THE SECOND MILAGRO (n/a) Page 14

  Dorothy watched the fields of South Carolina go by in the bright January day. There was a mist between her and the distance creating a foggy, rain soaked landscape. Her mind and heart were as blurred as the scene beyond the window. Her face warmed with thoughts of bruising hands and foul lips. The sharp heat made her shiver. Tears cooled her burning cheeks. The seed of a thought began to grow. She clinched her teeth, pushed the idea into the pit of her stomach like it was bile rising in her throat. She denied it words, denied it birth. It couldn’t be. If she refused to believe, it would not come true.

  She knew Dosey was watching her, a question printed in the dough face. The woman had marked her words, her curiosity, and she did not conceal her stare. Dorothy tried to pull herself together, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t stop the flow of her tears.

  She felt herself pulled into the soft shoulder of the red coat. With no will to resist, she cried to the crooning and rocking of the woman.

  She slept for a long time. When she woke, she ached to stand, to walk. No, to run. But she was running. She looked behind her, as if to see where she had come from. She tried to clear her mind, but something pulled at it like gum on a shoe. Silent words flashed. Exposed. One Time. Shame. A word got stuck. Pregnant. PREGNANT. It echoed, bounced from ear to ear while she tried to catch the reality of it.

  Once when a friend of Elsie’s had died, Dorothy had tried to imagine what it would be like if she died. She had said the words, “I’m going to die. Someday, I’m going to die,” over and over, until, for a fleeting moment, she could grasp the finiteness of her being. An ephemeral moment of recognition that made her heart leap, then was gone. She tried the same thing now with this new possibility. This time, the thought took form. She saw a baby in her arms with the face of her father. She fought an urge to laugh, then knew if she made a sound, it would be a scream. The baby grew and became her father. Deep inside her a core of hatred took hold that seemed evil itself. She tried to soothe it, but it hardened.

  When Dosey was awake again, she began talking about the man she worked for in Washington. A “foreigner”. He was a good boss, though, and he liked Dosey’s cooking. “He’s a little strange now and then, but the pay’s good,” she said more than once. Tomas Morelos was his name. He was from Mexico.

  She talked about other people who also worked for Mr. Morelos, Natty, the driver, and a lady who cleaned, Carmina. Carmina was also Mexican, and Dosey said she was always on “minwanna” time, wanting to do things tomorrow.

  As Dosey talked on, Dorothy realized that this aging, worn out woman was her future self. A life of menial jobs and heartache. Cooking. Cleaning. No education. Never a house like those on “silk stocking” street.

  Finally, Dosey seemed to be lost in thought or drifting off to sleep again. Dorothy had many more questions to ask. She wanted to know how to go about getting a job, where to get a room, how to live in the city. She had to find another life. She missed Rachel, and Dosey and Jeff, but she would not call them, ever. Besides, they wouldn’t want to hear from her anyway. She was on her own. Resolve settled over her numbness, beneath which the core of hatred glowed, galling her, guiding her.

  Hours later the bus started across the Potomac River into Washington. Dorothy couldn’t take it all in. Despite her bleak thoughts, she began to feel excited. Buildings, like Greek temples she’d seen in her history books. Limousines. People everywhere, walking on the snow-covered sidewalks.

  Real snow.

  Dosey kept laughing at her, as she pointed at one thing, then another. She didn’t care. At least the fear was hiding out for a moment.

  “I’ll have to give Natty a ring to come for me. Would you watch my things while I call?” Dosey asked as the bus pulled into the terminal. Dorothy absently agreed.

  They collected their bags with the help of a porter and walked through a sea of people to the public phones. Dorothy felt as if her head was a pinwheel moving in the wind. She didn’t know which way to look.

  The man sat down their bags and Dosey gave him some coins. “Keep a sharp eye on these things,” Dosey said, watching her. “You’re not in friendly territory anymore. People rather steal from you here than work! I’ll be right back.”

  And she was, before Dorothy could begin to think of what she was going to do. Of where she would go.

  “Carmina says Natty’s already on his way. I know what he wants. He’s been missin’ my cookin’, I guess.” A deep chuckle shook the red coat like Jell-o.

  Dorothy pulled Jeff’s old duffel bag out of the midst of Dosey’s suitcases. “Thanks for your company. You sure made the trip easier.”

  Dosey’s laughter stopped. A frown furrowed her brow. “What are you goin’ to do, child?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Honey.” The woman frowned like Elsie use to when she caught Dorothy lying.

  “Oh, don’t worry ’bout me. I can take care of myself.” She straightened and lifted her shoulder under the weight of the bag.

