Redemption Song Page 4

  “It’s not going to affect my bottom line.”

  Sam nodded. He grabbed his jaw, massaging it hard, a nervous tell that Nick recognized all too well. There was something else Sam wanted to say, but he’d already talked himself out of it.

  “I’ll be sure to keep you posted,” Nick said.

  “All righty.” Sam stood and turned to go. “Tell Jimmy he’s in our thoughts.”

  *

  Jeréz, present day

  Like a zombie, Caía wandered in and out of shops.

  Moments of clarity had begun to creep in, like intrepid little beings in a brave new world. This morning was the first time she’d missed watching Nick walk his charge to school, and now she was leaning toward skipping the café altogether.

  Somehow, being here, breaking old habits, had already begun to erode Caía’s resolve. But that wasn’t all. Along with a bit of clarity came a sour dose of reality.

  Maybe, just maybe, after all, she had learned something during her thirty-six weeks of anger management intervention—even if her most positive results were only now making themselves known.

  It was entirely possible she’d simply needed to see him. Or maybe she was drawn to Nick Kelly for reasons she hadn’t yet determined. Certainly, Caía wasn’t anyone’s judge or jury.

  Neither was she anyone’s executioner. She didn’t even believe in the death penalty. She was just a crazy mother who couldn’t let go of her sun—and no, that wasn’t a misnomer. Jack was her sun. Her little boy had been the center of her universe.

  “Happiness can only exist in acceptance,” her therapist had said, in that decisive and Zen-like tone reserved for yoga instructors, AA sponsors, and mental health specialists.

  Well, screw that. Acceptance was something Caía never meant to embrace. Accept the inevitability of her son’s death? No way.

  On the other hand, she accepted these things: She would never again get to tousle Jack’s hair; she would never experience the joy of watching him grow into a man; she would never get to meet his first date . . . Was he the sort of guy who liked to dance? Would he have been a great husband and dad? Would he have become an architect some day? An engineer?

  No matter what you gave him, or how much it cost, Jack liked to disassemble things, figure out what made them tick, and put them back together again. Unfortunately, some things couldn’t be returned to working order.

  Like you, Jack.

  Unjustly, she’d been deprived of the rest of her son’s story. His life was a ravaged book, full of pages brutally wrenched out, leaving only tattered glimpses of what might have been . . . half a word here and there, staring out from behind decimated pages.

  Mulling over the past year of her life, the changes she had made—leaving Chicago so abruptly—Caía tried to imagine what should come next, after this . . . whatever this was.

  Unanchored by meaningful relationships, the future presented itself as a blank page—as blank as the pages of her son’s life book.

  Nick Kelly was only a man—not even all that frightening, if the truth be known. He looked inherently sad, smiling only when he addressed that little girl. Was it possible Jack’s death had devastated him as well? Had he come here to escape himself?

  Mulling over these questions, and more, she ducked into a small artisan shop where flamenco figurines teetered precariously at the edges of shelves. Some wore long, flowing polka-dotted skirts painted red and white. But more than the flamenco dolls, Caía loved the hand-painted fans.

  The shop owner, a leathery-skinned man dressed all in black with a sapphire-blue scarf tied about his neck, hurried over, pointing to a gold-leaf signature below the plaits of the black fan she held in her hand. “Mira,” he said. Look. “Éste . . .” He tapped his finger on the sticks and guards. “De sándalo,” he said emphatically. “Tajada a mano.” He enunciated the words clearly, as though he’d already pegged Caía for a tourist.

  Carved from sandalwood, the fan was signed by the artist, which might or might not have been the shop owner for all the pride registered on his face. He seized the fan from Caía’s hand and flicked it open with the grace and speed a South Side gangster might have used to brandish a knife. But instead of stabbing her with it, he merely fanned himself, stomping his feet like a flamenco dancer and batting his lashes like a virgin. Then, he returned the fan to Caía.

  He cut a dashing, if slightly clichéd figure—a Gitano wearing a bolero jacket and heels that went clack, clack. And maybe he was flirting a little bit, as well. Although Caía wasn’t the least bit attracted to him. Still, the effort made her smile.

