Redemption Song

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Marta turned her attention to the oven, pulling out the bread, and Caía was forced to accept Nick’s help. She handed him both conches. Using the empty conch, he quickly hooked the pointy end into the thickest part of the meat, and ever so gently, dragged it out. “Want it?”

  Caía shook her head and he answered with a grin. Without hesitation, and with a glint in his eye, he tossed the conch meat into his mouth.

  *

  Chicago, Tuesday, June 14, 2016

  Despite the back door opening and closing, Jack’s nose remained firmly attached to his computer screen. Caía might have been a burglar for all he knew. Then again, he must realize burglars probably wouldn’t park in their garage, which thereby narrowed the possible list of entrants to two, neither of which held much interest for him right now.

  Teenagers—had she been so withdrawn? No. Because Caía didn’t have parents who were always at each other’s throats. She and Jack might share the distinction of being only children, but this was a fundamental difference between them, and it was formative. For Jack’s sake, she and Gregg had called a truce, but things remained tense. Trust, once lost, was not easily regained.

  Annoyed by the entire ordeal—by the complications her husband had introduced into their marriage—Caía set her purse and her keys on the counter and opened the fridge, wondering what to make for supper.

  Gregg was supposed to have picked up her car from the shop, and since he didn’t enjoy driving her car, Caía had been so sure he would come straight home. However, her car wasn’t in its usual space out front. And of course, since Gregg insisted upon taking the garage, she’d pulled in, half expecting to find her car parked inside. The obvious conclusion now was that he wasn’t home yet, and her stomach fluttered uneasily—not a sign of hunger, despite her foray into the fridge.

  Remarkably, not even the open refrigerator distracted her son. She closed the door a little harder than she meant to. “Where’s your dad, Jack?”

  His response was full of indignation. “How should I know?”

  Head low, he was bent over the kitchen desk, where Caía had moved his computer. A mauled bag of chips lay on the counter beside him, no doubt the reason he wasn’t focused on dinner, and since Caía seemed to be good for little else these days, he didn’t bother to turn and address her.

  “Has he been home?”

  “No.”

  Attitude. Caía considered ordering him to stop what he was doing and turn around to look her in the eyes when he was talking to her. But she didn’t. Instead, hoping to remind him that whatever she felt about his dad, it didn’t extend to him, Caía came up behind her son and placed a hand on his shoulder, the way she used to do when he was young. Back in the day, he might have turned and thrown his arms about her waist. Now, he sat stiffly, his shoulders tight, and the instant her hand lit upon his shoulder, it rose a full half-inch. But he didn’t turn around.

  “Maybe he went to the gym,” he said, finally, reluctantly, and she could tell that he was uncomfortable with her proximity.

  Caía moved away from the desk, leaning back against the island for support, giving Jack a bit of space. “I thought you said you didn’t know where he was.”

  “He called to ask if you were home.”

  “And?” She was talking to his back.

  “I said no.”

  “What else?”

  “I don’t know, Mom; he said he left his gym bag in his car.”

  Again, that uneasy feeling fluttered deep in Caía’s gut.

  True, the gym bag was in the trunk of his car—the car she was driving. Justified or not, the sight of it had given her a false sense of security. Because, of course, if he didn’t have that goddamned gym bag, he couldn’t go to the gym. Right?

  Well, she didn’t know why she would make such assumptions. He wasn’t going to the gym to exercise anyway. It was only an excuse. “Did he say what time he’d be home?”

  “Mom!” Jack turned to glare at her, his eyes glassy, as though he’d been crying.

  The realization gave Caía an instant pang. Blinking, she swallowed her angry retort, realizing the position her son was in—the position Gregg had put him in. Because Jack wasn’t stupid. And neither was she. Tears pricked at her own eyes and she turned away, returning to the fridge, opening the door again, staring blindly into the glass shelves, hoping to give Jack some sense of normalcy.

  The shelves needed to be cleaned. Again. Used to be, she’d kept them spotless. Now she couldn’t bring herself to care. It was a small thing, but one of many, many small things she was clearly neglecting.

