She frowned, torn. “That’s for you and Samuel to discuss,
mi corazón
.”
“But I want to know what
you
believe.”
“Why are you asking this now, after all these years?”
I avoided Sofia’s warm eyes, fiddling with my very fascinating shoelaces. “I’ve thought a lot about his motives, lately, because of the new book, and the wedding, and…and Caroline. She’s Mexican-American, like your family. I know how passionate Alonso is about preserving your heritage, and it would be a lot easier for her to understand and to fit in…”
“Oh, Kaye, asking me this puts me in an extremely difficult position, do you see?” She stooped over and plucked a blade of grass, wrapping it around her fingertips. “Alonso can be…difficult. He loves you, though. I won’t pretend he wouldn’t have been thrilled if Samuel had chosen a Hispanic woman to marry, for reasons that have nothing to do with you. Samuel didn’t care one lick about it.
Mija
, I do know this about my son: he has struggled for so long to find his place in this world, a label and a compartment. But you and Samuel together, you created your
own
compartment, your
own
culture.”
“So why did he leave it—us—for New York?”
Sofia sighed. “I’m not sure I truly understand his reasons, either. But whatever you may think, he is not a selfish man.”
I knew that about Samuel, and it was one of a number of reasons his leaving me hurt so badly. He wasn’t selfish—too generous, even. He had his private purposes other than the “my life is over” line of bull he fed me.
“He is also a poster child for order and logic. Chaos distresses him.” Sofia tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “But you, sweet child, are a messy whirlwind. You’ll jump in before you think and then try to sort it out once you’re already in the thick of it.”
“Samuel has always accused me of being rash.”
“Yes, but he loved that about you, too.”
“Not enough.” I couldn’t help but notice she’d used “love” in the past tense. Sofia’s grief-stricken eyes sought mine. Even now, the destruction of our marriage still hurt our family. There it was, that familiar ache in my chest.
Sometimes I wondered how Sofia could possibly be Danita’s mother. Danita was a realist. Sofia, however, lived in a state of perpetual optimism, whether she wished for sunshine, world peace, or for Samuel and me to shrink down to ten-year-olds so we could swap toys, hug, and make it all better. But she hadn’t been there to hear Samuel’s words before he left…
The afternoon it happened was burned on my brain, ugly and raw. I only pulled out his cliché-riddled words and turned them over in my hands like broken crystal when I felt particularly masochistic. His voice had been so collected, calm.
“It’s no use, Kaye. I’ve already made up my mind. I’m sorry, so sorry…I can’t be married to you anymore.”
He was there on top of the bed, threadbare gray T-shirt and athletic shorts clinging to his body, face down in his pillow. I remembered how his shoulder blades tensed beneath my hand, damp with sweat from his brutal morning jog. His running shoes were kicked off at the foot of the bed, like he’d just shucked them and collapsed. Samuel was in perfect shape from years of baseball and jogging, so he must have run for miles that morning to work up such exhaustion.
Even after he said the words again, explained how he hated feeling as though his life was already over at twenty-three, I didn’t believe them.
I blamed them on his stressful job. All summer, he’d worked horrendous hours which left him fatigued and miserable. Like most local papers, they pushed their underlings to death, allowing them the chance to “prove their mettle.”
I blamed his words on never seeing each other. Between my PR agency internship and his job, we were two ships passing in the night. I was usually asleep when he slipped into our bed. In the morning I crept quietly, showering and dressing, fighting the urge to wake my half-naked husband while I got ready for work.
I could still feel his lean, beautiful body moving over me, slick with sweat. It was as familiar as my own. I shuddered…
“Kaye, whatever you think, please don’t doubt that he loved you,” said Sofia.
Loved in past tense. A cynical little snort escaped—I couldn’t keep it in.
We hit the trail again, traveling further up the incline and eventually catching Molly and Hector. After a couple more miles, she set up her camera equipment on the rock steps at the base of Bridal Veil Falls. We sat and swung legs over slick steps. A sheath of cool mist sent a chill slithering up my spine.
“
Oye mamacita
, you cold?” A tattooed arm came around me—a different arm than the one I’d been recalling. Not the same, but still a comfort.
I smiled. “A bit.” Early May in the mountains was brisk, especially under the fall’s spray.
Hector zipped open my backpack and pulled out my fleece, tossing it over my shoulders. “What’s eating you, Cabral? Your face is all scrunched like someone cracked your favorite skis over their knee.” I hadn’t told Hector about my name change, and I didn’t feel like correcting him just now.
“I’m simply enjoying the ambiance of the place. Bridal Veil Falls is a favorite of mine.”
Hector’s eyes crinkled. “You did not just use the word ‘ambiance’ all snooty-like, did you?
Ahm
-bi-ance.”
I gave him a playful shove. “How else am I supposed to pronounce it?”
“You don’t. Normal people use words like atmosphere, surroundings, mood, or leave it out altogether.”
“Ambiance
is
a normal word.”
“Nah, it’s a snooty word. Hey! I got a joke for you.”
My smile was big now. Hector had a thing for “Hippie Tom” humor. “Shoot.”
“What do you call Hippie Tom with a haircut?”
“This sounds familiar.”
“Just go with me. You call him ‘the defendant.’ How do you know if Hippie Tom’s been to your house?”
“I dunno, how?”
“He’s still there.”
I laughed. I shouldn’t have expected any less. This was the guy who, when we exited the theater after seeing
Titanic
, shouted, “Hurry up, Kaye! There’s only enough cars in the parking lot for half of us!”
“It’s…pretty bad, Hector. You should hit the stand-up circuit—start at the next CU faculty meeting. Where do you find this stuff? The Internet?”
