Not of This Fold

by Mette Ivie Harrison

  I turned and saw a small plastic chest of drawers with only a few items in it. I recognized a set of worn and graying temple garments and averted my eyes, feeling that I’d taken a step too far in invading the man’s privacy.

  The bathroom had a fairly standard set of over-the-counter medications—cold medicine, cough syrup, and some Advil. A toothbrush and gum-sensitive toothpaste.

  I remembered Gabriela’s bathroom, without any adult medications, and contrasted it to this one. Despite the fact that there wasn’t much in this room either, I still thought Luis was selfish for not sacrificing everything for his children the way that Gabriela had.

  I looked under the sink and then peeked under the top of the toilet, just for good measure. Nothing. What had I expected to find? I cringed at the unconscious assumption I’d just made that an undocumented immigrant’s presence was likely connected to drugs. Gwen and I were doing the same things she’d accused Gore of doing from the first.

  “I don’t think there’s anything here,” I said, coming out of the bathroom.

  Gwen was on the floor in the living room, looking under the couch. She was still making quick, jerky motions that seemed to indicate a disquieted state of mind. “Hey, can you take a look at the card over there?” she said, pointing to the kitchen counter.

  It was an anniversary card. My heart felt a pang when I opened it. It was addressed to Gabriela and written in Spanish, so I couldn’t read it.

  “Bring it over here,” Gwen said. She straightened up a bit and looked at it as she translated it aloud:

  Gabriela, I know we have had hard times and I have not always treated you as I should have. But I love you eternally, and I want our family to be together again.

  Love, Luis.

  “So he admits to abusing her,” Gwen said. She stood up and brushed off her pants.

  “I’m not sure that’s true.” The wording was pretty vague, at least in translation. I doubted Detective Gore could use that card alone as proof of abuse in court. Not to mention the fact that we’d contaminated evidence again.

  Just then, the door opened, and suddenly Luis was standing in front of us. “You!” he said, eyes wide. He dropped his hands, which had previously been gathered into fists in a defensive stance. “You have no right to be here! You lied to me.”

  He must have talked to the police after we’d visited and realized that Gwen and I weren’t affiliated with them. Had Gore found out what we’d done? If so, what would happen now? She didn’t seem likely to take pity on Gwen’s inexperience, given how far we’d stretched her sympathies.

  “You didn’t tell us that you hit Gabriela. Did you hit the children, too?” Gwen asked, her tone hostile.

  What was she doing, trying to set him off? We both knew he could be violent.

  “I would never hurt my children,” Luis said. His hands were in fists again at his sides. I kept staring at them, trying to position myself between him and Gwen.

  “You’re a liar, too, aren’t you? A wife-beater and a liar. Does it make you feel manly to hit a woman who’s so much smaller than you? To make your children cringe in fear?” Gwen said, her tone vicious. She was on the balls of her feet, too, ready to move.

  It was as if she was confronting her father. This wasn’t what I’d hoped in terms of the case setting her free from her old demons.

  “Gwen, let’s get out of here,” I tried to tell her, putting my face close to hers.

  She put out a hand and pushed me away, stepping closer to Luis, her body thrumming with energy. “You killed her, didn’t you? You never wanted anything else from her. You came back to this country with one sole intent, to take revenge against the woman who had escaped you, embarrassed you, made you feel less like a man.”

  “No! I wanted to be with her again. I loved her. She was my wife. We were sealed for eternity.” Luis’s voice was choked. His face was completely red, and I could hear his accent thicken.

  “Gwen, let me do this,” I said, stepping in because it seemed the only way to get her to calm down. I turned to Luis and said calmly, “You said she was having an affair. But not that she’d agreed to come back to you.”

  “We were . . . discussing it,” Luis said.

  Had Gabriela told Carlos she was going back when she wasn’t sure? Or had Gore lied to the press? More likely, Carlos was the one prevaricating here.

  Gwen stepped around me, impatient with my level tone. She seemed to want another violent reaction from him. “Just admit it! You didn’t love Gabriela. You just wanted to keep her under your control. You wanted to make her feel smaller than you, like she needed you and couldn’t survive without you. What kind of man are you, Luis? Huh?” She said this last as she took one more step closer to him, her chest colliding with his.

  I saw his fist begin to swing, but it moved too quickly for me to stop him. Gwen only had time to let out a cry as it crashed into her face and she was thrown to the ground.

  I thought the force of the blow would keep her down there. I scrambled to reach her, but she stood up quickly. She looked triumphant, like she’d proven her accusations.

  “I think we all know what kind of man you are now,” Gwen said flatly.

  I moved toward her then, grabbing her by the elbow to pull her away.

  Luis began to sob. “She’s gone now—gone. The only woman I ever loved. The mother of my children, my wife.” Then he transitioned into Spanish, which I didn’t understand but assumed was more of the same regrets.

  “Let’s go,” I urged Gwen, trying to push her to the door. She yelped in pain at my touch, so I dropped my hands.

  She glanced at the door, then tightened her jaw and looked back at Luis. “You abused Gabriela, didn’t you?” she asked.