  If only she knew for sure.

  What would she do?

  Leave?

  What about Jack?

  What. About. Jack?

  Tomorrow was his birthday and the mood in the house was funereal. The new skateboard beneath her bed would go a short ways toward making it up to him, but nothing was going to be normal until she and Gregg made some decisions.

  Everything was fine, she told herself. Today was today and tomorrow was tomorrow. Jack was only thirteen. There would be plenty more birthdays to celebrate.

  Anyway, he was a teenager now. If it wasn’t this, it would be something else. She couldn’t blame everything on Gregg, despite her wanting to.

  Once again, Caía closed the refrigerator door and turned, grabbing an apple from the bowl on the island. On purpose, she left her purse—along with her cell phone—ignoring the little voice that demanded she grab her car keys and get back into her car and drive by the gym. If her car was parked there . . . if he’d gone to see that woman in her car . . .

  Good God, she was sick of living this way—sick of suspicion and doubt. “I’ll be upstairs,” she said to Jack, biting into the apple with a vengeance.

  It was as though she’d never spoken. Jack sat mutely at his computer, unwilling or unable to respond. And Caía had an inkling as to why. He, like Caía, knew exactly where his father was. Although they took care not to fight in his presence, he was bound to have overheard some of their arguments. She would like to have gone back to reassure him that none of this was his fault, but some part of her, like some part of him, wanted to pretend it didn’t exist. And so she didn’t, because vocalizing the truth only made it more real.

  Get Jack, get in the car, and leave, a little voice in her head said. But a louder one prevailed. You’re tripping for no reason, Caía. He’s probably on his way home right now. Get over it already. It’s not like he doesn’t know you know. If he wanted to leave, he would have already. Let it go.

  *

  Jeréz, present day

  “But, Tiíto, I want to because I need to say buenos días.”

  “You need to?”

  Voices awoke Caía from a dreamless sleep. Her lids fluttered open, and her eyes focused on the dappled shadows dancing along her bedroom wall. Behind her, morning light filtered in through the window, muted by the leaves of the orange tree.

  “Sí.”

  “No.”

  “But whyyyy, Tiíto Nick? Whyyyy?”

  The sound was as plaintive as any sound Caía had ever heard. In this house, whispers tended to echo, but these were not whispers. Or rather, Nick’s voice was low and his words softly spoken, but the words of a precocious five-year-old were not the least bit self-conscious.

  “Because, Laura, not everyone gets up as early as you.”

  “But if I go to school and didn’t get to say buenos días, she will cry.” Her argument was adorable, if inherently flawed, and she sounded as though she were on the verge of crying herself.

  It took Caía a full moment to realize they were speaking about her. Laura wanted to come in and wake her. Nick steadfastly refused to let her.

  “She won’t cry, Laura.”

  “Yes, she will. I promise, she will.”

  Silence.

 
“Tiíto . . . te lo juro.”

  “You promise what?”

  “Que se va a llorar.”

  “What makes you think she will cry, Laura?”

  “’Cause my mamá says Caía está triste, like we are. Los ángeles se llevaron a su hijo.”

  Because angels took her little boy. Caía’s heart wrenched.

  Silence.

  Would Nick put two and two together? Had anyone ever mentioned this to him before? It didn’t matter. She wasn’t the only woman in the world who’d ever lost a child. He couldn’t possibly know how Jack died. Not even Marta knew. Nobody knew anything, except what Caía had revealed. For all they knew, Jack might have been ill. Children died every day of one thing or another.

  From the context of their dialogue, it appeared Nick was putting on her shoes and maybe tying her laces. “You want to try?”

  “No. I can’t do it,” Laura said.

  “Yes, you can,” Nick argued. “All you have to do is make a loop . . . here, watch me.”

  “I don’t want to wear them, Tiíto. I want to wear my tacones.”

  “No, Laura, your tacones are not for school,” her uncle said quietly.