“I try,
mamacita
, I try. It’s worth trolling for hippie humor to see you smile.” He grabbed my hand, gave it a squeeze, and let it drop in my lap. Tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood up. “So, are you serious about doing the Longs Peak winter climb with us? You usually turn me down.”
“Are you serious about being my date for Danita and Angel’s wedding?”
“Yup. I assume it’s because dickhead has a date.” He grinned at me, his eyes glinting mischievously. “Hey, Kaye?”
“Hey, Hector?”
“How many hippies does it take to screw in a light bulb?”
I groaned. He’d told me this one a million times. “None, they screw in sleeping bags.”
His eyes widened in mock shock. “Gosh, no! I was gonna say ‘one to change it and three to relate to the experience.’ You and your filthy mind.”
I jumped up, stuffed my fleece in my backpack, and stretched my legs. It was time to hit the trail again. Smiling down at my friend, I brushed a hand over Hector’s sandpaper head. “Thanks, seriously. You are too good to me.”
“Well, I take what I can get.”
His words held more than simple playfulness. I was now more determined than ever to move on. Hector deserved better than “taking what he could get.” It should be given to him, whole-heartedly. I wasn’t in a position to do that now, but someday, once I got to the bottom of my past with Samuel, maybe I could be.
Chapter 6: Standing Waves
Large waves are often a sign of deep water.
Untitled
Draft 1.6
© Samuel Caulfield Cabral
The Tree House Sign
N
O
O
NE
P
REPARES
them for the rain.
Bear Creek bakes and crackles under a punishing sun. All summer long, Maria, Esteban, and Caulfield spend dusty hours in the backyard, constructing a tree house from scrap timber while Aspen sits between tree roots, playing with her Barbie doll. She’s cut its hair short, so now its bald plastic head has tufts of blond sticking out like river reeds.
Caulfield’s
padre
helps build when he can, and the frame and floorboards are sound enough to hold their weight. They hammer two-by-fours onto the frame to create walls while a clunky transistor radio cranks out pop tunes. The tree house is nearly complete, save for the north wall and a good coat of paint. Maria insists upon red. Esteban wants blue. Caulfield has no preference, as long as they don’t splatter paint all over the sign he has meticulously created:
Club Caulfield. Must be ten or older to enter.
Caulfield remembers seeing similar signs on night clubs in Boston while he watched laughing, brightly-dressed women and men stumble in and out of neon doors, along fractured pavement. He waited in the car, in his pajamas, for his mother to finish running errands, ducking low in the seat whenever one of the glittery people came too close. Long minutes passed. Then an hour. He feared his mother forgot him.
Hey there, Sky-Eyes
, she slurred when she returned,
see anything fun?
How could he tell her about the man throwing up in the gutter? The greasy-haired woman tumbling into a taxi cab, a single white breast hanging out of her shirt? His cheeks burned red. His mother climbed into the car and they peeled into the street, city lights blurring by his window. He pressed his forehead to the glass, feeling its coolness…
Caulfield likes the idea of using a sign on their tree house. It means he doesn’t have to hurt Aspen’s feelings to her face, and she’ll simply know she isn’t old enough to climb up the rope ladder.
Aspen annoys Maria and Esteban. Even Caulfield admits she’s grown whiny. The more they try to escape her, the tighter she clings. Thus, the sign outside of the tree house in looping red letters.
The others are certain it will do the trick. Caulfield, though, is not. Aspen is as stubborn as super glue.
And that is what leads to the three of them—Maria, Esteban, and Caulfield—doing a grueling set of sit-ups beneath the Coach’s stony gaze. Rain pelts the porch overhang, filling the silence with simple
plip-plop
s. Aspen sits at her father’s Birkenstock feet, soaked to the skin, sobbing and sneezing into her hands. Snot streams down her face and she wipes it on her T-shirt.
Caulfield hasn’t felt this horrible since his mother died.
“Forty-eight…forty-nine…fifty. Well, who’s going to tell me what happened?”
Each child mutely wheezes and puffs while Coach stares them down, one by one.
Esteban panics, trying to remember if it was, in fact, his idea to leave Aspen in the tree house without the rope ladder.
Maria stares defiantly back. Aspen got what she deserved. How were they supposed to know it would start thundering and lightning within the short span of two hours? It
never
rains in the summer, in Colorado, unless you’re up in the mountains. As far as she’s concerned, Aspen is being a baby.
Caulfield fumbles with his ball cap, guilt-ridden. The sun was shining when they went inside to watch a movie in their basement. They were only going to leave her up there for half an hour, but the movie was hilarious and he forgot.
How could he
forget
her out there?
They are all grounded, for sure. His aunt nearly burst a gasket when Coach showed up at their home, the man frantic because Aspen was supposed to have been home an hour ago. “How could you children be so irresponsible?” she chides in Spanish as she wraps a shaking Aspen in a towel. She allows Aspen’s father to drive them to exhaustion with sit-ups until someone confesses.
The Coach’s hazel eyes bore into Caulfield’s, strokes his bearded chin. Esteban drums his fingers on his knees. Maria traces circles on the muddy porch slats. Caulfield can’t take it anymore.
“It was my idea. I took the rope.”
Maria and Esteban exchange incredulous looks, relieved to be off the hook.
“No cop-out, you two. You went along with it.” He exhales and rubs his daughter’s cold-numbed cheek. She still hiccups from crying. “Go on inside, flower. Maria, Esteban, you too. I’ll deal with you in a minute.”
The three scramble out of the cool, mud-drenched air, and the screen door slams behind them. An anxious Caulfield is alone with the Coach. Aspen’s father pats the porch swing.
“Why don’t you hop up here and we’ll have a talk. Man to man.”