What You Wish For

by Janet Dawson

  * * *

  Lindsey reread the transcript. The pain of the Salvadoran woman’s loss leapt off the pages. But now it was more than just another research interview. It had moved from that realm when Flor told Lindsey that her kidnapped son was alive and living in the Bay Area—and she wanted to reclaim him.

  Flor said the American reporter, Merle Sefton, wrote a story about San Blas. Flor had seen a copy of the article, with her own picture. Lindsey set aside the printed transcript and did an Internet search on the reporter, garnering pages of hits. As Lindsey clicked through hyperlinks, she found a photograph of a tall middle-aged woman with tousled blond hair, dressed in khaki slacks and shirt, a battered camera bag slung over one shoulder.

  Sefton was a Navy veteran who’d worked as a photojournalist after retiring from the service, building an extensive body of work. An Oklahoma native, she’d been visiting family in Oklahoma City the day a powerful bomb destroyed the federal building and was on the scene taking photographs shortly after the explosion. She’d interviewed and photographed concentration camp survivors who’d attended the opening of the Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington D.C. Lindsey found a photo essay about Amelia Earhart’s last flight. Sefton had taken pictures of the stops along the route, finishing up with two photos that illustrated the question marks surrounding Earhart’s fate. The first was a shot of the old Japanese jail on the island of Saipan where local rumors placed the aviator, the second a photo of her last known coordinates, showing a surging ocean and a stormy sky.

  Lindsey worked her way through several electronic databases and periodical indexes, refining search terms until she located the full text—no photos—of Sefton’s article about the San Blas massacre. She printed out the story and looked for follow-up articles. What she found was depressingly familiar, reminding her of the 1981 massacre at El Mozote and several nearby villages by troops of the Atlacatl ­Battalion of the Salvadoran army. The press in El Salvador had ignored the killings, but the incident had been reported in the Washington Post and the New York Times. Both the Salvadoran government and its primary source of funding, the Reagan administration, had denied the El Mozote massacre had ever occurred. The incident was restructured into a story of a friendly, ostensibly democratic ally, no matter what its human rights record, versus Communist rebels who were not to be trusted and not above manipulating reporters. The callous mass murder of several hundred civilians, many of them children and old people, evolved into a battle, where the deaths were regrettable but understandable casualties of war resulting from clashes between rebels and government forces. Those who had ­reported El Mozote were vilified as dupes of the Salvadoran rebels. Despite the presence of survivors still living nearby, witnesses who had told the story to reporters, it wasn’t until 1992 that the reports gained ­credence, as forensic anthropologists began exhuming skeletons in the ruins.

  There were similarities between El Mozote and San Blas, but also differences. The death toll in El Mozote and surrounding villages had been seven or eight hundred, depending on who did the counting and how many villages were included in the tally. According to Flor, one hundred and seven people had died in San Blas, a small hamlet, a collection of workers’ huts located on private property, the finca owned by a man Flor called Don Humberto. The perpetrators weren’t Salvadoran army troops, but the landowner’s paramilitaries. Unlike the survivors of El Mozote, who still lived in the vicinity, the two adult survivors of San Blas—Flor and Prudencia—had disappeared.

  The reaction to the San Blas story was similar to El Mozote. Merle Sefton had been denounced as a naïve reporter being fed lies by the rebels. The landowner, Humberto Aragón, claimed there had never been a village at the site of San Blas. There was a valley by that name, where a creek widened into a lake behind an earthen dam near Aragón’s coffee processing plant. Aragón claimed the lake had been there for years, saying his father had constructed the dam in the 1930s. He was wealthy and influential, and he’d gotten Sefton kicked out of El Salvador. She’d been apprehended on his property two days after the incident, escorted to the airport in San Salvador, and stripped of her visa and press credential.

  Back in the United States, Sefton found herself on the receiving end of disbelieving comments by elected officials and State Department staffers—and a sneering, condescending editorial in the Wall Street Journal, which had also, Lindsey recalled, denied there had ever been a massacre at El Mozote. No proof and no witnesses, the editorial said, ignoring Sefton’s interview with the two survivors and calling her San Blas story preposterous.