  “¡Por favor!” she begged, and Caía rose to retrieve her robe, uncertain what exactly she meant to do. From the sound of their voices, she thought they must be seated in her salon—hers, as though she had any rights to any part of this house. She was a stranger, living here by the good graces of the house’s mistress.

  Except that Caía no longer felt like a stranger. She had begun to feel as though she belonged. Marta and Laura made her feel this way. Drawn by the conversation, she moved into the foyer of her room to eavesdrop.

  “Well, I can take my abanico?”

  The Spanish fan Caía had gifted her for her birthday. A tiny smile turned up the corners of Caía’s lips. She was growing fond of that child and it wasn’t difficult. She was adorably impetuous, but not in an obnoxious way. She simply was not the least bit shy about expressing her feelings. At any given moment, she said whatever she was thinking. Her mother and uncle both doted on her, and the effect of this was present in her attitude. Nick Kelly’s influence was part of that child’s well-being.

  Caía wrapped her brain around that fact, moving into the breakfast nook to peer around the threshold. “Tiíto Nick” had positioned himself on one knee—like a man proposing—except that he was humbly tying the laces of a pair of red sneakers.

  “You can have your abanico and your tacones when you get home, Laura.”

  Nick’s tone was firm, not harsh, and Caía wondered if he’d ever wanted children of his own. He was gentle with Laura, and patient in a way Gregg had never been with Jack.

  But then, Gregg never killed a child—at least not directly. She stared at the man on his knees, trying to picture him behind the wheel of his car . . . her son out in front of it.

  “¡Por favor! Tiíto, I want to show my teacher.”

  Uncle Nick shook his head.

  “Why not, Tiíto?” Laura asked, reaching out and touching her uncle’s head gently, patting it lovingly. “¡Por favor!”

  “You can win your way most days, minx, but not today. Today you will take your tiny butt to school, and when your teacher says it’s time for show-and-tell, I will bring your abanico and your tacones another day.”

  Laura crossed her arms in protest, nevertheless allowing her uncle to continue lacing her shoes. Only now she straightened her back, looking for all the world like a princess who’d been denied her morning crumpet, chin up, pouty lips. “I will not like to leave them,” she announced.

  “I promise you will forget about them the instant you are with your friends.”

  “No, Tiíto,” Laura argued. “I will not forget my beautiful tacones.” And then her tone lifted, and she placed a finger to her chin, as though she had discovered a solution to please everyone. “Oh, but, Tiíto, listen to me . . . if you say yes, I can put my tacones and my abanico en el cuarto de Caía and she can take care of them for me, vale?” She thrust up a palm as though to say, “There? Are we happy now?”

  Caía laughed quietly. Both Laura and her uncle looked up to catch her standing in the doorway. Caía pinched her robe together.

  “Caía!” Laura shouted. She kicked her uncle’s hand away, bounced up from the sofa, and ran to greet Caía, throwing her arms around Caía’s legs. With a forbearing smile, her uncle let her go, but he remained on one knee, patiently holding Laura’s remaining shoe. Automatically, Caía’s hand moved to the child’s head, hugging her awkwardly as her uncle watched.

  “Caía, I want you to walk me to school.”

  “I am sure Ms. Nowakówna has better things to do,” Nick said, but his eyes held a question . . . or perhaps a challenge?

  The words rushed out before Caía could stop them. “Not really.”

  “Oh, yes,” Laura exclaimed. “¡Por favor!” She turned to her uncle, seizing Caía by the hand and pulling with more vigor than a child of her age should have. “Tiíto,” she said, “I only want Caía to take me, vale? Only for today. Not you.” She shoved her palm out, as though to keep Nick at bay. “You can stay home, Tiíto Nick. Okay?”

  There was no malice in the child’s demand. Her voice held no resentment. But some mean part of Caía experienced a rush of satisfaction. It was quickly doused by the sight of Nick’s genuine smile. “Caía may join us if she likes,” he said, and there was a certain look in his eyes . . . a look that Caía couldn’t quite define. It was as though he might be daring her.

