Redemption Song

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Every day? Like I do?

  Or have you already forgotten?

  After Jack’s death, something had broken inside Caía. Gregg’s rejection only exacerbated what she was already feeling. She had reassured herself, time and again, that finding Nick Kelly gave her purpose. She had been so sure that someone like him would have subverted justice. A favor here. A favor there. And somehow, men of his ilk never paid for anything at all.

  Only now, as Caía sat across from him, instead of the cocksure opportunist she had once expected to encounter, she found a quiet, contemplative uncle whose attention was centered upon his niece . . . occasionally drifting to Caía or to Marta. For the most part, Caía detected a mild curiosity in respect to herself. As for the way he regarded Marta . . . Caía watched them closely, picking up no signs of flirtation. Whatever was between them was . . . uncomplicated.

  Eugenia served Marta’s paella, dishing out plates from the buffet behind her mistress. On smaller plates, she placed three large shrimp, along with a slice of bread with plenty of spiced oil— gambas al ajillo, Marta explained. Shrimp cooked with garlic. There was more in the kitchen. If Caía wanted more, Eugenia would bring it.

  Much to Caía’s surprise, she found herself eating, and tasting her food. Contrary to Marta’s fears, the paella was delectable. She had criticized her dish nearly the entire meal, and only belatedly did Caía realize she might be fishing for a compliment. “This is fabulous!” she offered.

  “Oh, good!” Marta said. “I was afraid I had ruined the socarrat.”

  By nature, Marta Herrera Nuñez would do nothing less than stellar. Caía sensed this, but she was also not annoyingly overconfident. She was lovely, with her dark olive skin, chocolate eyes, and rich auburn hair—exactly the sort of Spanish woman “cantantes” would croon about. And yet you would never know this by her demeanor—nor by Nick’s. If Nick Kelly thought Marta beautiful, he gave no indication he was pining over his brother’s widow.

  “Really,” Caía said. “It’s perfect.”

  “She’s a fabulous cook,” Nick said, after a long interval of silence. The sound of his voice had the same effect as glass across a tin. It gave Caía a shiver. And yet, as acutely aware as she was of the man seated before her, she studiously avoided his gaze, discomforted by her growing ambivalence toward him. There was a lot she wanted to say, but suddenly face-to-face with him, Caía ate her words as vigorously as she did Marta’s paella, confused by the disjointed thoughts that were filtering through her head. She eyed Nick across the table as she bit the tail off a shrimp. Was it crazy to follow a man halfway across a planet to demand answers—to discover for herself whether he’d taken her son’s death in stride?

  Yes.

  Normal people didn’t stalk other people. Normal people didn’t put their lives on hold and go skim off savings to find out . . . what?

  That Nick Kelly was a family man, after all? That, by all accounts, he seemed to be a sweet uncle and a godsend to his dead brother’s wife?

  Faced with the reality of this family, Caía’s intentions were all askew.

  But . . . she needed answers . . . if for no other reason, to be sure Jack’s death had been more than an inconvenience for him, like a parking ticket left unpaid. She needed to be sure there had been consequences . . . as there had been for her. It wouldn’t be fair for him to take her son’s life—her life—and go on with his own as though nothing had ever happened.

  Because something did happen.

  After the dinner plates were all cleared, new dessert plates were set before them, and the cake—a magnificent pink mountain of sugar—was placed in front of Laura.

  Once again, Caía wished she’d bought a doll—or something else. The fan she’d brought was a mournful black—hardly a bright and happy color. At least the roses were pink. But it was too late now—just as it was too late to back out of this dinner invitation. Laura clapped her hands together with ill-suppressed glee. “Now, we can finish eating mi pastel, and then, and then, I can open you present,” Laura said to Caía.

  “Your,” Nick corrected. “It signifies possession.”

  “Ya lo sé,” Laura said, tipping her chin up. “I forgotted.”

  Both mom and uncle peered at one another, smiling between themselves, reluctant to correct the child yet again. They let it go, and it was a good thing—even Jack, whose first and only language had been English, had often confused the idiosyncrasies of words.