  “Dosey! Dosey Hicks, you a sight for sore eyes, woman.” A short, wiry black man encircled Dosey with arms too short for her girth. He had on a uniform and a squatty hat that shaded his face. His eyes, as dark as chinquapin nuts, twinkled as he looked up at Dosey.

  “Natty, you ole liar. You’re just hungry.” She pushed the little man away and turned to Dorothy. “This is—my goodness, I don’t even know your name. Can’t introduce you as Doe.”

  Dorothy hadn’t given thought to a name. She couldn’t say Tucker or Mcfall. What if people were looking for her? She thought of Rachel, and said, “Wellington.” Said it aloud before she even considered what she was doing. Patricia Wellington.” She let the bag drop to the floor.

  “Well how—”

  She read Dosey’s face. “Oh, my nickname was Doe, but that was a long time ago.”

  “Well, Miss Wellington, it’s a pleasure meetin’ you.” The man smiled. “This all yours, Dosey?”

  “That’s all.” The woman stared at her, holding her gaze, for what seemed minutes. Finally, with a nod of the red hat, she turned to Natty, “Grab that bag of Patricia’s, too. She’s going home with us. I’ve been needin’ a helper. So I brought me one along.”

  Natty looked from her to Dosey and back again, then shrugged. He motioned for a young boy to help him, and the two of them walked away with Dosey’s suitcases and Jeff’s duffle bag.

  Dorothy Tucker gazed around the crowded terminal at a world of strangers. She took the crumbled bus ticket from her pocket and looked at it. Heflin, Alabama, to Washington, D.C.

  A trash can stood nearby. She lifted her hand and tossed in the crumbled paper.

  “Wait for me!” She called to Dosey.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  MEXICO

  The future and the past were separated by that bus ride. Now, in the present of that future, on a winding, narrow road high above Chilpancingo, Patricia suppressed memories of that life-altering trip made twenty-five years ago. Dorothy Tucker got on a Trailways bus in Alabama, body and soul ravaged. She died somewhere along the countryside of southern Virginia. In Washington, D.C., Patricia Wellington stepped off that bus and began the life that had brought her to Mexico.

  If Miguel had not been a quick thinker, the Estrella bus could have been the death of Patricia Wellington Morelos, she thought, and shivered. She drew her arms close. If they had gone over, down the mountainside, there would be no one to go after Max. Patricia looked at Miguel, intent on his driving. Doubts nagged at her about not telling him about Max. What if something did happen to her? Maybe that tangle with the bus hadn’t been an accident. Jim had warned her of danger. She shook off the thought. Now, she was being paranoid. The bus driver could hardly have known who was in this jeep.

  Before noon, flower fields came into view. Miles of roses heralded the outskirts of Cuernavaca, summer retreat of the rich and famous from Cortez’s time. Patricia knew it well from visits she and Tomas had made to nearby spas and endless trips to Taxco in the mou
ntains to the west where Morelos Enterprises owned several silver shops. Her mind wandered over memories like a wizened hand on the squares of an old quilt.

  “Are you hungry?” Miguel asked, interrupting her daydreams. “Not really,” she said, then realized he probably was. “But, I suppose it is time we had some hot food.” Miguel had snacked out of Marta’s basket the entire trip. “How about Las Mananitas? My treat,” she added quickly, knowing the prices at the restaurant.

  “I need to stop at my house for something. My cook will have something ready for us. Okay?” He smiled briefly, as if he had forgotten how.

  “It won’t take long will it? This stop at your house?” “No. We will be on the road soon to get through the city before the worst of Friday traffic. We have plenty of time to get to La Mansion before dark.”

  She resigned herself to the delay, determined to be thankful that she was moving in the right direction.

  Miguel pulled up in front of a modest low wall with purple bougainvilla cascading over the top. She could see a flat roofed two story house beyond the wall.

  “Welcome to my humble home,” Miguel said as he directed her through a lovely oak door.

  “Señor!” A voice called from one of the windows. “You have come in just the right time. La comida is ready for—”

  Through the sala door appeared a slight woman of definite Aztec heritage. Grey streaked her short, dark curls and soft lines etched her cheeks. Her twinkling eyes and wide smile froze and faded as she stared at Patricia.

  In a moment Patricia realized who the woman was. A dark fear crept out from behind a long shut door deep inside of her.

  Miguel filled the silence. “I think you two have probably met before. Patricia, you remember Carmina, she used to work for Tomas. Before that she worked for my mother, and now she keeps my life straight.” He gave the rigid woman a hardy hug almost toppling her like a statue.

