A Place in the Wind

by Suzanne Chazin

  “To tell me it doesn’t matter where Wil comes from. He is a stranger and should be welcomed.”

  “That’s right,” said Zimmerman. “But not because I am a great man like Abraham. But because I have known men and women like Abraham and Sarah. I was the stranger. And they welcomed me.” Zimmerman gestured to a cabinet above the refrigerator. “There’s a box in there. Can you bring it down for me?”

  “Of course.”

  The only box Adele could see was a cardboard shoebox. It was so old, the cardboard had turned spongy and the corners had gone white with wear. She brought it to him. He opened it. She expected him to show her pictures of his long-dead wife and daughter. Instead, he put a black-and-white picture in her hands of a gaunt young man dressed in a threadbare shirt and jacket that seemed two sizes too big for him.

  “That’s me,” said Zimmerman. “ When I was nineteen. The same age as your Wil. That was two years before I came to the United States.”

  “Oh.” He looked sallow and skinny, nothing like the jaunty picture Vega had found of him as a toddler in the drawer upstairs. “Where was this taken?”

  “In Cuba.” He said it the way Cubans do—Cooba.

  “You lived in Cuba?”

  “For almost five years. After the war. They were the only country at the time willing to take me in.”

  “So . . . you speak Spanish?”

  Zimmerman smiled. “Por supuesto hablo español. Cómo podría vivir allí durante cinco años y que no?” (“Of course I speak Spanish. How could I live there for five years and not?”)

  Adele couldn’t hide her astonishment. His accent carried a heavy lilt of his native inflections, but the fluency was undeniable.

  “I was young.” Zimmerman added. “The world was different. I had to learn to communicate to survive.”

  “You never said. All this time—”

  Zimmerman shrugged. “Some things are too painful to explain.” He gave her a knowing look. “You have some of those yourself, I think.”

  Adele swallowed. It was like sitting next to someone with X-ray vision. Did you have to reach a certain age to see the world so clearly? Or did you have to lead a certain kind of life?

  “I went to Cuba because I had no country anymore,” Zimmerman explained. “The Poland of my early childhood was gone. My whole family was exterminated in the camps. My father. My mother. My two sisters.” Zimmerman’s voice caught. “My older brother. I don’t even have pictures of them anymore. Everything was destroyed. All except for a picture of my older brother when he was three. Taken by a friend of my mother’s who visited us from Chicago before the war. I keep it in a drawer upstairs.”

  Adele felt the weight of what he was telling her. “You were in a concentration camp?”

  “And many other terrible places besides.” Zimmerman’s glasses fogged up. He took them off and wiped them on his shirt. “I know what it feels like to be nineteen and alone. To have no country and no family. I was that stranger. That old man in the story of Abraham. Some Cubans—Christians and Jews—took me in. And later, some Jewish Americans. To them, I owe everything.”

  “I had no idea,” said Adele.

  “I don’t speak about it usually. For most Americans—even Jewish Americans—it’s a page in a history book. For me, it’s my life.” He put the picture back in the box and handed it to Adele to return to the cabinet. “Wil and his brother—were they close?”

  “Yes. I think so,” said Adele. “I get the impression Wil felt a great responsibility for him. Rolando didn’t get to grow up in the United States like Wil. I don’t know the backstory, but I think it’s probably rather sad. Not in the way of what you experienced, of course. But any time two siblings are separated—”

  “It’s done then,” said Zimmerman. “I can’t pay him, mind you. But he can live here and have a roof over his head.”

  “Are you sure about this?” asked Adele. “There are people in this community who might shun you—maybe even threaten you—for opening your doors to him. Not that I’m going to tell anybody. But still.”

  “Adele, the world refused my family—my people—shelter. I don’t care about the opinions of a few neighbors. It’ll serve that crazy Mrs. Morrison right.” Zimmerman laughed. “Give her something to really get mad about.”

  “Oh, Mr. Zimmerman!” Adele wrapped her arms around him. “Thank you so much, sir. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

  Chapter 34

  Joy texted, Can’t catch dinner tonight, Dad. Vega was getting off work, parking the Suburban and exchanging it for his own set of wheels in the county garage. I’ve got to stay late on campus. Dr. Jeff offered me an internship with POW. I’m so psyched!