  Me don’t want that, he would say. Me don’t want it, Mommy. For the longest time, it had been impossible to get him to understand the difference between me and I, and this had persisted until he was four. “I don’t want it, Jack,” Gregg would correct him, his tone harsh.

  “Gregg.”

  “Don’t Gregg me, Caía. The boy’s gotta learn the right way to talk. He can’t go ’round yammering like a Muppet.”

  Wide-eyed, Jack had sat there, looking from Gregg to Caía and back again to Gregg. He was only three at the time, and Caía liked the way her son talked. He would outgrow it soon enough, but for the time being, she only wanted him to feel confident and speak freely. She and Gregg had different ideas about how to inspire a child. Was it any wonder they’d never had another?

  In Laura, Caía recognized none of the telltale shyness Jack had displayed at her age. Laura sat straight, hands away from her mouth, eyes wide, ready to participate in the discussion—also surprising for the simple fact that it was after 10:00 p.m. They were only now finishing up dinner. Back home, meals were never served at this hour. Kids were more likely than not brushing their teeth and getting ready for bed. Or, in Jack’s case, pretending to be asleep, playing with his cars beneath the covers. Or dismantling a radio or a watch. One time, he’d ruined Caía’s headphones, plucking off the rubber ends and sticking toothpicks into the speakers, because he said he wanted to see how big the speakers were.

  “Do you know what?” Laura said. “My tiíto gaved me tacones rosas.”

  “For your birthday?”

  Laura nodded enthusiastically, and Caía looked to Marta, who seemed to understand that Caía needed clarification. “Pink flamenco shoes. She has wanted them so long.”

  The image of Nick Kelly picking out a pair of child’s tap shoes did not appeal to Caía. “No pony?” she joked, sliding Nick a challenging glance.

  Laura’s brow furrowed and her head slid back, as though she thought the suggestion perfectly ridiculous. “We cannot have any ponies,” she said, looking at her mother. And then, she asked Caía, her voice rising an octave, “Did you have a pony when you was a baby?”

  This time, Caía took care not to look at Nick. “Uh, no.”

  Laura clapped her hands together. “Ohhh! I know why.” She held up a hand, as though to be called on in class, but she didn’t wait. She blurted out, “Because you did not afford any ponies! My mami says we don’t have any monies.”

  “Laura! Please—ay, dios mío! You must excuse my daughter,” Marta said to Caía, even though the fault was Caía’s more than Laura’s for introducing such a snide remark to begin with—a dig at her uncle with unintended results. “She is quite presumptuous. Of course, we get by, though it has been difficult. A house this size is quite demanding.”

  Like a magnet, Nick Kelly drew Caía’s gaze. He had said very little throughout supper, but Caía was aware that he was listening to every word, studying Caía, but to what end, she hadn’t any clue, because his thoughts remained his own. The tension was murdering her, so she’d baited him. He never took the bait. He kept right on eating and thinking his private thoughts.

  “I’m sure,” Caía said, feeling muddled. It wasn’t her intent to involve other people in this exercise, but here she was . . . and there they were . . .

  “In fact,” Marta said, “I have often thought about selling this house, but it would pain me so much to lose a piece of my history and my heart. Siéntate, L
aura,” she finished, waving her daughter down into her chair. She was growing impatient for her presents.

  Caía slid another glance at Nick, certain he must have come to Spain with plenty of his own money. She knew him to be successful at his job. But if he wasn’t going to share his money, a house this size, partitioned as it was, would seem the ideal rental opportunity.

  There were at least two bedrooms downstairs, and the first floor was used only to greet guests, as far as she could tell. It was a sad waste, really. No wonder Marta had brought up the history of her home this morning. She must be worried about how to keep it, although as hardships went, it really didn’t rate on a scale from one to ten. She could house an entire homeless shelter beneath this roof. “Have you considered renting . . . downstairs?” Caía asked. “Everyone is doing it now. There’s even a website . . .”

  “Yes, yes, I know. Alas, I have been reluctant to open our home to strangers . . .” And then suddenly Marta squinted her eyes, and said, regarding Caía with a wily smile, “However, if I knew someone, maybe then I would welcome the company . . .”

