Redemption Song

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Unlike Caía.

  Downstairs, on the patio, there was a fully equipped kitchen. And there was a “tele” room as well, except the TV in that room was ancient CRT technology, by the looks of it from the late eighties or early nineties. The twelve-inch TV was ungainly and wide, taking up most of the space on the cart. Evidently, television was not a priority in this house.

  Her son had had a million remotes in his room—under his bed, on top of his dresser, inside his drawers, in the closet—so many Caía had lost track to what device each belonged. That was, after all, why she’d bought him his first skateboard. She’d meant to encourage him to spend more time outdoors. Naturally, he’d gravitated to the skateboard. He and his friends had spent hours digging up her backyard, building ramps. And then Gregg went and bought him that damned cell phone. . . .

  Caía pushed the thought away, keeping the darkness at bay.

  During the day, there was plenty of light in the main courtyard. But, at night, the skylight did little to illuminate the interior of the house. Tonight, all three upper balcony doors had been left wide open, and though it was getting too cool to swim, it didn’t appear to affect the uncle and niece as they horsed around in the pool below. Laughter echoed throughout the house, bouncing off old plaster walls. “No, Tiíto—noo!” Laura squealed.

  On the way out of the kitchen, Caía stopped to watch them, hanging back in the shadows so as not to be so obvious. Alone with his niece, Nick Kelly’s serious demeanor softened. He grabbed Laura by one ankle, dragging her into the pool, growling like a monster.

  Are you a monster, Nick Kelly?

  Living here, maybe she would find out.

  Laura shrieked, though not with fear, and Caía found herself thinking back to Jack’s childhood. Her husband had been too busy most of the time—even before the affair—and often it was only her and Jack for supper. They too had played together, right up until the time he’d grown bored of playing with Caía. “Vroom. Vroom. Vroom,” she would say, rolling cars onto pretend freeways.

  “No, Mommmmeee, that’s not how they sound,” he would correct her with such disapproval. “Cars don’t go vroom, vroom, vroom.”

  “What do they do then?”

  “They don’t make any sound ’less humans honk.”

  “Honk, honk,” Caía had said with a grin.

  “No, no, no!” Once again, he’d pushed her hand away from the car she’d been playing with. “A car only honks when a human is in the way.”

  “But I am a human,” she had complained with a persistent smile.

  “Mommeee!”

  “Okay, okay, I get it now. Cars only honk for humans?”

  “And cows,” he’d said with conviction, and Caía laughed.

  “It’s twu, Mommeee.”

  “What about chickens?”

  Jack shook his head. “No, chickens don’ cwoss woads.”

  “Then how do they get to the other side?”

  Her son had looked at her then, completely bemused—perhaps the way Caía was now staring down at the man wading in the pool below.

  Did you honk, Nick?

  Did you see my son crossing that road?

  Why didn’t you stop?

  Why? Why? Why?

  Over and over, in her head, Caía tried to piece together Jack’s final moments, and every time she tried to envision it, a sense of panic overwhelmed her, begging her not to see.

  Don’t look, Caía. Don’t look.

  Schadenfreude . . . wasn’t that what they called it when people drove by, rubbernecking accidents? Try as she did to forget, Caía could hear the doctor’s voice in her head, disjointed and hollow, because she had been drinking that day—something she rarely did.

  “The spine was compromised at the C-1 and C-2 vertebrae, here and here,” he’d said, pointing at a diagram, his words formal and cold. “This is the area that controls the heart and lungs . . .”

  “My husband was an architect,” Marta said quietly, startling Caía, coming up beside her, and peering down at the “humans” wading in the pool below. “I have always loved this view.”

  For a moment, they stood together, watching the horseplay, and Marta shook her head. “I don’t know what I would do without Nico,” she confessed in that thick but proper accent. Her voice was full of raw emotion. “He is the best of the best of the best,” she said, using the same phrase she’d used for her olive oil.

  Caía slid a glance at Marta’s face, catching an honest look of admiration, and felt . . . more discombobulated than ever. How could that man, down there, be the best of the best?