  Vega stared at the text. Everything having to do with Jeffrey Langstrom filled him with unease.

  We need to talk, Vega typed back. It can’t wait. Heading over to campus from work now.

  The last time Vega stepped on the Valley Community College campus, he’d taken a smashed beer bottle to the head. But he was in civilian clothes now. And he wasn’t anyone’s paid security.

  Protect Our Water had a small office in the Neumann Sciences Building, a three-story brown-brick building with all the charm of an upended UPS carton. Vega walked up the front steps and through doors papered over with flyers for chemistry tutors and roommates. He saw more posters announcing a campus concert from that hip-hop group, 5’N’10. Joy liked them. She’d probably bought tickets.

  Vega texted Joy when he was in the building and told her that he was either coming up or she was coming down.

  I’m by myself right now, she texted back. If you want to talk, it will have to be while I work.

  Good. No Dr. Huggy there. Though Vega would have preferred a couple more interns around. He didn’t like the idea of Joy working late on her own.

  POW’s office had one desk, a computer, a filing cabinet, a couple of chairs, and the ubiquitous microwave and fridge for hungry college students. It wasn’t exactly a high-tech operation. Joy was on a laptop computer, inputting columns of figures on a form. Vega knocked on the side of the door so she didn’t jump when she saw him.

  “Hey,” he said. “Aren’t you going to take a break for dinner?”

  “Dr. Jeff is going to bring me a salad later.”

  Vega pulled up a chair and sat down. “Listen, Joy.” He drummed his fingers on the edge of her desk. “Maybe you want to rethink this internship with Dr. Langstrom. You seem a little too . . . close to him.”

  Joy kept her eyes on the numbers she was copying into the computer. “I admire him. And besides, he’s in a bind. His last intern walked out right in the middle of the semester. He needs the help.”

  “His last . . . Do you mean Zoe Beck?”

  “Yeah. Dr. Jeff said she was real messed up about Catherine’s murder.”

  And other things, besides. But he wasn’t going there right now. “Are you aware that Langstrom has called off his suit against Crystal Springs? The judge lifted the injunction.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “And that doesn’t bother you? I thought that’s what you were fighting for.”

  “Dr. Jeff put pressure on Carp to change the plan. Crystal Springs is no longer building a road on the wetlands that connect the resort to the Magnolia Inn.”

  “How’s that going to affect the Magnolia Inn?”

  “I would imagine it’s not good,” said Joy. “I’m sorry for the family. But the safety of the town’s drinking water comes first.”

  Was safety the paramount concern? Vega wondered. Listening to Carp in the car today, he didn’t think so. Was it even Langstrom’s?

  “I don’t get what POW gets out of this,” said Vega.

  “Carp is giving the organization a really big grant from the county to monitor water use and conservation.”

  “In other words, a payoff,” said Vega. Maybe the package he delivered to Sarah Kenner’s office had something to do with that.

  “You’re so cynical, Dad.”


  “No, I’m not. I’m a realist,” said Vega. “From my vantage point, it looks like Carp is stiffing the Archers on a deal he made with them because John Archer is dead, then buying off Langstrom with county funds so he can do business as usual.”

  Joy stopped typing and frowned. “Well, you’re wrong,” she said. “You don’t know what a brilliant, clever man Dr. Jeff is. That’s why this internship is such a big deal. He’s expanding POW and he wants me to be a part of it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

  Vega got up from his chair. “What if it’s more than that?”

  “More than what?”

  “What if Langstrom’s playing everyone? Taking a buyoff from Carp? Buttering you up so he can take you to bed.”

  “Dad! That’s crude! And untrue.”

  “Sorry. But you need to hear it, Joy.”

  She swiveled her chair to face him. “Hear what? That I’m a young woman? That you don’t think a man like that could actually appreciate me for my intellect and drive?”

  “You know that’s not what I meant—”

  “Oh, yes it is!”

  “Chispita, you’re reading this all wrong.”