  He nodded slightly. Well, there it was—the admission we’d wanted. Nothing the police could use, but at least we knew for our own sakes. Unfortunately, it didn’t definitively mean anything—not that he’d killed her, or that Carlos was innocent. We were stuck.

  “I loved her. I didn’t know how to forgive her, but I loved her,” Luis cried .

  I felt terrible for him, but it was Gwen I was responsible for. “Come on,” I said again, trying to block her view of Luis and nudge her toward the door.

  Once we were back in the car, I leaned forward and let myself take a breath of relief. We’d both survived that. And this time, I couldn’t pretend to Kurt there’d been no danger. Why did I keep doing these things? I’d known Gwen was in a belligerent mood, and I’d come with her anyway.

  “I knew it,” she said, entirely unrepentant. “I knew he was lying about the abuse.”

  “But Carlos could still have killed her,” I said, taking the wheel. She was in no shape to drive.

  She turned away in silence, and I realized she’d fallen asleep against the passenger-side window as I drove us home.

  Chapter 29

  Wednesday night, I went to the church for our weekday Relief Society meeting and was surprised to see Gwen there. Our night was dedicated to a service project for refugees. There were tied quilts to work on and a live auction happening, along with the assembly of hygiene kits for newly arrived refugees and a video playing on repeat in the background about who we were helping and the political, economic, and environmental horrors they had escaped from.

  I hurried over to Gwen when I saw that she and Shannon Carpenter were working on the same quilt, which had already been set up on a frame. Three layers of fabric, batting, and more fabric, taut and ready to go. The top was a floral design in dull greens and tans, and I really wished whoever had started it hadn’t decided to place the ties in strict lines. If they’d just asked me, I could have shown them how to place the ties in the middle of each flower so they were integrated into the printed pattern. But people didn’t think of tied quilts as art. They were functional and only had to be good enough. It’s not like anyone would end up displaying t
hese on the wall.

  “Gwen, how are things looking for the holidays at your house?” I asked, trying to make casual conversation that would fit better at church than the murder investigation we’d inserted ourselves into. As I spoke, I pulled out a long strand of green yarn from the skein on top of the quilt and threaded a big yarn needle with it.

  “Fine,” Gwen said, working hard to pull her own thread through the layers of fabric and batting neatly. “Though I don’t think we’re doing much this year. Brad and I are both just too busy.”

  “That sounds terrible!” said Shannon Carpenter. “Would you like some help with Christmas decorations?” Her tone was overly eager.

  “Um, no, thank you,” Gwen said.

  “Oh, well, I’m starting a home decorating business for the holidays to help people who don’t have the time to decorate,” Shannon went on, trying to thread the yarn into the needle without much success. “It’s just a part-time thing, so I still have time for my own family, but I thought I’d offer.”

  “I think it’s a great idea that you’ve decided to start a business, Shannon,” I said before Gwen could respond. Considering their last encounter in this room, I figured it was politic. “What gave you the inspiration?”

  Shannon paused her quilting, apparently unable to tie a quilt and talk at the same time. “I think it was when I got so many compliments on our house last year. I realized not everyone has my artistic gift.”

  Well, that was a bold statement. I knew I shouldn’t be bothered by it, though. Most Mormon women were all too modest.

  “How wonderful for you, making the most of your gifts,” Gwen said sarcastically, putting another stitch in.

  “Well, people don’t value what they get for free, do they?” said Shannon in a clipped tone.

  I paused, nervous that we were heading toward a repeat of the ward Trunk or Treat situation, especially if Gwen brought up her work in the Spanish ward that was keeping her too busy for Christmas decorations.

  “I just think it’s interesting that you think women should stay home and take care of their children, and yet here you are, going out to work,” Gwen said, glancing up at Shannon.

  Gwen was being so rude to Shannon, but I had the sense it was a defense mechanism. Shannon was the one who’d emphasized her role as the perfect mother in their last encounter, unconsciously digging at Gwen’s sorest spot—infertility. Mormon women could be so passive-aggressive when they were crossed.

  “I’m still at home with the children,” Shannon said, her voice even. “Except for a few days when my husband can babysit them, since he has time off work.”

  I’d stayed home with my children, but had I been so sanctimonious about my choice? Maybe I had once.

  “Too bad not every woman has the same choice,” Gwen said. “Like so many of the refugee women who have to work to feed their families and keep a roof over their heads.”

  Shannon tensed, and for a moment I felt sorry for her. “I’m just earning extra money for Christmas presents,” she said. “I don’t see anything wrong with that.”

  “Of course not, since your family would have nothing without that,” Gwen said acidly.

  “I don’t think—” I started.

  But Shannon interrupted me, bursting out, “Why are you constantly trying to put me down? I thought we’d be on the same team, women who are underestimated because we’re small.”

  I stared at her, shocked. It had never occurred to me that she had been looking for validation from Gwen because she saw a physical similarity between them. I suddenly felt ashamed that I’d only ever seen Shannon as a stereotype.

  “You and I have nothing in common,” Gwen said flatly. It was clear she wasn’t ready to forgive Shannon after their feud, despite the indirect olive branch.

  “Shannon, why don’t you start a new quilt? We’re almost finished with this one,” I said pointedly, hoping to defuse this situation.

