Act of Betrayal (17 page)

“Your father's what?” She sounded irritated.

“His diary. I understand he kept one.”

“Britt, that was thirty years ago. If there was such a thing I certainly wouldn't remember it now.”

“Where are my fathers things?” The few photos I have came from my Cuban grandmother and Aunt Odalys.

“Whatever there was,” she said quietly, “is long gone.”

“Why?” I cried out indignantly. “Didn't you ever think about me, that I would want…”

“I thought of nothing but you.” Her cheeks reddened. “He's the one who didn't think! Of you, or me. He walked out on us both. What did he care?” She glanced toward the Waterford clock on a shelf. “I'm really busy right now. I wasn't expecting you. You should have called first, Britt.” She tried to hustle me toward the door. Planting my feet firmly in the deep pile of her carpet, I refused to be hustled.

“I tried, but you ignored my messages. I'm not leaving without answers.” We stared at each other like combatants thrust into the arena together.

“You barge in here,” she said, voice rising, “spouting ancient history about which you know nothing, itching for an argument…” Nostrils flaring, anger mounting, she ran out of words. For a moment I thought she might try to physically push me out the door. Instead she sank with weary grace into a wicker peacock chair. The fen back of the chair framed her patrician face, her robe draped just so as she reached for a cigarette in an enamel box on the end table. Always she had been just my mother. Would I ever see her that way again?

“Be careful, Britt,” she said, her expression ironic. “You may get exactly what you want, and you may not like it.” Her composure regained, she lit her long brown cigarette, then looked up. “I really must get to work. I'm coordinating plans for the fall fashion shows.”

“I hate surprises.” I spoke carefully. “How do you think I felt meeting a man like Reyes, never knowing that he knew me and my father, or you? I felt so stupid. I learn more about total strangers in twenty minutes on the job than I know about my own parents. I am not leaving until we discuss this.” I plopped down on her soft flowered sofa.

She stood and walked to the window, staring out into the darkness that had fallen.

“It all happened so long ago.” She spoke softly and I strained to hear. “I wanted to forget it. It was a different life, a different rime, a different Miami. None of it has anything to do with you.” She began to pace back and forth between the window and the sofa where I sat. Each time she neared the window she gazed out into the night as though searching for something that wasn't there.

“I had to put it all behind me. Why do you persist in opening old wounds? Why should you care about your father? He didn't care about us. He didn't give a shit about me or you.”

“Tell me.”

“What do you want to know?” she said flatly.

“What did you do with his things?”

“There wasn't that much. What I didn't toss I gave away.” She shrugged. “I burned the letters.”

“Why?”

“Britt, the son of a bitch abandoned me and my three-year-old daughter without a word. No note, no good-bye. For a long time I thought he took my life with him.”

“Why, what happened between you?”

“That's what I asked myself until I hated him. He was the proverbial husband who went out for a loaf of bread and never came back. Not a hint. I had no idea where he was, if he intended to come home, or how I'd pay the bills if he didn't.”

“Maybe he planned to be bade.”

“Sure,” she said, her voice brittle. “I reported him missing, but the police didn't take it seriously when they heard who he was and who he ran with.”

“And who was that?”

“Your friend Reyes, Jorge Bravo”—she drew on her cigarette—” and a man named Winslow who always seemed to be around in those days. All sorts of secretive, furtive people were in and out of our lives then. A pilot named Fiorini. I overheard them talk about covertly flying over the radar or under the radar, I don't know”—she shrugged impatiently—” dropping medical supplies, leaflets, weapons. Once they left on a boat. He said he'd be home that night, but didn't show up for three days and I was frantic. When they got back they talked about outrunning the Coast Guard on some mission and having to hide out in the Bahamas. Your father seemed to think that Cuba would be free soon and our lives would get back to normal.” She sounded almost wistful. “Then he walked out the door on his way to some meeting and never came home again.