  “What I’m reading is that you think far less of my abilities than my professor seems to. Now tell me—which one of you I should listen to?”

  “I don’t want to see anything bad happen to you.”

  “Then you’re going to have to trust me, Dad. I’m not a little girl anymore. I know what I’m doing.”

  “But”—he played with a paper clip on her desk—“you’re my little girl.”

  She leaned across the desk and kissed him. “And I always will be. But maybe it’s time to stop squeezing me so tight—okay?”

  * * *

  Vega left the campus, disappointed that everything he’d tried to say to Joy had only managed to alienate and insult her. Maybe Wendy would have better luck. He didn’t want to think about it anymore tonight. He was tired and hungry—too hungry to wait until he got home to cook. Hank’s Deli was on the way. Oscar needed the business. He could get something and eat half. Diablo would gladly finish the rest later. Both man and dog would be happy.

  The shrine in front of Hank’s had grown again. There were nearly two dozen votive candles with cheesy images of Jesus and saints emblazoned on their sides. They flickered at the entrance to the deli like some giant birthday cake topping that somebody forgot to blow out.

  “Hola, Oscar. Qué onda?” asked Vega as he walked into the store.

  Oscar swept a hand across the vacant aisles. “See for yourself how it’s going. People see that shrine, they think I support a rapist and a murderer.”

  “You can’t sort of discourage it?”

  “You don’t discourage a religious shrine. The community would never forgive me. I just have to hope I can ride this thing out. What would you like?”

  Vega ordered an Italian hero.

  “You want hot peppers?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Vega grabbed a Coke from the refrigerated case and paid for it and the sandwich. Then he walked both back to his truck. He’d eat some now to take the edge off his hunger—and the rest with Diablo. He kept his engine running and the heater cranked up to stay warm while he scanned the stations for music he liked. He was an eclectic listener. Reggaeton, salsa, rap, R&B. He ate and listened as he watched people getting pizza, buying alcohol at the liquor store, and walking in and out of the laundromat with bundles of clothes. It was cold, of course. People didn’t hang around. But there was a new furtiveness that Vega couldn’t ascribe to the weather. Latinos were scared. Everything in town felt different since Catherine’s murder.

  Vega wrapped up the rest of his sandwich and searched the bag for a clean napkin. When he looked up again, he saw a female in a black puffy hooded coat walk up to Benitez’s shrine with yet another religious candle. Vega almost felt like getting out of his truck and telling her to take it someplace else. But it was like Oscar said. Any interference could backfire. So he stayed put and watched her place the candle next to all the others. The mourner was young—just a teenager—and fair-skinned for a Latina. She had her hood cinched tightly around her face. All Vega could see were her nose, her lips, and her almond-shaped eyes encircled by charcoal liner and mascara. On her legs were skinny jeans shoved into black ankle-length boots.

  She bent down before the collection of candles and made the sign of the cross. Vega wondered if she was a neighbor or just someone like his grandmother, who found comfort in the process of grieving. She looked younger than his own daughter. Fifteen, if he had to guess. The heavy makeup made her look older.

  She unzipped her jacket to her collarbone and pulled something out from around her neck. A medallion—probably religious. It was about the size, shape, and thickness of a nickel. It dangled from a gold chain. She went to pull it over her head.

  Was this teenage girl leaving a religious medal behind? At a shrine for a dead man? Vega sat up straighter. He felt a charge of electricity zip through him. He watched the girl more closely now. Benitez didn’t have a sister. The teenager didn’t seem old enough to be a girlfriend. Then again, with girls, you could never be sure.

  The teenager tried to slip the medallion over her hood. But the hood was too puffy. She unzipped her jacket a little more and uncinched the hood. She pushed it down onto her shoulders. For the first time, Vega saw her hair. Dyed blond hair. Blond like a wheat field. Blond like poured honey.

  Blond like Catherine Archer.

  The girl yanked a shoulder-length mass of it to one side and slipped the gold chain over her head. She placed the necklace on top of the wilting carnations and roses. Then she tucked her hair back into her black jacket and recinched the hood. Vega was out of his pickup in seconds.

