“Yep,” she said.
“I need a new skateboard,” he said, extricating himself and setting the beat-up old board down on the floor beneath his desk. “My wheels are wonky.”
“We’ll see what we can do,” Caía said, smiling.
Five
Against eternal injustice,
man must assert justice.
– Albert Camus
Chicago, Wednesday, June 15, 2016
Nick
Groggy and hung over, Nick made his way into the office.
At a quarter to eight, the lights were already on and, somewhere, computer keys were clack clacking away, but, yet again, Amy wasn’t at her desk. It wasn’t like her to be late two days in a row, and he thought perhaps she was feeling the tension. First thing this morning, he meant to talk to her. Good thing Sam was already working on a transfer.
Inside his office, he set his briefcase down without turning on his lights and moved to his desk, wiggling the mouse on his pad to wake the screen. It was precisely where he’d left it last night, on the TravelBot site. Fare to Spain would be around eleven-hundred bucks. Cheap if he booked a month out. More if he took off this weekend . . .
He sat, stretching his legs, slumping into the chair as he stared at the screen.
Laser-thin slivers of light seeped through the closed blinds, casting louvered patterns on the industrial gray carpet.
The flight he’d chosen probably wasn’t viable anymore. Having awakened the computer from sleep mode, he was sure that a refresh would return him to the site’s search engine, but he didn’t touch it yet, not yet . . . because then he would feel compelled to do another search, and what was the point until he knew what to do?
Avoidance wasn’t anybody’s friend, but it was his brother who tackled life head-on. Nick didn’t have his fortitude, nor his natural inclination to take on the world. Deep down, his gut burned with self-reproach. One thing was sure, he was too distracted to work.
Maybe Sam was right to worry.
Marta’s face flashed through his head—warm, chocolate eyes, so full of love and acceptance. She was exactly the sort of woman Nick always fancied for himself. He and Jimmy had met her on the same day, on a park bench near the plaza de españa, where she’d been studying for exams. Her personality was so warm and fiery, and that accent . . . Nick adored it from the start. She had this wonderfully archaic way of speaking, especially when she switched to English. Formal, but friendly, and despite this, she cursed like a sailor. If Nick had been the one to catch her flyaway scarf, maybe it would have been him who ended up with her.
Who was he kidding? He had to go. And still, he stared at the screen a good thirty minutes longer, just to be sure. He glanced at the clock, and finding the hour at three past eight, he got up from his expensive desk and made his way down the long hall, toward Sam’s office. “Hey,” he said, rapping on Sam’s door. “You busy?”
Momentarily startled, Sam immediately turned over a document. “Nah,” he said, recovering himself. “Come on in.”
Ambivalent still, Nick stood in the doorway a moment, and then dove into Sam’s office and closed the door. His boss and “future partner” studied him as he sank into the chair facing his desk.
Shaped like a question mark in the middle of the room, with exotic wood inlays and burls, the desk was easily worth twice Nick’s desk. In fact, the one they’d recently moved into Paul Savant’s office was equally elaborate. Nick brought in more than his share of clients, and more importantly, he kept them happy, but Paul was working on a particularly lucrative account. Nick wouldn’t put it past him to have hinted at taking them somewhere else unless he was given the partnership. Sam was greedy enough to buckle. Evidently, their bond of friendship had a double edge. Apparently, Sam took for granted that Nick would stick around.
Alexander Dumas once said, “In business, sir, one has no friends, only correspondents.” Nick sensed the truth of those words as he glanced at the document Sam had turned upside down.
Sam pushed the document beneath his computer screen. “Must be serious by the look on your face—hey, if it’s about Amy, don’t sweat it. Turns out, Paul will be happy to have her. His girl is going on maternity leave soon.”
Nick made a pyramid with his index fingers, clasping his hands together, and arching a brow at the mention of his rival for partnership in the firm.