  She ran a finger along the slightly raised edges of the signature. “Muy bonito,” she said, and the man rewarded her with a genuine smile. Mimicking the same fluid motion of his hand, Caía spread the fan’s plaited leafs to reveal pink roses painted on stained black wood. She brought the fan to her face, covering her smile, and fanning herself coyly before pausing to peek over the frilly edge. Imitating the shopkeeper, she batted her lashes playfully.

  “¡Olé, olé!” the shopkeeper said, and clapped his hands. Caía smiled. This time it wasn’t fake. In fact, for the first time since her son’s death, her lips curved of their own accord. So, of course, she bought the fan.

  Feeling lighter than she had in years, she thanked the shopkeeper, moving out of his shop and into the street, inhaling the citrusy scent of sunshine . . . and bread. She made her way across the street to the panadería to grab a fresh baguette.

  Her appetite still hadn’t returned, but she meant to tempt herself, hoping to recapture that joie de vivre she’d once had. It used to be that everything was a new adventure for Caía. Sushi. Zumba. Kayaking. Now, nothing held much appeal. The gazpacho yesterday had tasted bland, the little grains of spices like bits of glass against her tongue.

  Inside the panadería, the afternoon sun glinted off the edges of the counters. A short line of customers had already formed, waiting for their turns. By this hour of the day, the shops were all preparing to close for the afternoon, drawing in last-minute shoppers, and judging by the line, this bread was quite the thing.

  Drawn by the scents that escaped into the street after Caía opened the door, a few more people filtered in after her, until the shop was full and they were packed like sardines in a can. But for once, Caía didn’t mind. Content to stand and wait her turn, she shifted to make room, her nostrils flaring over the odors that accosted her here—warm stones and years and years of baked crust on the insides of the ovens, toasted butter, maybe a bit of sugar. All these were scents that reminded her of her mom. Recipes handed down by her grandmother—a woman she’d never met but wished she had. And yet, despite the tantalizing scents, there was no adrenaline rush, no thrill of anticipation—not until the woman at the front of the line turned and Caía saw her face. Like an old car battery with jumper cables attached, Caía’s heart gave a little start.

  For the smallest fraction of an instant, their eyes met and held. Caía searched for recognition, but there was none. Taking her bread purchase with her, the woman smiled as she made her way back through the crowd, out the door, turning slightly as she slid past Caía, forced to look away as she edged her way past waiting customers, into the amber-lit street. Ignoring the little voice inside that said, “Don’t do it.” Caía fell out of line and followed.

  Four

  I measure every grief I meet with narrow, probing eyes – I wonder if it weighs like mine – or has an easier size.

  – Emily Dickinson

  Stop. Slip inside a shop, Caía. Any shop. Distract yourself.

  The stubborn clip of her own heels along the cobbled sidewalk made Caía physically ill. Wholly unaware that Caía was pursuing her, Marta Herrera Nuñez stopped to chat with a woman outside a shop. Caía held back, pretending to read a sidewalk menu.

  Jamón ibérico. Papas bravas. Pimientos fritos.

  She could nev
er remember which was which: pimiento or pimienta. If the ones on this menu were fried, they must be the vegetable. It figured they would make the spicy stuff feminine. She rolled her eyes. She had been in Jeréz now for weeks and had yet to try any of the traditional dishes gracing nearly every tapas menu in the city. Occasionally, if she ordered a glass of wine, they surprised her with a dish, laying it down beside her beverage, but she had very little desire to celebrate this trip with food. Sorrow and guilt—yes, guilt—turned everything rancid in her mouth. However, guilt was a facet of her grief she didn’t dare explore—not yet. Like a moth trapped inside her head, something vile fluttered at the edges of her consciousness, something Caía didn’t want to think about . . .

  The woman Marta was speaking with nodded, then disappeared into her shop. She returned momentarily with a small brown sack, which she then handed to Marta. The two exchanged kisses, and Marta resumed her stroll down the street. Once again, Caía fell in behind her.

  So, is this what you’ve become? A stalker?