  But there must be proof San Blas had existed. What about area maps? Would they include a workers’ village on private property? What about Flor’s photograph? The fading color snapshot showed Flor, her first husband, Atenacio, and her son Efraín, standing near the little church in San Blas, with the sign from the village store visible in the background. But the photo would have been dismissed by those who wanted to discount Sefton’s article as another plaza, another market, in another village.

  What had happened to Merle Sefton in the intervening years? In 1989 she’d worked for an independent news service in Los Angeles. After that her name appeared most frequently in newspapers in Seattle and Portland. Finally a hyperlink led Lindsey to the website of Southern Oregon University in Ashland. Sefton taught there, in the communications department.

  Ashland. Talk about serendipity. Lindsey’s tickets for her visit to the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in Ashland were in her desk drawer. She jotted Merle Sefton’s e-mail address and phone number on a pad, composed a message and sent it off. A moment later she received an automatic reply indicating Sefton was unavailable and would respond to messages upon her return to the office on Monday. Lindsey called Sefton’s office number and left a voicemail, underscoring her need to talk with the journalist.

  Lindsey went to the kitchen for another cup of coffee, just as Nina appeared from the guestroom, wrapped in her emerald robe. “I was wondering when you’d get up. Did you have a good sleep?”

  “Like I was drugged.” Nina yawned and raked a hand through her untidy hair, peering at the kitchen clock. “What time is it? Holy cow, that late? I need coffee.” She opened the cupboard and grabbed a mug. She filled it with coffee, inhaled the aroma and drank. “Oh, that’s good.” She swallowed another mouthful. “Okay, I feel human now.” She sat down and sifted through the newspaper.

  “For future reference, I keep the coffee beans in that red tin next to the grinder.” Lindsey poured herself another mug of coffee. “You want some breakfast?”

  “Yeah. I’ll get it. A bowl of cereal or something. That’s usually all I have.” Nina opened the classified ad section from the Chronicle and scanned the page as she drank her coffee. Then she sighed and closed the newspaper. She got up, poured herself more coffee, and opened cupboards, taking a bowl from one and examining Lindsey’s supply of cereal in another. As she lifted her arm to pull out a box, the sleeve of her robe fell and revealed the fading bruise.

  Lindsey’s mouth tightened at the sight. With an effort, she bit down the impulse to voice her anger at Chad, to ask Nina what had happened. It’s like a damned elephant sitting in the kitchen. We both know it’s there and at some point we’ll have to talk about it.

  Nina filled a bowl with cereal, strawberries and yogurt, then returned to the table and sat down. “I need to boot up my laptop to check my e-mail. And make some calls. See what I can do about finding a job.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be able to find work.”

  Nina shrugged, the corners of her mouth pulling down. “I know you mean to be reassuring, Mother.” She gestured at the newspaper headlines. “We’re embroiled in this damn war, the economy’s in the toilet. Things just keep getting worse.”

  “It helps to have a positive attitude.” Bite my tongue, Lindsey thought. I sound just like my mother. Is that what happens when you get older?

  Nina sighed. “I think I have a clearer picture of the job market than you do. There aren
’t that many jobs out there, at least not in my field. I know people who have been out of work for a year or more.”

  “I’m your mother. It’s my job to be the cheerleader.” This isn’t going to be easy. Did you think your prickly daughter was going to lose all her thorns overnight? Particularly when her life is a mess and she feels lousy about it? Fat chance.

  She walked back to her office and returned to the kitchen with a small flat object in her palm. “Here’s the extra house key.”

  Nina looked at the key for a moment before taking it. “This is only temporary. I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I can.”

  Lindsey smiled. “Let’s do that one-day-at-a-time thing, okay?”

  “Okay.” Nina finished her cereal and put the bowl and spoon in the dishwasher. “So how are the girls—Claire, Gretchen and ­Annabel?”