Sam began to massage his jaw. He was ruffled by Nick’s presence this morning. In fact, Paul was exactly the sort of guy to move ahead in this business. Not that their transactions were criminal, but it took a special kind of aptitude to look a sixty-year-old widow in the face and take her husband’s life insurance money to sink into risky investments. “He’s exemplary,” Nick agreed, and the irony in his tone wasn’t lost on Sam. Once again, Nick glanced at the document Sam had turned upside down, and Sam intercepted his gaze.
“Hey, Nick . . . you know, there’s a reason he hasn’t been given a partnership yet, same as you . . .”
Nick shook his head, realizing his decision was already made. “This isn’t about Paul, Sam. It’s not about Amy either.”
Sam reached out, nervously clicking the button on his mouse, depressing it two or three times. And then finally, he grabbed the document from his desktop and placed it into a desk drawer, out of sight. “Okay,” he said. “Talk.”
“I’m going to Spain.”
Clearly, that wasn’t what Sam expected to hear. His brows collided. “How long?”
“I don’t know.”
“Jimmy?”
Nick nodded, and so did he.
“All righty, then. So, when will you be back?”
“I don’t know.”
“Nick . . .” Sam eyed him meaningfully. “You know I can’t guarantee anything if you’re gone for long? The partners are antsy.”
“I get it,” Nick said. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Well, what about the quarterly review for the Busch account?”
Nick’s largest and most persnickety account. Despite the fact that they liked Nick, they threatened to leave at least twice a year, and it was only because of Nick that they remained. His challenge was not lost to Sam. “Give it to Paul.”
Sam might have been stymied over the partner decision, but anger flashed across his face. He preferred to be the one in charge. “All righty,” he said. “Something more I can do?”
Nick stood up. “Nope,” he said. “This is something I have to work out on my own.”
“All righty, then.”
This time, those two curt words were a dismissal. Nick turned to leave but pivoted around once more. “Hey, don’t fill Amy’s position,” he said, in case Sam mistook his meaning.
And that, more than anything, drove home his point. Sam nodded once again, imitating a dashboard Chihuahua. And then he shook his head, as though Nick were making a grave mistake. “Are you sure, Nick?”
“I’m sure.”
“All righty. If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” Nick said again, and exited the office before he could waffle and change his mind. He walked out, feeling lighter than he had in years. Fuck the house in Roscoe Village. Fuck the BMW. Fuck the partnership.
He went back to his office and woke up his computer. For less than a minute, he sat staring at the screen, mulling over his decision one last time, just to be sure. When he couldn’t figure a reason not to do it, he performed another search for flights—the same search he’d performed the night before. He found the flight he wanted and bought a ticket—as decisive a move as he’d made in months. There was no more ambivalence now. He was focused and driven.
He didn’t bother to clear out his desk. Sam would have it done. Eventually, they would send a courier over with his belongings if that’s where it had to go. But he already knew it would.
He grabbed his too-tight jacket from the back
of his chair and was out the door, even before lunch. Rather than diddle around, or grab a bite in the building, he made a beeline for his car, intending to go straight home and pack. Food could wait. For the first time in so long, he felt the courage of his convictions—or rather Jimmy’s convictions. Because he was the one who’d raised Nick up. It was Jimmy who’d paid for Nick’s education. Jimmy who’d stood beside him when their mom died and their dad fucked off. Now it was Nick’s job to stand beside his dying brother.
Out in the parking garage, he unlocked his car door, feeling antsy. He fished his cell phone out of his pocket, thinking about what to tell Marta . . . But, no, that conversation could wait. The minute he told her, she would tell Jimmy, and Jimmy was bound to be angry that Nick was putting his life on hold. No, he preferred to have that particular conversation in person.
For six whole months, his brother had kept the knowledge of his illness secret, forbidding Marta to tell him. But his prognosis was certain now, and there wasn’t time to mess around.
He tossed his cell phone onto the passenger seat, slightly annoyed that he hadn’t bothered to sync it to the onboarding system. He tossed the jacket into the back seat, unconcerned about wrinkling the fabric. “Hang on, bro, here I come,” he said, and then slid behind the wheel of his car.