  It appeared to be a question. Marta inclined her head. “How long did you say you would be in Spain, Caía?”

  For the moment, Nicholas Kelly’s attention remained on his empty dish.

  “I didn’t.”

  “There is a large suite downstairs. It has been vacant now for years.”

  Silence.

  “Oh, yes! Yes! Yes!” Laura said, clapping her hands enthusiastically. “If you live with me, then we can be friends.”

  And then suddenly everyone was looking at Caía, including a hopeful brown-eyed five-year-old with a dab of frosting on her upper lip. The cake had yet to be served, but that hadn’t stopped Laura from sneaking a taste.

  “Now that I think of it, if you would like to rent this room, I could provide a discount . . . perhaps as compensation for helping my Laura practice her English?”

  “Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes!” Laura said again, dancing in her chair and kicking her feet wildly beneath the table. Already, she was suffering the effects of too much sugar, and she hadn’t even been served a slice of her cake. She threw her hands into the air and Caía thought she might have done the “dab,” except that Caía wasn’t really sure what the “dab” was.

  Evidently, the child had too few friends. Caía struggled to remember if Jack had been so inclined toward adults. Aside from Caía, she didn’t believe so.

  Everyone was looking at Caía, waiting for her response, and Caía found herself unable to speak. The offer . . . well, it was like putting a child in a candy store, along with a plate full of candy, and saying, “Don’t eat it.” But Caía wasn’t a child. She was an adult who understood right from wrong. Moving in with this family without confessing the truth was inherently wrong. Not telling them she had come to Spain looking for Nick Kelly was also wrong. But she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “How much?”

  Marta blinked, as though Caía’s easy capitulation surprised her. “Well, let me see . . . I believe we could spare it for two hundred euros.”

  Caía’s brows lifted at the modest price—much, much less than she was paying at her current location down the street. “Two hundred per week?”

  “No, no, per month,” Marta clarified. “And, please, you must say yes, if this suits you. Tu compañía me encantaría, and Laura too.” She glanced at Nick, and although she didn’t include him, Caía realized she meant to include her brother-in-law as well.

  I take it Marta didn’t warn you she was playing matchmaker?

  There was a tiny telltale smirk playing over Nick Kelly’s lips. Evidently, he wasn’t the least bit aggravated by Marta’s offer, nor surprised by it, but neither did he bother to speak up to encourage it. He remained silent, tinkling his fork against the golden rim of his dessert plate.

  Caía was paying a thousand euros now, for a small room in someone else’s house—a much smaller place than this. After weeks of living there, she had yet to get to know her landlords. If she accepted this generous offer, she would be trading total strangers for Marta and her daughter . . . and Nick Kelly. Once again, Caía glanced over at Nick, catching his eye. The two held gazes for a long moment. Being this close to him might give her an opportunity to work up the nerve to confront him once and for all . . . except that, deep down, a voice cautioned against the decision, warning Caía that no good could come of her deception, especially where only one party understood the full gravity of the occasion. She heard Lucy’s voice again. No good will come of it, Caía.

  “I’ll be happy to look at the room again,” Caía said.

  “Wonderful!” Marta exclaimed, just as Eugenia re-entered the room, carrying a box of matches in her hand. The maid glanced over at Caía as she slid past Nick, moving purposefully toward the cake. She opened the box of matches, took out a match, and struck it against the side of the box, glancing over at Caía before setting the flame to the wick.

  Eight

  No one ever told me that

  grief felt so like fear.

  – C. S. Lewis

  Life had a twisted sense of humor.

  For all the card-toting Southerners—especially those whose ancestors once supported the slave trade—the joke was on them. Along with their payload from Africa arrived a stowaway—the cockroach. And for all that slavery had been abolished now for centuries, those nuclear-bomb-surviving creepy-crawlies had been free from day one—free to infest at will.

  The year after Caía moved to Chicago, when she was six months pregnant with Jack, they’d gone home to visit Gregg’s parents for his birthday. In Athens, his mother kept a substantial garden, and every harvest, without fail, the house would be filled with crates and crates of fresh vegetables—tomatoes for the most part. This was both awesome and horrific at once.