“Next thing I heard was that he was in prison in Cuba. He had always told me that if anything happened to him or if I had any problems, to call Winslow, but that phone number had been disconnected. Reyes and Bravo were nowhere to be found. I asked everywhere for help. None came. Then I heard he'd been executed. There were radio reports, a story in the newspaper. Bravo came by months later to pay his respects. I slammed the door on him.”

“What about Reyes?”

She turned to gaze out the window again. “Oh, he reappeared as well. Courtly, suave, and full of secrets like the others. Adventurers,” she spat. “People like them don't care who they hurt. Their lives are never normal, they are drawn to trouble. Danger is an addiction. They love it. As if there is not enough trouble and pain in the world. They made me sick, with their love of intrigue and egotistical dreams of making a difference.” She stubbed out her cigarette, lit another, then lifted her eyes to mine through a haze of smoke.

When justifying my job to her I often talked about making a difference. Now I knew why she always took offense.

“It certainly made a difference in my life,” she said sarcastically. “You have to understand, I was eighteen when we met and engaged to a young man my family loved. His parents and mine were best friends. Ironically, what attracted me most to Tony was his quiet strength and his strong sense of commitment. How could I know that what I interpreted as quiet strength was really secretiveness and that the commitment was an obsession that didn't include me? My family was furious when I gave up everything to marry Tony.

“They were right,” she added crisply. “He left me broke, betrayed, with a child. They never let me forget it. I never trusted another man. Why do you think I've been alone all these years?” Her blue-eyed stare was bold. “No matter, who would want you when you have a small child?”

So I am also to blame for her being alone, I thought. But I didn't object. She was talking at last. I wouldn't have interrupted for the world.

“So there I was, a widow, too stubborn to ask my estranged family for help. Never able to experience the closure of a final good-bye and burial. Do you know how important that is, Britt? More of those people kept being released from prison, coming back from Cuba or turning up, crawling out from under Lord knows what rocks. A steady stream of strangers, scary men dropping by at all hours. People who went by names like the Strange One and El Tigre. And then there were the FBI agents! They wanted to fill in their days and their time sheets and justify their existences by hanging around, sitting in my kitchen, asking me questions, even though they knew I knew nothing. It all replayed over and over again until I finally broke down. I was sick to death of it all and didn't want to hear anymore about it. I still don't.” She paused, lost in thought.

“These earrings, the ones you gave me.” I caught the smooth gold of one between my thumb and the knuckle of my index finger. “Where did you get them?”

Her eyes narrowed, focusing on me. “You wore them when you went to see Reyes?” she whispered.

I nodded.

“I should have known better than to give them to you! I want them back.” Her voice rose. “Now! Give them to me!”

Lower lip quivering, I removed the earrings and dropped them into her outstretched hand. My hand shook. Hers didn't. The gleam of gold caught the artificial light for an instant. Then she dropped them into her pocket.

She went to her desk and began to flip briskly through some fashion layouts. “The only way I was able to hang on to my sanity was to try to forget it all.” She turned and studied me over her shoulder, an odd look in her eyes. “I could have done it, if not for you. You're the only proof that it all really happened.”

I stared back, her words scalding me. Like the scary strangers and the lazy FBI agents who had tormented her, I just wouldn't go away.

I lumbered to my feet, numb and clumsy. “I have a story to write,” I murmured. She did not call after me as I walked out of her apartment and quietly closed the door.

I drove back to the paper on automatic pilot, feeling orphaned and alone, the familiar crackle from the police scanner comforting as it washed over me. Work, as always, was the best anesthetic. Taking a deep breath, I began returning messages. The boys' families had joined forces and had set their first meeting for Friday night. I promised to be there.