In a rush to be home now, he pulled out of the garage, pressing the gas, not too much, acutely aware of the excitement building deep in his gut. It wasn’t joy precisely, because he knew this wasn’t going to be easy. It wasn’t every day you had to watch a brother die of cancer. But he felt good about his decision, because for once, he was doing something for somebody else.
He was halfway down the street when the cell phone on the passenger seat rang. He glanced over, only for a second. The ring was Jimmy’s, but now wasn’t the time to talk. He turned around, just a split second later—no more than that. The light was still green. A blur of movement slid in front of his car—a boy on a skateboard.
Nick slammed the brakes. The car’s nose dove. His cell phone flew off the seat, popping against the dash. It happened in seconds, only in slow motion. The boy’s look of terror. The wide, pale blue eyes and twisting mouth. There was a sickening thud, the sound of flesh and bones breaking as the boy’s body flew up and over Nick’s hood. The kid’s forehead cracked against his windshield, leaving a mess of red and white. It happened so fast. One second, Nick had lifted himself to greatness. The next, with his foot jammed up against the brake and his fingers white and gripping the steering wheel, he was down again. Only this time he’d brought someone else down with him—a boy. And he knew before he put his car into park that the kid was already gone . . .
Six
If you’re going through hell,
keep going.
– Winston Churchill
Jeréz, present day
For the second time in less than a minute, Caía slid her phone out of her jacket pocket, blinking at the screen. She placed a hand on the massive door, trying to find the nerve to knock. It was six minutes past eight. She didn’t have to do this. She could walk away.
You like her, right? Then go away.
What could she hope to gain by going in and disrupting Marta’s life? Every time she asked herself this question, the answer grew murkier and murkier.
It had been too long since anyone had reached out to her so genuinely. There was something about Marta that made Caía feel she could understand . . .
Only, not really. No one could truly understand—not unless they too had lost someone near and dear, but some people had a greater affinity to read others, and a knack for making them feel whole again. That was the hope that kept Caía’s feet planted to the stoop.
Desperately, she wanted to feel whole again . . . or maybe some semblance of whole. She wanted to taste food again, enjoy a glass of wine. She wanted to envision a future that wasn’t . . . this.
Sliding an open palm across the old door, she touched the rough, weathered surface. It was an ancient door. How long had it been here? she wondered. How many wistful and grudging pairs of eyes had fallen upon its iron knockers? How many servants had come and gone?
The door was a relic from the distant past. Caía stood in front of it, as intimidated as any who had stood here before her. She balled her hand into a fist and laid her knuckles gently against the wizened wood.
Very likely, the year this house was built, Spain had been in the midst of war. It was an easy assumption. The country had suffered war for most of the eighteenth century—the Carlist wars, wars with Cuba, the Spanish-American War—all those wars that were glossed over during Caía’s American history lessons. Marta’s great, great grandfather had been an ambassador, she’d said. Which generalissimos had come knocking here? Franco? Probably, his Guardia Civil.
And that tree? Caía peered back at the maple looming behind her, with the sidewalk buckling around its base, its limbs reaching high above the third-floor rooftop. How many servants had taken respite beneath those outstretched limbs, before going to the market? Or waiting for a bus?
The timelessness of inanimate objects and places made Caía’s heart ache. Truly ache. Deep, deep down. Her son had been alive no more than an instant in the grand scheme of things, a fleeting breath, and now he was gone. Like the flame of a candle, his life was snuffed out . . . by the man inside this house. Resolved at last, Caía knocked.
When no one came for five minutes or more, she knocked again, this time more firmly. And this time, the door opened. It was Marta who’d answered. “¡Bienvenida! Come in!”
Behind her, a little girl disguised as a pink confection threw up a hand in greeting, showing five fingers. “Tengo cinco,” she said. Like her mom’s, her eyes were so deep and dark, they appeared to be lined, and her lashes were long and feathery. Her smile was beautiful.