  Nina didn’t know about Annabel. Of course, she couldn’t, since mother and daughter had had no contact while Nina was in Texas. “Annabel had a stroke, a bad one, six weeks ago. We were all going to have lunch after she and Gretchen played tennis. She collapsed right there on the court. It was awful.”

  Nina looked shocked. “My God, she’s not that old. How is she? Will she recover?”

  “It’s affected her speech and motor skills,” Lindsey said. “She has aphasia, slurred speech, and difficulty walking. She’s in rehab in the city, getting therapy. I visit her once or twice a week. I see improvement. But it’s slow.”

  “Annabel’s a fighter,” Nina said. “She’ll get better. You’ve known her a long time.”

  “More than half my life. I met her when I moved into that house near the campus.” Lindsey raised her coffee mug, remembering. The past, choices made—or avoided. And that’s a choice, too. One thing leads to another, like stones tossed into a pond, ripples moving inexorably outward, becoming consequences.

  5

  Berkeley, California, June 1972

  Janis Joplin’s gravelly voice exhorted the Lord to buy her a Mercedes-Benz. The music came from a portable radio on the patio, where a young woman with short blond hair stretched out on a chaise longue, the top of her red bikini unfastened, baring her back.

  “That’s Claire,” Annabel Dunlin said. “She lives upstairs.”

  Lindsey turned from the window and looked around the bedroom of the furnished apartment. The rent was higher than she’d planned on spending, but the apartment was much nicer than the others she’d looked at today.

  She liked the house on Hillegass Street the moment she saw it, two stories, green stucco with white trim. The wide front porch held four honey-colored rattan chairs with cushions. Metal wind chimes hung from a hook at the end of the porch. Colorful petunias, velvety pansies, white Shasta daisies and golden California poppies grew in clay pots on the porch, and rosebushes, heavy with blooms, ranged along the front of the house.

  Inside, the rooms had been turned into apartments. The available unit—first floor, on the right of the stairs—consisted of a living room and bedroom, with a kitchen and bathroom tucked in between. The apartment had hardwood floors, high ceilings and tall windows in each room, letting in plenty of light.

  The bedroom furniture included a double bed, a nightstand and a dresser with a mirror. Lindsey examined the walk-in closet, with built-in shelves on one wall. The bathroom was small. So was the kitchen, but it had adequate counter and cupboard space, plus new appliances.

  Back in the living room Lindsey mentally set the square table with her own placemats, dishes and flatware, saw her books in the bookcase, her typewriter on the desk. The blue-and-yellow rug she’d bought in a Mexico City mercado would go in front of the sofa, her rocking chair near the front window, where she could wrap herself in her crocheted afghan and look out at the roses.

  “You were wise to come up early,” Annabel said. “Spring semester’s over and students are moving out. Apartments go fast, particularly this close to campus.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Lindsey said. “I just got my master’s at Santa Barbara and I’m starting my doctorate in history here at Cal. First priority is a place to live.”

  She was staying temporarily with Aunt Emma. But Lindsey wanted her own apartment. She’d looked at several before seeing the flyer in the women’s restroom at Doe Library, advertising a furnished one-bedroom apartment south of campus. Lindsey grabbed the flyer and found a pay phone.

  “This is a great location,” Lindsey said now.

  “Close enough to People’s Park to catch the occasional whiff of tear gas,” Annabel said. “Though the south side of campus isn’t as crazy now as it was a couple of years ago.”

  “Is the neighborhood safe?”

  Annabel smiled. “The house is safe. I can’t vouch for your welfare out in the world at large. There’s a grocery store within walking ­distance, on Telegraph Avenue. Let me show you the other ­amenities.”

  They left the apartment and walked down the central hallway to the rear of the house, where the back door led out to the porch and patio. A set of metal stairs had been attached to the building exterior, serving double duty as access to the upper apartments and a fire escape. Beyond the patio the deep backyard held a swath of green lawn, more roses, an oak tree, and a vegetable garden. The detached garage was used for storage, Annabel told her. There were wind chimes here, too, above a bedroom window. Annabel reached for the metal tubes. They rang together in a deep melodious sound.