Lottie picked up the phone back in the darkroom and demanded to know where I'd disappeared to that afternoon. “Don't ask,” I said. “I went to see my mother and my aunt. Separately, of course. God forbid they should ever find themselves in the same room. We are so dysfunctional. My mother has an elephant in her living room and pretends it isn't there. Trip over the trunk and she says, ‘What? What elephant? What are you talking about?' Ask my aunt about the elephant and she says, ‘Ask your mother.'” “You can't belong to them,” Lottie cooed soothingly. “You musta been switched at birth. At least you ain't blessed with all that many of the critters. You ought to try surviving one of my family reunions. It's like having a bowling alley in your brain. Some people ain't happy till they're miserable.”

I told her about my encounter with Gretchen. “Are we the only people in the world who have no sex lives?” I sighed.

“What do you mean we?” she said smugly.

“Oh, no, Lottie, don't tell me? He's not back.”

“Answer me one question, Britt. Just one. Could it be possible that Santana's name is not on the jail log ‘cuz he's being held incommunicado, cooperating with cops who are arranging to put him into the witness protection program?”

“No. Shit. Is that what he told you? I mean it's plausible, but all his stories are plausible. He's a lawyer. He's always got some explanation that makes it seem possible that he is telling the truth.”

“That's the hell of it,” she agreed. “But this is absolutely his last chance. He swears he's a changed man.”

“What's he gonna do, start cross-dressing?”

Silence followed. I'm dragging her down into misery with me, I thought guiltily. “Hell, it is possible,” I said. “Anything's possible. But you deserve better. Did you get your hundred fifty-seven dollars back?” I asked accusingly.

“He didn't have any cash on him, left his wallet back at the office, in his briefcase.”

“I rest my case.”

“Maybe I shoulda frisked him,” she conceded. “But he's making it all up to me. I'm seeing him tonight, and next week we're taking one of those day cruises to Freeport on the
Gettaway.
It sails at dawn, fab food, a casino, entertainment, dancing, swimming, sunning, with dinner and a nightclub show on the way back No phones, no faxes, no beepers. I'm really looking forward to it.”

What could I say? She sounded happy.

I returned Hal's call next, not expecting him to answer, but he caught it on the second ring.

An inquest had been set into the death of Ricky Mumper, the burglar Hal killed in his apartment.

“Will you be in court? Since you covered the story, I hoped you would be.”

“I'm not the courthouse reporter,” I said, “but I'll try. Are you hanging in there?”

“Sure,” he said jauntily. “No problem, but you sound down. What's wrong?”

Did I sound that mopey? “Family stuff; you know, my mother.” It sounded so trivial as it came out of my mouth. Hell, he was grappling with life-and-death issues, facing a court appearance that could brand him a killer.

“Want to have a drink later?”

“No, I'm working “I suddenly felt weepy. Work is my shield, my refuge from life's battles. Was I so bummed that a kind word from a stranger could disarm me and draw tears? She has finally done it, I thought. Her years of hard work have paid off. My mother has finally succeeded in turning me into a psych case.

“You can't work all the time. Maybe you need somebody to talk to.”

He sounded sweet, but I was in no mood … I remembered the curling hairs on his chest and the lean belly … and his blood-stained living room. Did I want to date an ax killer? What would my mother think? Wait, I thought, who the hell cares what my mother thinks? Or my editors? Gretchen is one of my editors. Do I need her approval? I think not.

“Where do you want to meet?”

We decided on the 1800 Club, in an hour.

I blew my nose, visited the ladies' room, and dug out the cosmetics stashed in my locker. I mascaraed my lashes, daubed on some blusher, applied red lipstick in a shade called Torrid, and brushed my hair.

He was waiting near the door, seated at the bar in the dark, watching for me. “I was afraid you wouldn't show,” he said, taking my arm and steering me with a comforting masculine presence to a table in the back. “That you'd get tied up on some story.”

Handsomer, taller, and better groomed than I remembered, he was fully awake this time, fully dressed. And he hadn't just hacked up a stranger.