  Marta turned to look at her, smiling. “You know, I believe he admires you, Caía.”

  Caía had to catch herself before she could frown. “Me?”

  “Well, yes, he said to me that he thinks you are lovely.”

  Caía pretended an interest in the nonexistent dirt beneath her nails. “Did he?”

  “Yes. That first night . . . when you came to my house for dinner. I confess I did ask him when you left. He said he loved your nose.”

  Caía lifted a brow. “My nose?”

  “Yes.” Marta smiled companionably. “He said it reminded him of someone he knows.”

  Caía averted her gaze. Jack had had her same nose, but Caía was certain that couldn’t be it. She didn’t know how clearly he could have seen her son’s face . . . but . . . then . . . maybe . . .

  After the accident, they wouldn’t allow Caía inside to identify Jack’s body—only Gregg. And even after the makeup artist had finished with Jack’s body, they’d opted for a closed casket instead. Gregg had insisted Caía not look inside. Only had she been better, she would have fought that edict . . . because now she needed closure.

  Blinking down at the pool, Caía remembered her mother’s funeral. Initially, her dad had considered cremation, but anxiety over the decision had gotten the best of him and he’d changed his mind at the last minute. Entirely by accident, Caía followed him inside. Her mother lay on that table, the tips of her fingers turning black . . .

  She understood exactly what happened to a body after death. She remembered her biology. Sometimes, she wished they had cremated Jack, because now she pictured her son with empty sockets for eyes and skin melting off his bones. It wasn’t an image any mother should have to entertain. It was easier to pretend he wasn’t gone.

  At her side, Marta reached over to squeeze Caía’s arm—a gesture that was becoming very familiar. For the first week after moving into the room downstairs, after the dishes were done, she and Marta had retired to the upstairs salon, chatting endlessly, til late at night, about everything from failed marriages to the rearing of children. But they rarely spoke about Jack’s death, even though Caía sensed Marta’s willingness to listen. Caía couldn’t talk about it, not yet—not the details. Probably because she feared she might reveal too much.

  “Soon we will make a journey to Zahara,” Marta said quietly. “I hope you will join us.”

  Marta rubbed a hand across Caía’s back in that very soothing way mothers had with their young, and Caía found herself leaning into it. “Zahara?”

  “Zahara de la Sierra—a little white village in the mountains. And perhaps after we can drive to Baena and you can see for yourself where the best aceite is made.”

  “You and Laura . . . and Nick?”

  “Yes,” she said. “It will be one year since we lost my Jaimito. Mi pobrecito.”

  “I’m sorry,” Caía said, but she didn’t at once accept the invitation. It was a generous offer, one that illustrated the depth of their unexpected connection—that Marta would wish to share this special anniversary with Caía. But Caía neither deserved it, nor was she comfortable with it.

  “Of course, you are welcome to remain in Jeréz, but I hope you will not. It will be nice to share this memorial with someone who understands my
pain.”

  Caía’s eyes brimmed with tears as she peered at Marta. Without comprehending her own need for the hug, she reached out and embraced her new friend, and the two stood cradling one another in the upstairs balcony, neither in much of a hurry to let go. Laughter filtered up from the courtyard, the sound entirely discordant with the moment.

  Ten

  I don’t think of all the misery,

  but of all the beauty that remains.

  – Anne Frank

  The kitchen smelled of seafood, spices, and warm, fresh bread. The frenetic sound of a flamenco guitar filtered in through the open window from the stereo on the terraza below.

  Snacking on cheese and jamón and sipping wine as they cooked, Caía and Marta giggled like schoolgirls as the real child stood, perched upon a kitchen chair, supervising the cooking like a duenna. Laura’s conspicuousness in the kitchen was not only tolerated but welcome, and every now and again, Marta handed the five-year-old a glass to sip from, pulling it back when Laura drank too deeply. It should be old news by now, but the sight of Laura’s hands wrapped about the sides of a wine glass never ceased to surprise Caía. If they should happen to go out for a drink, or take in a flamenco show, Laura always tagged along. Together they’d become a gleesome threesome. It felt so good to laugh. Wiping her eyes and lifting a stray glass of wine, Caía asked, “Is this mine?”