  Back inside the house Annabel showed Lindsey the walk-in closet under the stairs, with shelves and a pegboard with hooks. “More storage. Tools, if you need them. Vacuum cleaner, ladder. The ceilings are so high you’ll need a ladder to change light bulbs.” She shut the closet and led the way to another, near the back entrance. “Last but certainly not least...”

  Lindsey felt as though she’d died and gone to heaven when she saw the matched Maytags. “A washer and dryer. Hallelujah. I hate hauling everything to the Laundromat.”

  “So do I.” Annabel closed the door. “Do you want the apartment?”

  Lindsey did the math in her head, calculating the monthly rent and the estimated cost of utilities, groceries and other expenses. She had some money saved, plus her student loan, and the promise of work as a researcher in the fall. The rent was a stretch. But she didn’t want to be penny-wise and pound-foolish. It was worth it to pay more for a safe, comfortable place to live.

  “I want it,” Lindsey said. “What do I have to do? Fill out an application, leave a deposit? Promise to hand over my firstborn child?”

  “Nothing as drastic as that,” Annabel said. “It’s yours. You’ll fit right in.”

  “But what about the landlord?” Lindsey asked.

  “I am the landlord,” Annabel said. “I decide who lives here. Fill out an application and give me a check for the first month’s rent.”

  When Lindsey entered Annabel’s apartment, it dawned on her that her new housemate had money. A real, honest-to-God Persian rug lay on the floor, deep reds and blues glowing like jewels. The ­living room had a fireplace and a mantel with an ornate gold-and-glass clock. There were no posters tacked up on the walls here; ­Annabel had framed silkscreen prints. The tables, polished dark wood, looked as though they came from an antique store or the old family manse. In the front corner of the room stood a desk, an old wooden office chair, and a small table holding a portable electric typewriter.

  Barrister’s bookcases, the kind with glass covers, stood on both sides of the front window. Lindsey glanced at the titles of the books on the nearest shelves. Shakespeare, Keats, Shelley, Austen, Dickens. Poetry and literature. Annabel must be an English major. A music box, a carousel, with plunging black-and-white horses under a red-and-yellow canopy, sat on top of one bookcase.

  “That’s beautiful,” Lindsey said.

  “A gift from my mother,” Annabel said.

  “What does it play?”

  Annabel lifted the box and turned the key on the underside. The lilting waltz from Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Carousel began
to play. “Appropriately enough.” She pulled a form from a folder on the desk. “Have a seat and fill that out.”

  Lindsey sat down in the office chair and began filling out the ­application. “When was the house built?”

  “The Twenties,” Annabel said. “Converted to apartments in the late Fifties. I have the original living room, with the fireplace. My bedroom was the dining room, and my kitchen is the original. Your apartment must have been a parlor and a study. The four bedrooms upstairs were turned into two apartments with kitchens and bedrooms added.”

  “How did you come to be the landlord?”

  Annabel sat down in the armchair, picked up a pen and doodled on a yellow pad. “Housing for students is always tight in Berkeley. My father’s solution was to buy a house for me to live in while I attend college. His only caveat is that my fellow tenants be female and they fill out that application.”

  Lindsey wrote out a check for the rent, feeling a twinge as she subtracted and saw the dip in her bank balance. “Your father must have a lot of money.” She looked up, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  Annabel laughed. “It’s okay. He has piles of money. He solves problems by spreading it around. I’ve lived here since I started my freshman year. It’s the first time I’ve ever been out on my own. If you can call living in a house with three other people being out on your own. One of these days I would like to live alone.”

  “Plenty of time for that.” Lindsey handed the check and the form to Annabel.

  “I wonder.” Annabel glanced at the application. “I should warn you. My father has this assistant, Max Brinker, who runs background checks on people who live here. So if you had any part in burning the Bank of America building while you were at UC Santa Barbara, you should ’fess up now. I do have the final say-so. I’ve overruled him before.”