“Now,” he said, closing his hand over mine across a small table in a dark room, as Sting sang “Fields of Gold” in the background, “tell me all about it.” His smile was engaging, his eyes earnest. “Does your mom want to move in with you? Has she imposed a curfew? Or are you grounded?

“Hey, you're smiling. Can't be all that bad. Want me to write her a note on your behalf about what a good, beautiful, and talented daughter she has?”

“Let's not talk about my mother,” I said wanly. “Tell me all about you.”

He worked at an easy-listening radio station that played middle-of-the-road music. He told me about the new producer who spilled a thirty-two-ounce Slurpee into the control room console his first day on the job, the staggering cost of repairs, and the dreaded dead air. Small talk with him was effortless.

The place was nearly empty. We slow danced, and I fit easily into his arms. It was soothing, being held against his strong, warm body, moving effortlessly to “Because the Night” by 10,000 Maniacs. No awkward silences, or maybe I was too numb to notice.

Real life has a way of nipping at your heels. Nothing comfortable lasts. “I have to go home and walk my dog,” I finally confessed, regretfully breaking the spell.

“Alone? At this hour?”

“Do it all the time.” I waited for the words I knew would come.

“I'll walk him with you. I'm a pro. When I was eleven, I was in the business. Brushed, washed, and walked half a dozen pooches for our neighbors. Never met a dog I didn't like, except one. A black Chow named Mao.” He shook his head and winced. “Mao the Chow. Whenever I turned my back he'd try to tear a piece outta my rump. God, did I hate that dog.”

The image evoked thoughts of another schoolboy entrepreneur, young Charles Randolph with his boat-cleaning business.

I forced the phantom from my mind, at least for tonight. “How did you know my dog is a black Chow?” I joked.

Hal watched protectively as I got into my car, then followed me home to the Beach in his blue Nissan Maxima.

My landlords and neighbors had all retired. The security light must have burned out, and our two rows of garden apartments were enveloped in an inky sea of darkness. We spoke in whispers. Hal waited as I tossed my things inside and brought Bitsy out on her leash. The courtyard was as black as the bottom of a well. I grasped the leash with one hand and held on to Hal with the other as we made our way to the lighted street. Suddenly something lunged at us from the shadows behind the banana trees.

“What the…?” Hal blurted. I gasped, heart pounding. Bitsy wagged her tail furiously.

“Hi, Britt! What were you working on so late?”

“Seth! You scared me. What are you doing up?”

“I was reading in my room, heard your car.” He gave Hal a curious once-over. Seth looked even younger than twelve in the dark. “What are you doing?”

“Walking Bitsy,” I said, putting my finger to my lips to shush him.

“Good, I'll go with you.” He fell into step beside us.

Hal and I exchanged glances. Wide awake, full of youthful exuberance, eager for company and newspaper talk, Seth would be impossible to shake.

“Oh, no, you don't,” I whispered urgently. “I don't want your grandparents waking up and finding your bed empty.” I didn't mention the missing boys, but thought about them.

Seth was introducing himself to Hal and recognized his name. “Hey, you're the guy who whacked the burglar, right? Did you ax him what he was doing there? Heh, heh, heh.”

“That's enough,” I whispered furiously. “You get back inside.”

Reluctantly, he went, and we strolled hushed South Beach streets under a silver sliver of a moon.

“Never took you for the toy poodle type,” Hal said quietly.

“It was an accident. She's really a police dog.” I explained how I inherited Bitsy from a close friend, a policewoman killed by a sniper during the riots.

“You are right out there on the front line,” he said. “Maybe that's why I feel so comfortable with you after what happened. You're out there, you understand what the combat zone is like.”

There was something in his voice. I looked at him hard in the soft glow from a streetlight.

“How are you doing, really, Hal?”

“Not the happiest of times.” He tried to sound casual, watching a passing car. “You know it was different when that burglar was a frightening stranger in the dark, intruding on my space. Your only thought is survival. That and good old-fashioned outrage. Immediately after, you have this rush, relief that you got through it and nailed the bad guy. Then you find out he was a twenty-seven-year-old man with a name and a life and a family.”

