem capable of following rules. Now move,” she said, kicking his chair so it rolled out of her way. She lifted the computer to carry it away. “Bring the keyboard.”
“Mom!” he shouted behind her as she carted the screen out of his room. “I don’t want to be in the kitchen.”
“Too bad. You should have thought of that before.”
“Before what? I was doing my homework,” he whined.
“Yeah, I saw that.” Never mind that she’d found the sync useful in ferreting out his birthday present. She wondered idly if he would figure out how she’d known once he opened his presents day after tomorrow. Would she tell him then? Probably not. Sooner or later, he’d figure it out on his own.
“You say you trust me but you don’t.”
Caía ignored the barb. “Trust is earned,” she said, as she carted the computer into the kitchen and set it on the counter. She began to clean off the small desk area she had delegated for her cookbooks.
His father wasn’t trustworthy, that was for sure. Caía would be damned if she’d allow her son to turn out the same way. She couldn’t prove Gregg was cheating—again—but her gut said he was. Why else would he spend so much time at the gym? That day they’d run into the trainer at the Village Tap—what was her name? Lindsey—she was nervous, avoiding eye-contact, except with Gregg. Down in her gut, Caía knew what that meant. Of course, Gregg had denied it, but Caía had finally understood why he had taken a sudden interest in his pecs. She literally couldn’t count the number of times he’d flexed his muscles in the mirror before going to work. It was so cliché. He couldn’t even cheat in a new and imaginative way.
For a long time, Jack didn’t appear. She counted to ten, then twenty, hoping he would do as he was told and bring her the keyboard. If she had to go in after it, she was going to ground him, and she didn’t want to do that two days before his birthday. Fortunately, as she removed the last cookbook from the countertop, Jack came in. He slammed the keyboard down on the counter, next to the computer. The crack of plastic and metal against the granite counter made her wince.
“It’s not fair,” he said again. “Dad’s right. You’re—”
Caía spun around, both hands going to her hips. “I am what?” she asked, going very still. If he dared utter that word his father used, she was going to lose her head.
“Never mind,” Jack said, and he stomped away, toward the living room.
“No! Go to your room,” Caía demanded.
He skidded to a halt and turned in the other direction, toward his room. “Why can’t you be like Dad?” he asked from the hall, and Caía’s face warmed. She heard his door slam and closed her eyes, inhaling a breath.
Why couldn’t she be like his dad? Oh, boy. Why couldn’t she be more like his dad?
Her face was as hot as a coal as she willed herself to calmly turn around. She hoisted up the computer from the counter and swung it over to the kitchen desk. Then she picked up and inspected the keyboard. Finding it still intact, she set it down beside the computer and turned the computer on, tapping the keys to make sure it wasn’t broken.
As thin and fragile as it appeared, it was clearly more durable than she would have supposed. Like Caía, perhaps. Like Jack. Whatever happened, they would get through this. One way or the other, they would be fine. Caía would make sure of it. Leaning back on the counter, she thought about Jack at two, with his chubby little arms outstretched, and longed for simpler times. The memory launched her off the counter, toward his room.
The computer would have to stay in t
he kitchen, but her son probably needed a hug as badly as she did. Barefoot, she padded back to his room and knocked on his door.
“Jack,” she said. He didn’t answer, and Caía turned the knob.
He was seated at his empty desk with his old skateboard in hand, sour faced and angry, furiously spinning the skateboard’s wheels. As dejected as he appeared right now, in but a few days, he would be grinning broadly at the sight of his brand-new skateboard. Right now, it was hidden beneath her bed, all wrapped up and ready to be unveiled. His dad, on the other hand, probably hadn’t bothered to shop for anything at all, not even a card. He would pretend he’d been a part of Caía’s gift planning, and Caía would allow it, because she wouldn’t want to disappoint her son. She smiled. “How about we go for pizza tonight? I don’t feel like cooking, after all.”
Jack shrugged, but she could tell the prospect piqued his interest by the sideways glance he gave her. “What about Dad?”
“Dad won’t be home until late; he can fend for himself.”
Jack shrugged again. “I still have homework.”
“I’ll help you when we get home.”
“I don’t need any help, Mom.”
Caía entered Jack’s room and placed a hand on her son’s shoulder. “Even better. We’ll get home in time for you to finish, and I’ll go read a book.”
“Right,” he said, shrugging, though not enough to dislodge her hand. “And then you’ll hang out in the kitchen and spy on me?”
“Have you got something to hide, Jack?”
“No.”
“Well, then nope—so, how about a truce?”
Reluctantly, Jack nodded. “Okay,” he said, placing one arm around her waist, with the skateboard still hanging from his fingers. “Can we go to that place on North Clark Street—the one with the pizza pie in bowls?” His voice cracked and Caía pulled him closer, hugging him tight, inhaling the familiar scent of his hair. How much better could life get than sitting with your son across a table and eating pizza pot pie? No matter what, she couldn’t regret a thing. Marrying Gregg had brought her this—this child. Her pride and joy. The true love of her life.
Redemption Song Page 5