“You’re five? What a big girl,” Caía said.
The little girl peered up at her mom with a furrowed brow. “Que dice que eres una niña muy grande.Venga, dile tu nombre.”
The little girl turned again to Caía, placing a hand behind her back. “Mi nombre es Laura,” she said, taking her cues from her mother.
“No, Laura, en inglés.”
“My name es Laura,” the child said one more time, this time in English. “Today es mi cumpleaños, and I am . . .” She struggled with her fingers, putting all but one up, and then all five. “Cinco.”
Caía laughed. There was no need to pretend good humor. Marta’s daughter was delightful, with an infectious smile. She had one missing tooth, and Caía couldn’t help but remember a little boy with blond hair and bright blue eyes who’d tied a loose tooth to his bedroom doorknob because his father told him to.
“Tonight,” Marta said to her daughter, “you will speak only English, Laura. ¿Vale?”
Laura peered up at her mother, brows colliding. “¿Por qué? ¿Porque ella no entiende español?”
“Claro, pero—”
“I do understand Spanish,” Caía explained, brandishing a small gift from behind her back. “But I will make you a deal, Laura. You will learn English while I learn Spanish, vale? I will be your teacher and you will be mine.”
The little girl’s eyes brightened at the sight of the unexpected gift, immediately unconcerned with her lessons. “¿Para mí?” She peered up at her mother with a wide-open mouth.
“Yes, for you,” Caía said, bending to talk to her. “Thank you for letting me celebrate your birthday, Laura.”
The child’s shoulders rose with glee as she embraced the small package.
“¿Ahora qué dices?”
“Thank you too much!”
Caía laughed. “You are so welcome.”
“Come in,” Marta insisted, opening the door a little wider. And to her daughter, she said, “Go and put your regalo en la cocina, Laura. Ábrélo después. Go get your tío Nick. Tell him our lovely guest has arrived.”
Caía blinked, not over the compliment.
Uncle Nick?
She blinked again, taken aback by the revelation. It hadn’t even occurred to her that Nicholas Kelly might be the child’s uncle. That army of fire ants came crawling back, stinging away at the pit of Caía’s stomach. Somehow, it didn’t seem possible he was here legitimately. Although he could still be mooching off Marta? Simply because he was the child’s uncle didn’t mean he had come for altruistic reasons. Half dazed, a little off kilter, Caía followed Marta into the house. Once beyond the foyer, it became clear how affluent the family was.
The quiet opulence of the home took Caía’s breath away. Much of the first floor was an elaborately tiled courtyard with an indoor pool, complete with a waterfall. Twin lions spouted streams into mosaic bowls. Three stories high, an enormous skylight took center stage on the third-floor ceiling, installed over the fountain-fed pool. The entire edifice reminded Caía of a sultan’s bath.
Along the periphery of the courtyard, a number of rooms with massive doors spilled into the massive hall. No fewer than three sitting areas flanked the crystalline pool. In the background, the Spanish guitar of Joaquín Rodrigo strummed softly throughout the house. The back door had been left ajar and, as Caía suspected, it led to a moonlit garden, where the soft glow of a fireplace burned outside, casting its amber light onto the surrounding Spanish tilework.
With Caía’s gift in her hands, Laura hurried toward a set of white marble stairs. “¡Tiíto!” she ran shouting. “¡Tiíto!”
“No corras, Laura. ¡Por favor!” her mother said. “Your uncle will be precisely where you left him.” She turned back to Caía and said, “She is so . . . emocionada, how you say—excited.”
“She is lovely,” Caía reassured.
“Thank you, Caía. You have brightened my daughter’s day. She has been so sad since her father passed away.”
And this, Caía realized suddenly, was the reason for their communion in the market. Both she and Marta had suffered losses, and Marta had effectively said so, except that Caía hadn’t been listening. It is a terrible thing to lose a husband, and more terrible yet to lose a child.
Redemption Song Page 6