  “Miss?” He came up behind her on the pavement. “Can I speak to you a moment?” Vega took out his badge and showed it to her.

  “I didn’t do anything!” The teenager’s face scrunched up like she was about to cry.

  “I just want to ask you some questions, miss. That’s all. Starting with your name.”

  “But I didn’t do anything. I swear!”

  “No one is saying you did.”

  She looked like she might bolt. He knew he had to act fast.

  “If you prefer, we can do this down at the police station.” A bluff. Vega had no authority to haul this girl into the Lake Holly PD. On what charge? But the teenager wouldn’t know that.

  “Your choice.” Vega shrugged.

  “Jocelyn,” she answered in a tight, panicked voice.

  “Jocelyn? You go to Lake Holly High, Jocelyn?”

  “Yes.”

  “Got any school ID?” Whether she was here legally or not she’d have reliable school ID.

  Jocelyn fumbled inside a shiny black purse and handed Vega a card with her picture on it: Jocelyn Suarez-Blanco. She was fifteen, a sophomore at Lake Holly High. Her school picture showed a girl with long black hair swept up in a ponytail and no makeup. She looked five years younger—and reams more beautiful.

  Vega opened his truck door and sat on the seat. He copied Jocelyn’s information onto a notepad in the glove compartment, then handed her ID back to her.

  “Where do you live, Jocelyn?”

  She hesitated. Vega lifted an eyebrow. “Like I said, we can do this here. Or at your school. Or perhaps your house—”

  “No! Please! Not my parents. They’ll kill me.” She looked around, as if she half expected one of them to shoot out of a door and grab her by the arm. Or perhaps that dyed hair. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Vega tapped his pen on his notebook. He knew she’d tell him her address. She’d tell him anything he wanted, so long as he didn’t call her parents. She reeled off an address that Vega copied onto the pad. She lived around the corner, above the plumbing-supply store. He knew the building.

  Vega got out of his pickup and walked over to Benitez’s shrine on the sidewalk. He reached down and picked up the gol
d necklace Jocelyn had left there. It was a woman’s necklace. The links were delicate and draped easily between Vega’s fingers. The medallion, too, was gold. On the front was a raised outline of the Virgin Mary with her robed arms outstretched and golden rays shooting off her halo. On the back were the words from the Hail Mary that Vega had known so well as a boy: Ruega por nosotros pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte. (Pray for us sinners, now and in the hour of our death.)

  Vega held the medallion out to Jocelyn in his outstretched palm. “Who does this belong to?”

  “I didn’t steal it.”

  “But it’s not yours.”

  “I was trying to give it back.”

  “Give it back to whom?”

  “He gave it to me. To hold on to. Until he could pay me back.”

  “He? Who’s he?”

  “I gave him a twenty to buy me some beer. He asked if he could borrow the difference to buy some vodka at the liquor store. For himself.” The words poured out breathlessly, delivered with a teenager’s fever-pitched logic. “He promised to pay me back.”

  “Who promised to pay you back, Jocelyn?”

  “I should have just given him the money,” she continued, as if she’d never heard Vega’s question. “I mean, he knows my boyfriend and all. But I thought he’d forget and stiff me. So he gave me his religious medal. As collateral. He promised he’d bring me my money this week. And now he can’t. Not ever. And . . . that medal. It’s not right for me to keep. It belonged to his mother.”

  “Whose mother, Jocelyn? Who are we talking about?”

  “Darwin,” she said.

  “Dar . . . You mean, Rolando Benitez?”

  “He used to work with Carlos.”

  “And Carlos is . . . ?”

  “My boyfriend. He used to work at Burger and Brew until he got fired.”

  “Carlos got fired?”

  “No! Carlos would never get fired!” She wrinkled her nose. She reminded Vega of Joy—that same petulance when anyone failed to understand the ramblings of a teenage mind. “Darwin got fired. He was a dishwasher at Burger and Brew. He got in a fistfight with one of the other busboys. But he was always real nice to Carlos. He used to fix his bike. Even fixed my little sister’s bike once. He was nice when he wasn’t drinking.”