  “Phht,” Marta replied, waving a hand in dismissal. “What does it matter? Soon we will be drinking from the bottle anyway.” They were finishing number two, and ready for number three.

  “So true,” Caía said and proceeded to chug the last sip, then she wandered over to look into the pot that sat boiling on the stove. “So, what are these again?”

  “Cañaíllas,” Laura shouted.

  The aroma was perhaps that of seafood, but the contents looked more like deformed escargot. “Are they sea snails?”

  “No,” said Marta. “More like conchas.”

  “Yummy, yummy for my tummy,” Laura exclaimed. Using the phrase her uncle had taught her last night, she rubbed her belly with exaggerated circular motions. Really, Laura’s grasp of the English language was far better than Caía would have supposed. With her too-big apron slightly askew, she held a wooden spoon in her right hand. “Can I spin them now, Mamá?” She danced, or more like wiggled. “Can I? Can I?”

  “Can you stir them,” Caía corrected her, but reluctantly, because in fact, she would be “spinning” them as well. The distinction scarcely held any merit, though she was bound to play the part of a dutiful English tutor, regardless that on any given day she felt more like a student. Even Laura had taught her so much about living in the moment.

  Marta ignored her daughter’s question as she sprinkled salt into the pot with a furrowed brow. “This is all you need, a bit of salt and maybe pepper. And, yes, you can make it spicy as well, but then my Laura will not like it too much.”

  “Yes! I do like too much,” Laura corrected her mother, smacking her belly with the wooden spoon. “I do like it too much in my belly because they are yummy in my tummy!”

  The child’s excitement was inexhaustible.

  “Yes,” Marta said, turning to seize her daughter’s spoon from her hand. She rapped Laura gently upon the head with it. “I know you like too much, chochete, but you will be sick if you eat too quickly as you did last time.”

  “I won’t, Mamá. Te lo juro,” Laura said, attempting to recapture her spoon. Each time she reached for it, Marta whisked it away. “Mamá,” she cried.

  “You won’t do what?”

  “I won’t eat too much.”

  “Yes, because you must leave some for Caía, or she will go home and think you are rude.”

  At once, Laura shook her head. “Noooo, I don’t want her to go,” she said, glancing at Caía. The sentiment gave Caía an unexpected rush of joy.

  “Very well, then you will be good,” her mother said, handing the spoon back to Laura, and returning her attention to her boiling pot. “They are nearly done,” she said. “Maybe two minutes more and we will take everything downstairs to the terraza and begin our fiesta de chicas. Sí?”

  Girl’s night in. It had been Caía’s idea, and both Laura and Marta had thrilled over the prospect. On the table already, waiting to be hauled downstairs, were spiced olive oil with warm bread, cheese and jamón, and something called chicharrones.

  Much of tonight’s dinner appeared to come straight off a Fear Factor menu—at least for an unsophisticated Polish girl from Athens, Georgia. Admittedly, there were many things Caía had yet to eat, including escargot and raw oysters. Somehow, she’d reached the ripe old age of thirty-four without ever having swallowed a raw mollusk. However, she’d be darned if she’d let a five-year-old out Fear Factor her.

  “Mira, Caía, I will teach you how to eat them,” Laura said soberly. “They are easy for me now. Because I am big. When I was a baby, I couldn’t do it.”

  “When were you ever a baby?”

  Laura nodded, perhaps mistaking Caía’s question, and Caía reached down, cupping Laura beneath the chin, holding her as she had done so many times to Jack. And just like Jack, Laura took the cue to rest her chin in the palm of Caía’s hand. She smiled up at Caía, and Caía’s heart ached.

  How could she could lose her heart so easily to this child when it was still so full of grief over losing Jack?