  That was one more thing to blame Nick Kelly for, because Caía was not behaving like herself. A sudden, inescapable burst of anger threatened her composure, immediately unseating her morning’s buoyancy. Why? Why are you doing this? Why? Why? Why?

  Just like that time in Caía’s fourth-grade class, she feared she would melt to the ground and lay sobbing over the unfairness of it all. But she didn’t. She kept walking, her gaze shifting from the lovely cobbled patterns on the ancient sidewalk to the woman who remained oblivious to her pursuit. A citrusy perfume wafted on the air. Row upon row of orange trees lined the city streets, rich with green foliage and low-lying fruit. No one paid the oranges any mind. Within reach, it would be easy to pluck one as she passed. Like the petite brunette walking ahead of her, the temptation was too much to bear.

  Of course, Caía had nothing against Marta. If anything, she felt sorry for the woman. And, really, the only danger she was in was for Caía to shake her hard enough to rattle sense into her head. What, in God’s name, are you doing with that man?

  Poor, poor Marta. She seemed so vulnerable walking with her shopping basket in hand and that long, long baguette tucked beneath one arm. She didn’t even realize Caía had followed her into the city mercado, and once inside, Caía’s self-recrimination intensified.

  You really are a stalker, she told herself.

  Happy, Caía? Get a grip. Go home.

  It was nearly 2:00 p.m. now. The stalls were closing, but if you followed the scent of fish into the heart of the mercado, there were no empty stalls here, not yet. It was easy to imagine why: Fish stayed fresh for only so long. Of course, the fishmongers would wish to sell their catches as quickly as possible. Caía felt that same sense of urgency as she watched Marta stop to examine a display of fish on ice. Organized in neat little rows, with heads and tails intact and mouths agape, a multitude of tiny black eyes winked at passersby. She hovered close enough to eavesdrop. “Where is your brother?” Marta asked, in Spanish.

  “No está aquí,” the vendor replied, and Marta muttered something cross beneath her breath, peering about. With a sigh, she turned back to the fishmonger, clearly frustrated to be dealing with him instead of the brother.

  “¿Hay atún?”

  Sober-faced, holding a wicked-looking blade at his side, the fishmonger scowled at Marta, evidently no more pleased to be dealing with her as she was with him. “Claro,” he said.

  “¿Pero fresco?”

  “Mujer, ¿no tienes ojos en la cara?”

  “Sí, Jose Luis, pero también tengo nariz.” Marta tapped at the side of her nose, and the two launched into a heated discourse that, to the best of Caía’s understanding, was a clear indication that their feud was not new. Marta impugned the freshness of his fish, he told her to shop somewhere else, she said she would tell his brother, and he invited her to leave—not so politely.

  Caía hid her smile behind her hand as the fishmonger dismissed Marta with a wave of his hand. “Vete a la mierda,” the man said, and Marta drew her baguette like a sword.

  “Hijo de puta,” she countered, and Caía blushed over their interaction—insults delivered so easily. And yet it seemed that none of their discourse was unexpected or unusual, and he moved on to the next person in his line with aplomb, a young mother, bouncing a toddler on her hip.

  As passionately as the two had spoken, the battle was immediately forgotten, and Caía marveled at it ending so easily. They’d spoken their minds and held nothing back. The woman next in line didn’t even acknowledge the argument and smiled as she asked Jose Luis for bacalao.

  There was something about the way the mother’s arm curled so possessively about her child that gave Caía a pang of grief. For an instant, she sensed a phantom weight on her own hip, a sensation that was immediately ripped away, and her throat thickened at the renewed sense of loss.

  It took her a moment to recover, and then her eyes once again sought Marta.

  With the vendor forgotten, Marta had moved on to the next stall, examining almejas and mejillones. The mollusks were shut tight, prepared for a fight. Suddenly Marta turned to look at Caía, her brows twitching slightly.

  Half out of embarrassment, half out of nervousness, Caía blurted in Spanish, “Perdóname, señora. ¿Recomiendas el pesado?”

  Marta furrowed her brow. “Qué?”

