The Cartel (26 page)

She’d looked her friend in the eyes while drinking a cup of coffee and said, “At least when I wake up in the morning I feel good about myself, knowing that I have nothing to do with cheating or lying, killing or stealing. Antonio Espinoza cannot wake up with that same satisfaction. And I may live the life of a poor fool, but I’ll find every piece of gold I could ever dream of waiting for me in the Kingdom of God.”

“Maybe so, but you’re still a fool.”

Marta wondered now if her friend had been right, all these years.

After she had returned to the States, she’d written Antonio a letter explaining why she and her and son couldn’t live with a man who felt that lying to his wife and family was acceptable. She also made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that he wasn’t to contact her or Alex. She considered him dead because of his blatant dishonesty. She knew it was harsh, but there could be no other way. And now she wondered, as she looked into her son’s eyes, if she had to be as harsh with him as well.

"Sit down." She patted him on the knee as he sat down on the tattered, green sofa. "There's something I need to tell you, and I should have done so long ago. If I had, maybe you wouldn't be in this mess."

Alex gazed at her with a baffled look on his face, "What is it?"

"I don't know how to tell you this, so I'm just going to say it." Marta paused as anxiety caused her adrenaline to flow. "Your father wasn't a hero who died trying to save people in that earthquake."

"What?"

Marta could hear the amazement in his voice. His eyes grew round as he stared at her in disbelief. “In fact, he is not dead. He is still alive today.”

A gravelly sound escaped from the back of Alejandro’s throat. "What are you telling me?"

Marta told him bits and pieces of the ugly story. She left out the part about when she’d stayed with Antonio after Lydia had died, and how she’d planned to move Alejandro and herself to Colombia to live with him until she’d discovered that living a life with Antonio would be living a lie to her people. She also left out the part about when Antonio visited so many years ago.

“Please understand, Alejandro, I couldn’t stay with your father. If I’d known he was married, I never would’ve been with him in the first place.”

Alex held up his hand. "I don't want to hear anymore. I can't believe this. You lied all this time, and he deserted me. You say he even knows where we lived and used to send us money. But he never came to see me. What kind of man is he? I don't understand this. You mean we don't have to be living here in this dump, but we do because you are too proud to live an
ugly life
, as you say—taking money from a guilty man who took you into his bed and left you to this horrible life where you work like a slave?"

The words sliced through Marta’s heart like a jagged dagger. She bowed her head, choking back her tears. She reached over to hug Alex. "It wasn't like that at all. Your father and I loved each other very much. It’s that sometimes people can’t get past their differences.”

"He certainly didn't love you enough, and I can see he didn't care about me."

"Please, don't say that. Please."

"I don't want to know anymore. I'm going out for awhile." He stormed out of the door without looking back.

Marta ran to the door, crying in desperation, "I'm sorry, Alex. Come back. Don't go, please don't go." It was too late. She collapsed in the old rocking chair next to the fireplace, the same one she’d used to rock Alex to sleep in for many years. Her heart ached as she longed for those days once again.

She'd never felt so alone before, not even when she’d left Mexico for the first time. She knew she'd made a mistake telling Alex the truth. But the biggest mistake, she now realized, had been keeping the truth from him all along. Her lies were as bad as Antonio’s.

She longed to hold Alex and comfort the hurt she knew he was feeling, but she had no idea where he'd gone so she rocked herself rhythmically in the old rocking chair, until she finally drifted into a restless sleep.

Javier thought over Emilio’s proposition. He had made some good points. Maybe it
was
about time the business did expand. How could Antonio refute the case for making so much more money? After all, Antonio had always been greedy; but when Marta left him that second time, making it very clear that she and her son wanted nothing to do with him, Antonio had become hungrier for the almighty dollar. It was as if, in his mind, only buying all the goods in the world could make him happy.

Javier shook his head as he sat behind his desk going over his financial statements. It seemed his second wife shared Antonio’s philosophy, forever buying something, decorating this or that. She claimed to be bored at all times, and her complaining was beginning to drive him crazy. Her looks once akin to Sophia Loren had changed drastically, as she’d never lost thirty of the fifty pounds she’d gained during her pregnancy with their son, Stefan, who sadly enough had not brought their family together as she’d insisted he would. Instead his birth had driven quite a wedge between the two of them, which had begun the day she’d won the argument to send Bella and Miguel away, and now she constantly nagged him to have another child.

“That is really what we need, Carlotta. The children we already have, you send away to expensive schools. And you say you want another one?”

“I know why you won’t have any more children,” she remarked as she paced back and forth, her hands on her richly clad hips. “It’s because of Stefan. You’re afraid I’ll have another retard.”

“You selfish woman,” he yelled. “How
can
you speak of our son that way? He is not retarded. He’s deaf. You certainly ought to know the difference, because there is a huge one. He is anything but stupid. He’s extremely intelligent. I’ve spoken to his instructors at your expensive school for the deaf. They say that he is bright, and very popular with all the children and teachers.”

“What is your complaint then?”

“My complaint is that you, Carlotta, are an uncaring mother.”

“I certainly don’t see any of our children complaining. Not even your own sweet Isabella who, from everything I’ve been told, is very happy she’s in France.”

“The only reason those children like it better where they are is because they don’t have to live with you. Unfortunately, I do. I wish you’d find
me
some school to go to!”

“That shouldn’t be too hard to arrange. I’ll send you to the school for the mentally incompetent.”

“That’s it. Get out of here! You will not speak to me like that in my own home.”