  On the one hand, the taste of Mrs. Paine’s tomatoes was heavenly—a fact that even a mostly unforeseen and unwanted newcomer to the family couldn’t deny. Of course, Caía was Polish, and her parents were Polish. Her grandparents had been Polish. And what was worse, they were Catholic as well. And Catholic, in case you didn’t know, was a dirty word in a Baptist household. So, while her own mother also kept a garden, it wasn’t nearly so grand as Mrs. Paine’s—yes, Mrs., not Miss, Ms., or even Janet. Because Caía was an underling, and calling elders by their first names was not an acceptable option. Also, Mrs. Paine was a married woman and proud of it. She wasn’t into all that women’s lib nonsense. “I’m not a Ms., I’m a Mrs. And this attitude is precisely what is ruining the nation’s morals,” she’d proclaimed. “Caía, I do hope you won’t join that bandwagon,” she’d said that night during supper.

  For years Caía wanted desperately to gain “Gram’s” approval. That was the name they’d settled on, because there was a grandbaby on the way, and this, after all, was the family Caía had embraced, despite their refusal to embrace hers.

  Her parents were never invited for holidays, and certainly never for Gregg’s birthday, despite them coming all the way from Chicago and only having a few days to visit. However, that was not the point here. The point was that as much as it annoyed Caía to admit it, those fat, juicy tomatoes had more flavor than her mother’s tomatoes, but all that bloaty, moist, dripping mess drew scores of roaches, and those six-legged creatures scurried over vegetables, laying eggs everywhere. And some of those crates happened to be stacked in the dining room—a fact that Gram seemed unfazed by, despite some of those stowaways knowing how to fly. They buzzed overhead, drunk on tomato bloat, and as they dined together on this particular visit, Caía found herself dry heaving over the sight of two roaches in flight—not one, but two.

  Accustomed to the spectacle, the family chatted on, never addressing the cockroaches in the room. Not even Gregg seemed to notice—or if he did, he never acknowledged it to Caía. Vomit seemed imminent. For the entire meal Caía had willed herself, “Don’t do it, Caí
a. Don’t do it.” And through sheer determination she’d managed not to toss up her guts into the chicken casserole, but she’d salivated uncomfortably up until the time his parents walked them to their car to say good-bye. The very instant Caía heard the screen door slam shut, Caía turned and hurled into the next-door neighbor’s azaleas. It was as though the sound of the slamming door had been her cue.

  Willpower was a superpower, she’d discovered. Willpower could stop hearts from beating, as in the case of heartbroken old folks. Except that, if you thought about old people dying of loneliness, it was usually the man. So long as there was anyone left to care for, women weren’t afforded the luxury of hanging up their spurs. However, simply because you didn’t die, didn’t mean you didn’t wish you had. It also didn’t prevent you from feeling guilty for remaining among the living. This—her current situation—was essentially a symptom of her despair. Caía realized this, but having clarity didn’t make it any easier to change the course she’d charted for herself. This was the long way of saying that there was no way Caía could turn down Marta’s offer.

  She wanted answers. More than anything, she wanted answers. But Caía needed something else as well . . . something she couldn’t put a finger on. She sensed it had nothing to do with revenge. Sure, she’d like to imagine Nick suffering—or dead—but it was nothing more than a sordid fantasy. Having come face-to-face with Nick Kelly—having had his hand upon the small of her back—no matter how confusing her feelings might be, Caía realized there was no way she could be the catalyst to bring him harm. In fact, wheedling its way into her consciousness even now was an annoying worm of guilt, making her feel—brace yourself for it—sorry for him.

  But why?

  Whatever, it simply wasn’t possible to walk away—not when, for the first time in so long, Caía was feeling . . . something. And this was the point she was . . . feeling.

  However, she didn’t give Marta an immediate answer, despite already knowing what she planned to do. She gave them all, including Nick Kelly—including herself—the pretense of thinking it over. Exercising great willpower, Caía gave herself a week.