  Nobody could replace her son, but it felt great to be on the receiving end of Laura’s trust. Little by little, Caía was finding her long-lost Zen. Maybe in part because Laura’s uncle had decided to make himself scarce. For a little while every day, she could pretend Nicholas Kelly wasn’t part of her life in the worst imaginable way. She wondered vaguely where he’d gone off to today.

  Deeming the snails to be finished now, Marta hoisted the giant pot off the stove and carried it to the sink. “Quita,” she said to her daughter. “Te voy a quemar.” And Laura slid off the chair, out of her mother’s way. With the pot safely over the sink, Marta strained the contents through a colander. And once that was done, she lifted the colander with the cañaíllas, and set it on a folded kitchen towel to catch excess water. Without segue, she asked, “Caía, do you know where the wine is? Ábreme otra botella, por favor.”

  “Another one?” Caía grinned. “We’ll be fast asleep before eight.”

  “Maybe you, not me,” Marta said with a kiss and a smile as she opened a cabinet and dragged out a blue porcelain bowl. “Here, we are more accustomed to our vino.”

  “Mami, that don’t make sense. How can somebody be fast asleep?” Laura asked. “If people can be sleeping, they cannot be fast? They must be slow.”

  “It’s just an expression,” Caía explained as Marta dumped the contents of the colander into the bowl and Caía opened another bottle of wine.

  By the time Caía handed Marta a full glass of wine, Laura was already onto something new. Standing on her chair again, she was blowing over the bowl full of cañaíllas, as though to cool them.

  “Let me show you something,” she said, picking out and holding up two small conches between her fingers. “Ow,” she said, throwing one back down. But she nevertheless picked the same one up again, as though refusing to be defeated, but she frowned. “You have to be careful because they are hot. Mira,” she said, holding up both conches for Caía to see.

  Her mother turned around to watch, one hand on her hip, one hand cupped beneath the belly of her glass. “Do not cry si te quemas, Laura.”

  “I won’t burn myself, Mamá. Look,” she demanded again. “You have to take the pinchy part and poke it to the hole. Just like this.” She demonstrated by sticking the pointy end of one conch into the shell of the other—a primitive-looking procedure. “And then you have to . . . pinch it out . . .” She did this swiftly, making it look simple. “And then you eat it.” She popped the conch meat into her mouth and swallowed dramatically, be
fore going back for more. “You can try now.”

  “Me cago en tu madre,” Marta said testily, though she smiled at her daughter and took a sip from her wine glass as Caía accepted two small, relatively hot conches from Laura’s hand.

  Holy moly, the child must already have calluses on her fingers. As Laura had done, Caía tossed them down and picked them up again, and Laura squealed with laughter. Once she had them back in hand, she dug the pointy end of one conch into the shell of the other, trying to hook the meat and pull it out. In fact, she tried several more times, but every time, instead of hooking the conch meat, she shredded the edges.

  Once more she tried, determined not to give up—especially after Laura picked up two more conches, and deshelled both before Caía could manage to do one.

  “Looks like fun,” Nick said, entering the room unexpectedly. He startled Caía. She flicked out the conch meat. It went flying behind her, smacking Nick Kelly on the left cheek. His reflexes were good; he caught the fruit of Caía’s labors before it could fall to the floor.

  Delighted, Laura shrieked again with laughter, and Marta laughed as well. Caía frowned—less at her foiled attempts and more because Nick was back.

  “Welcome home, Nico,” Marta said, waving him into the room, but he hesitated, giving Caía a sideways glance.

  “We are having a fiesta de chicas, Tiíto Nick.”

  “Girls only? Or are boys welcome, too?”

  The question was posed to Caía, and Marta watched their interaction curiously. “Of course,” Caía said, peering down at her empty conch.

  “There’s a trick to that,” Nick said, coming over and standing next to Caía. “May I?” He held his hand outstretched.

  “I will go get you a cerveza, Tiíto,” Laura said excitedly, rushing out of the room, down to the patio where they kept the beer. As boisterous as the child ran, by the time she returned, Caía was sure it would explode in Nick’s face, and some part of her took guilty pleasure in that thought.