  Wholly uncomfortable now, Caía gave a nod toward the fishmonger, who was bartering with his new customer, to far better results. The young mom nodded enthusiastically, smiling as Jose Luis plucked up a piece of fish to gut while she watched.

  “Ah, yes,” Marta said, with sudden understanding. “Eres Americana, ¿no?”

  “Sí.”

  Marta’s doleful eyes crinkled at the corners, managing to look both happy and sad at the same time. She peered over at the fishmonger, and back. “He is stubborn. But you say pesado, and I think you mean pescado, ¿verdad?” When Caía managed to look confused, Marta reshuffled the items in her hands and persevered to explain, “You say to me, ‘recomiendas el pesado?’ and this means, ‘you recommend the stubborn.’ But I think you have meant the fish, not the man, yes?”

  The difference of a single letter.

  Heat rose into Caía’s cheeks. “Yes,” she said. “I did mean the fish. My Spanish is rusty, I’m sorry,” she said.

  Marta smiled. “No, it is good.”

  “Gracias.”

  “And his fish is also good,” Marta said. “But his attitude is how you say? Atrocious. I do not know how his brother leaves him to deal with customers. Men are infuriating, are they not?”

  Caía smiled. “They certainly can be.” But infuriating was the least libelous thing she had to say about Nick Kelly. Only now that she had Marta’s full attention, his name refused to come to her lips. She felt tongue-tied and shy, uncertain what to say next. In fact, for the first time since her son’s accident, Caía dared to consider the unthinkable possibility of Nick Kelly’s innocence. What if she spoke out of turn? She might ruin his life. As he’d ruined hers.

  Thank the woman and walk away.

  Some strange moral imperative kept Caía’s feet rooted to the spot and her mouth shut. She couldn’t prove Nick’s culpability, but she felt obligated to protect Marta and her daughter.

  Besides, there was something about Marta Herrera Nuñez that made Caía long to rush into her arms . . . and cry. “Your English is very good,” Caía offered.

  Marta smiled. “Me casé con un Americano.” She’d married an American. “My husband is from Chicago,” she offered in English, with nearly perfect diction, and then she proceeded to unfold her shopping basket to prepare it for its burden. Uncertain what more to say, Caía watched her, reluctant to leave. She was grateful when Marta asked, “You have been to this city?”

  “Chicago?”

  “Sí.”

  “Well . . . I suppose, most people pas
s through at some point. It’s a big city.”

  Marta turned her full attention on Caía then, her chocolate-brown eyes inviting Caía to spill her guts. It would have been so easy for her to brush Caía off and continue with her shopping, but everything about Marta, from her body language to the directness of her gaze, invited Caía to linger.

  “Yes? And what about you?”

  Caía shrugged, looking away. “Well, yes . . . I did live . . . there . . . for a while . . . my son . . .” She peered down at her feet. “He died.”

  Marta’s fingers lifted to her lips. Her eyes slanted sadly, and for an instant Caía feared she would burst into tears.

  “I am so sad to hear this,” Marta said, and a familiar knot rose in her throat. It had been months now since she had spoken so openly about Jack’s death, and she swallowed the emotions that rose to choke her breath away.

  Marta’s eyes locked with hers, intensely expressive. “I’m so sorry. No mother should outlive her children,” she said. “It is a terrible thing to lose a husband, and more terrible yet to lose a child. What is your son’s name?”

  Is, she’d said. Is.

  Marta’s English was exceptional, although tenses were notoriously difficult. Even so, Caía was comforted by the present tense of her question, even realizing it must be a mistake. Wholly grateful for the opportunity to speak about Jack in the present, she said, “Jack.”

  “In my language, I think it is Joaquín.”

  “Joaquín?” Caía said, testing the name. She liked the sound of it.

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  Together, they drifted away from the vendor, neither quite prepared to end the conversation, and for a long interval the two women stood staring at one another, awkwardly, though familiar in a way Caía couldn’t explain. Whatever it was she’d been searching for when she’d set out to follow Marta, this wasn’t it, but this was something—something Caía hadn’t realized she’d needed so badly until this moment, faced with the undiluted empathy of a stranger.