  “Well, I will have to get dressed first,” she said. A glance at the clock on the wall revealed that there was more than ample time to make it to school and back before 9:00 a.m.

  “We can wait,” he said.

  Their gazes held.

  It came down to this: How badly did Caía wish to spend time with him? Or, more to the point: How badly did she want to know about her son’s final moments? How easily could she bear this man’s company in the pursuit of truth? No matter how “normal” being with Laura made her feel, this was what she had come for after all.

  Besides, beyond what she might feel about Nick, Caía craved this tiny act of normalcy. It had been so very long since she’d walked any child to school—years and years and years, in fact. Toward the end, Jack had barely tolerated her driving him and letting him out at the curb. “You’re wearing a robe,” he’d said one day. “Mom.” The single word held so much censure. Usually, it was “Ma” this, “Ma” that. Never “Mom,” unless he was upset. But he didn’t understand. How could he? Caía would never have told her thirteen-year-old son that she suspected his father was screwing a twenty-year-old from the gym. “No one will see,” she’d said wearily.

  Most days, she hadn’t bothered to comb her hair. There was something debilitating about knowing one’s husband was having an affair. Although maybe her response wasn’t all that normal, because she knew other women who’d dressed a little nicer, wore more makeup, tried a little harder. Caía had disengaged, and she wasn’t brave enough to make a change.

  That morning—the morning of Jack’s accident—if Caía could be honest with herself, it wasn’t hurt or anger that had driven her to the Village Tap. It was curiosity.

  Of course she was angry, but more than anger, she’d simply needed to know. She’d needed a kick in the ass to make a different decision.

  “Caía?” Laura was looking up at her, wiggling her hand. “Do you want to take me to school?” she asked, her chocolate eyes wide, offering Caía another chance.

  “Very much,” Caía said, and her gaze slid to Nick. “I’ll hurry,” she promised.

  “We’ll be right here,” he said.

  *

  It was a curious feeling to be walking the morning route, holding Laura’s hand while Nick Kelly kept pace behind them. Today, not even his presence could dampen Caía’s mood.<
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  “Do you want to come into my class?” Laura asked.

  “Maybe another day,” Caía offered, and found she meant it. At least she wanted to mean it. She had intended to stay in Spain only long enough to learn what she needed to learn. But this very moment, she also wanted to be here long enough to visit Laura’s class.

  “Vale,” Laura said.

  It was the Spanish equivalent of “okay,” and for the moment, everything was A-Okay. After a few weeks of being in that house with Laura and Marta, Caía could no longer think clearly about what it was she’d meant to say, or do, or what she hoped to accomplish by getting up-close-and-personal with Nick Kelly. Right now, he wasn’t all that important.

  What was important was the reality of Laura’s hand in hers.

  Focusing on the pleasure it gave her, Caía could even allow herself to tune out the sound of Nick’s footsteps behind her, a constant reminder that at some point, she was bound to be discovered. But not today. Today was not the day to worry about consequences, not when she was experiencing the first moments of true joy she’d felt in so long.

  Stranger yet was the simple fact that Nick Kelly was a part of this. He had allowed Caía to walk this child to school. He had given up his place at Laura’s side, and even now he seemed content to remain in their shadow, one step behind.

  They passed Rincon, and Caía peered over at the café, spotting her waiter. As usual, he was running around, sliding small plates onto café tables, and she realized only now that she’d never even asked him his name. How rude. She normally enjoyed chatting with people. When had she stopped doing that? The waiter caught her gaze and tilted Caía a familiar smile. Caía waved self-consciously, and didn’t look to see if Nick noticed. If he should wonder about her familiarity with the waiter, or the café’s proximity to their house, she didn’t want him to ask. Not now.

  The walk was over all too soon. By the time they stood in front of the doors leading into Laura’s school, Caía was inexplicably reluctant to let her go inside. She fell to her haunches. “You have a beautiful day,” she said, brushing a wayward strand from Laura’s face.