“Fine, Lord and Master.” She’d stormed out of his office and hadn’t spoken to him in days. This suited Javier fine. He had come to realize by now that the biggest mistake he’d ever made in his life was marrying her. Pedro had been right about Javier thinking with the wrong head when he’d put that damn ring on her finger. Lately, that particular head didn’t seem to get much exercise, anyway. His reasons for marrying her turned out to be basically futile ones, except for the son their marriage produced.

He loved his son as much as he loved the estranged Bella, that is to say, with every fiber of his being. In a way, he was glad that Stefan was living in the United States, at a school in Texas where he was receiving the attention and special skills he would need, in order to make it in such a difficult world.

As he was finishing going over his reports, Javier heard the front door open and the sound of Miguel’s voice. “Hello, I’m home.”

Of course, Carlotta had stormed out of the house to go shopping, so Javier went to greet both him and Pedro, who had always been fond of the boy.

“Miguelito. Ah, look at you.” Javier smiled and held his arms out wide to embrace the young man he thought of as his own—and a man of God at that.

“Papa, I missed you,” Miguel responded wrapping his arms around Javier. “And I missed you, too,” Miguel told Pedro.

“Come, sit down. You must be exhausted,” Pedro remarked as he slapped Miguel on the back.

“I am,” Miguel replied. He walked into the living room with them and sat down on the white leather sofa Carlotta recently purchased. “Where’s Mama?”

“Out spending my money.”

“Some things never change,” he laughed. “I’ve missed this place so much.”

“How long are you staying?” Pedro asked, sitting down in a chair across from him.

“Not long. They’re expecting me in a few days at St. Peter’s Church. Believe me, if I could, I’d stay longer. But the Lord doesn’t like to be kept waiting,” Miguel said with a chuckle. “I wish Bella were here.”

“We all do,” Javier replied.

“And Stefan, too.”

“Yes, but Christmas will be here before we know it, and we’ll all be together again,” Javier said.

“But you’re surely going to see Bella before then,” Miguel replied.

“I hadn’t planned on it, unless she’s making a surprise visit I’m not supposed to know about.”

“I thought you’d be going to see her next month, when she competes at the horse trials in Italy.”

“What?” Javier’s mouth flew open. Isabella had never said a single word to him about a major horse trial event. She’d always let him know about her big events in the past, and he always made a huge effort to attend each one of them. He knew of her Olympic dreams and he supported her completely. He couldn’t understand why she hadn’t made him aware this time. Yes it was true that they weren’t as close as they once were, but she’d always kept him abreast of how she was progressing with her riding. He sighed heavily.

“You mean, you didn’t know?”

“No, we didn’t,” said Pedro, answering for Javier, seeing the shock and disappointment in the old man’s eyes.

“Oh, Papa, I’m so sorry. I assumed she’d written you about it when she wrote me. Once I received her letter, I called to let her know I would be coming back here, and going to work for the Church. She sounded a little upset. I was certain that she would want you to be there.”

“I don’t know. I guess I don’t know my daughter as well as I once thought I did.”

No one said anything. Javier looked out the large bay window to what now appeared to be an ominous sea. He knew Bella had drifted from his life, but he’d hoped he’d remained in her heart as she had in him. He’d rather die than consider that he’d lost his daughter forever.

Rosa and Felicia walked beside Antonio, each holding a hand on either side of him. There was a light drizzle along the Seine, whose beauty had always entranced Rosa, inspiring her to draw it many times. Shortly after her mother’s death, Rosa had retreated so severely that her one means of communication became her drawings.

The first time Antonio heard her speak again was two years after Lydia’s death, when he took both girls to Paris. It was the first time Rosa had seen the Seine.

“It’s beautiful, Papa,” she had whispered.

His eyes filled with tears hearing his daughter speak for the first time in so long. He thought he had lost her forever, as he had lost Marta. He took her in his arms. “You spoke! Merciful God, you spoke!” They cried together while holding onto each other for a long time. She still spoke only when absolutely necessary. Antonio knew she’d never be quite the same. There would always be an underlying sadness in the child’s heart.

But now it was her art that made her happy. He had asked many times if she wanted to go away to school, where she could learn to develop her gift, her talent. But she’d always refused his offers. He knew that going away to learn her trade would benefit her, maybe get her to open up to others. And, although her talent was evident, the morbid and dark themes that seemed to be the focus of her art frightened him a bit and he wished she’d paint more lighter, brighter scenes. She did a lot of paintings with dead angels who looked remarkably like her mother, and other paintings with what Antonio could only classify as demons who looked to be battling child-like angels. Out of fear of putting her work to a halt, Antonio never made any suggestions about her art, and she continued to deny the need to go to art school. It was as if she were afraid to be around people, unlike her younger sister Felicia, who was the outgoing wild one. She had bright eyes and her mother’s beauty. Possessing a mind full of questions, she was a perpetual chatterbox.

“Papa, Papa,” Felicia said as she tugged at his coat. She always needed to be the center of attention.

“Yes?”

“I’m going to be a famous French model.”

“Really? How interesting.”

“You’re not French,” Rosa interrupted her tartly.

“So? When I was out shopping today, while you were wasting your time doodling, a man from the Marie-Clare agency approached me. He told me that I was very beautiful, and that I should come to see him. He said he would take photographs of me to see if I am as beautiful on film.”

“He was probably a con man,” Rosa commented, as they walked across the street to the restaurant where they were to meet Bella.