I squeezed his hand as we walked on in silence. “He put himself at risk,” I said finally. “He made the choice. He took the chance. You were asleep in your own bed. Alone.” I smiled. “You protected yourself and who knows how many future victims from pain and grief, or worse.”

“I don't know whether that's true or not, Britt, but thanks.”

Back at my front door, I fished the key from my pocket in the dark. He seemed reluctant to leave.

“Want to come in?” I whispered.

“You sure it's all right?”

I drew him inside, scanning the shadows for Seth, who I suspected was watching, and softly closed the door behind us.

He followed as I flicked on the lights and went into the kitchen. He stood in the doorway, eyes troubled, as I fed the dog and Billy Boots, who glared at the stranger from beneath a chair until I filled his dish.

“You see what people do to each other every day. How do you live with it?”

Pouring us each a glass of wine, I hesitated and studied his earnest face. “I don't know,” I murmured, realizing that, at the moment, it was true. We took our drinks back into the living room and settled on the couch.

“When the cops emptied the guy's pockets,” Hal said, “he had a grocery list and a card in his wallet, a reminder that he had a dental appointment. I know it sounds crazy, but I keep wondering if anybody called to cancel, like maybe I should do something…” He shook his head, as though bewildered by his own thoughts.

“His record reflected a long history of rip-offs. That's what he did all his life. That's what he was gonna keep doing the rest of his life. What if, instead of you, it had been a young woman who encountered him in her apartment in the middle of the night? What would have happened to her?”

He traced the line of my jaw with a gentle touch, tilted my chin, and kissed my lips. My arms encircled his neck, drawing his face down to mine to prolong the moment, as though I was a Sahara wanderer quenching a desert thirst.

Wanting more, I settled for resting against his shoulder, his arm around me as we talked.

“My parents are embarrassed,” he said sadly. “Because my name was in the paper, after it happened. I didn't expect that.” He sipped his wine. “I didn't expect a lot of things. Since the … incident, the guys at work call me Killer or the Executioner. They think it's funny. People I hardly know slap me on the back and congratulate me—when this is not something to be congratulated about. It's a tragedy.” He turned to look at me. “A girl I dated, nothing serious, is so turned off by it that she won't even talk to me. Another woman, at the station, is so turned on by it she wants to come home with me and have sex right where it happened. That's what she said.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Christ. I didn't want it to happen, Britt. I hit a rabbit once with my car, picked it up, and rushed it to the vet. I'm not some natural-born killer. How am I gonna live with this?”

He looked away, but not before I saw that his eyes were shiny with tears. This man was more wounded than I was.

“You did the best you could,” I whispered, reaching for him. “If you weren't a good person you wouldn't feel this way. You did what you had to do. As for parents, we shouldn't ever let them hurt us.”

I found his lips to comfort him, or was it me? He responded and our anguish became passion. Our bodies burned to comfort each other. His kisses heated whatever reservations I had into a molten need; our growing excitement swept us from the couch to the carpeted floor. My hair cascaded across his face as I was enveloped in his arms, sinking, his wordless murmuring in my ear. What began slowly became a fervent tugging, unbuttoning, unhooking, unsnapping, and unzipping as our bodies struggled to entwine. I expected a sizzle as our bare flesh met. I wasn't disappointed.

“No, no,” I said abruptly, raising up on one elbow. Hal hesitated.

“Not you,” I mumbled, pulling him to me feverishly. “Go away,” I told Bitsy, who was slobbering a wet kiss on my left eye.

Hal laughed in relief and resumed his tender touching of my most secret places. This is right, I thought. The passion and the wine anesthetized the pain I felt for the missing boys' parents and for Alex, and the Haitian crash victims, Jos£ Caliente, and all of us dead too soon at any age.