  “You don’t think you need to turn it again? I don’t know if I can reach those last spots in the middle,” said Shannon, gesturing at the center of the quilt. “My arms are so short.”

  I felt that pang of pity again. But Gwen never made me feel sorry for her, and she was nearly the same size.

  “I’ve got this, if you give me a little space.” As I spoke, I ducked under Shannon’s arm and gently pushed her aside as I did a set of six ties precisely in the center of the quilt.

  “All right,” said Shannon, stepping back and evaluating our work.

  She stared at the folded pile of fabric and batting for the next quilt, and I realized she had no idea what to do with it. She could tie, but she didn’t know how to set it all up.

  I hurriedly finished the last row of ties between my row and Gwen’s and waited impatiently while she finished the last two ties in hers. Then it was time to unpin the ends and unroll the whole thing.

  There was a sacredness to this that I could only compare to the feeling I got at the temple, after taking a family name through from beginning to end: baptism, confirmation, endowment, and sealing.

  I could hear Gwen let out a small gasp as she saw the completed quilt, and Shannon didn’t say anything at all—she just backed up so she could see the whole effect. Quilting was a dying art. I wondered how many of the women in our ward ever quilted outside of Relief Society meetings. Did even one of them own her own quilting stands? My son Joseph had made a set for me in his metalworking shop at school his senior year. It was possibly the best Christmas present I’d received from one of my sons. I still used them, and it had been a relief to get rid of the old wooden stands I’d had since the boys were babies.

  I had good memories of those quilt-making days. My sons had played happily under the quilts for hours as I worked above. Sometimes they’d wanted to sit in my lap, but I’d often managed to quilt while they occupied themselves. I quilted while they played cowboy and Indian, or pioneer, or space army. The quilt above functioned as a fort, a tent, or an oxygen dome. Occasionally, I’d tried to teach them to quilt, since I didn’t have a daughter to pass the skill along to, but none of them had been interested beyond basic curiosity.

  With Gwen’s help, I folded the finished quilt.

  “I feel so good inside, thinking about the refugees receiving this,” said Shannon cheerfully. “They’re going to feel so blessed because of our hard work.”

  Gwen said, “I’m glad we’re doing something to help people in the here and now.” It could have sounded critical, but I think she was truly pleased. Sometimes the Mormon church focused so much on afterlife issues, getting names to the temple and making sure people’s “work” was done so they didn’t roam as solitary souls in spirit prison. But here, we’d all teamed up for a worthwhile charitable project. This was the best part of Mormon sisterhood, bringing together women as different as Shannon and Gwen.

  “How did it go?” Kurt asked when I got home sometime later.

  “Well, I think there was actually a moment that Shannon and Gwen didn’t hate each other.”

  Kurt rubbed at my shoulders. “I’m glad,” he said. “You’re too hard on yourself sometimes, you know. You think you should be able to change the world. I actually love that about you.”

  Did he? I turned around. “I thought you were mad at me about the case.” I hadn’t even admitted all the latest interference I’d gotten into, but I think he suspected.

  “I’m really worried about you sometimes, but could never stay mad, Linda. I admire you too much.” He kissed my neck and suggested heading to bed, though it wasn’t quite 10 p.m. I didn’t think I could sleep, but I wanted nothing more than to be in my own bed with Kurt beside me.

  Chapter 30

  Do I need to apologize about Relief Society last night? Gwen texted me the next day.

  I think it went all right in the end, I texted back, wondering if this was really all Gwen wanted from me. And then Gwen got
to the real point.

  I’ve been thinking about why Gabriela was at the Pro-Stop with Carlos. It makes no sense. Why wouldn’t they just have met at one of their apartments? I think they must have gone together to meet someone else.

  Damn! I realized we’d forgotten to mention the voice mail message when we took Gabriela’s phone over to Gore at the station? Probably because Gore had been so angry with us.

  And then another message from Gwen: I think this has something to do with Celestial Security. She and Carlos were both working there, and that could be what they were arguing about. Gore might not realize how involved Bishop Hope is.

  Gwen was making some serious leaps, but I did believe there was something very wrong at Celestial Security, past what we’d seen there ourselves. They’d ushered us out immediately after Gwen had mentioned Gabriela, and Bishop Hope had even taken the time to call my husband. I texted, We can’t go back there.

  We have to. I’ll demand to talk to Bishop Hope and hint that I know something. I can remind him I’ve seen him at church talking to Gabriela and Carlos.

  Would that work? I worried that her pressuring him could be dangerous. Kurt had already hinted that he didn’t think it was safe for us to go there in the first place. He hadn’t said why, but he’d definitely feared something serious.

  Maybe we should talk to Gore about Hope. She might know what’s going on, I suggested.

  There’s no way she would listen to us at this point, Gwen responded. Or give us any more information.

  With a sigh, I acknowledged she was probably right on that point.

  I can go alone. I’ll talk to you about it later, she texted.

  And I knew then that there was no way I was going to let her go by herself. It was partly me wanting to keep her safe, but also partly a burning curiosity, wanting to see more of Celestial Security firsthand, to understand what Gabriela’s role had been there.