  Patricia knew she wasn’t breathing, couldn’t breathe.

  Miguel left the two women, heading for the kitchen with some remark about food trailing behind him.

  “Señora? Señora Morelos?” Carmina asked, then almost whispered, “Patricia?”

  Patricia hesitated, then held out her hand. “Carmina. After all these years.” She fought a rising fear. Knowing that Carmina knew too much about her as the girl Dosey took in, she wasn’t sure how to react, but surely the woman would be discreet.

  Carmina took Patricia’s hand, but held it only briefly. Long enough for Patricia to notice how much she was shaking. Patricia didn’t understand. It was she who had much to fear from the Mexican woman.

  Miguel came out of the kitchen with two plates of hot tamales, beans and rice. “Carmina, bring us a couple of beers. Or would you prefer something else?” he asked Patricia, but Carmina rushed away before she could answer.

  Patricia sat at the table, her plate of food untouched. Carmina had brought them two Dos Equis, then disappeared quickly.

  Miguel looked at Patricia, then in the direction Carmina had gone. “You two did know each other at Tomas’s, didn’t you?”

  “Well, yes, slightly,” was all Patricia could say.

  “I cannot imagine anyone knowing Carmina only ‘slightly.’ She has a way of taking charge. It is good for me. I need someone like that here in Cuernavaca. I am away too much. And, her son, Daniel, is mi amigo. He is still a young man, but he is trustworthy, a good man.”

  Patricia was remembering that Carmina had lost a son and her husband before she came to Tomas. She was silently happy for the woman that she had a family again.

  As soon as Miguel had eaten and gathered some papers from a desk in the dining room, he suggested they leave. Patricia was only too happy to climb back into the jeep and be on their way. She thought no more of Carmina. Whatever threat she might be to Patricia paled in light of the trouble Max was in.

  The earlier easy silence continued for the first few miles. As they wound their way up the mountain from Cuernavaca, Miguel slowed and pointed to a huge monument on the left of the road. “General Morelos,” he said, as if introducing her to the granite figure on the horse that she had seen many times. “He is the ancestor of Tomas. The Moreloses have always been important.”

  She ignored what she thought was a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “They have at that,” she said.

  “Did you know the great Frenchman Napoleon said if he had five officers like this man, he would conquer the world?”

  “Yes, Max used to love hearing stories of General Morelos.” “It is good that your son liked the great leader of our independence. He must not be ashamed that he is Mexican.”

  She bristled. “He isn’t ashamed. Why would he be?” “His father certainly was.”

  “Tomas?” She hesitated. “I think his feelings were more complex than that. He loved the U.S. more perhaps, but that was where he found success. He certainly never brought our son up to be ashamed of his heritage. Quite the opposite.” She wondered if Miguel was going to taunt her this way for the rest of the trip, but for awhile neither of them spoke.

  The road peaked and Mexico City lay below them in milky smog. As they descended, the air warmed and stagnated. It took over an hour to get past snarled traffic on Insurgentes before they could turn onto the Periferico that skirted west around the city. They picked up speed for awhile, then slowed to a crawl as they passed the Museo Tecnologico.

  “You have brought your son to see the old trains here before?” Miguel broke the long silence.

  “Yes, many times.” She smiled, not at him, but at an image in her mind. “Max loved to come here. He could spend hours climbing through one old engine after another.” She could see him, face blackened by age-old coal dust, hands greased like a miniature mechanic. A smile on his face as wide as a boxcar.

  “They are new, these trains, compared to Aztec history.” Miguel pointed to a statue in front of the Anthropology Museum. “Tlaloc, the Aztec Rain God. Here is the place to learn. My mother brought me here many times. You speak of Max, but not of Tomas. Did he never go to these places?” he asked her as they drove through Chapultepec Park.

  “Not often. He was always seeing to business when we were here. He wasn’t very interested in history, the past.” Her words trailed off. This conversation seemed to lead to Tomas at every turn. Why must she feel a need to defend him to Miguel? She didn’t want to remember her past either and damned if she was going to apologize for that! How many times had she and Tomas agreed that what had happened to them before they knew each other did not matter? Only the present and what future they could have was important. It was a bond between them. She sighed heavily. Had Miguel felt the same way twenty years ago, her life might have been very different.

  “Tomas was not interested in the present either.”

  “What are you saying, Miguel?”

  “Only that my step-brother did not care what happened to others.”

  Patricia felt a prickling at the back of her neck. “You seem to have something specific in mind.”

  He drove slower than the snail paced traffic, and Patricia thought he was going to stop. Her nerves were drawing into a knot at the endless drive, which seemed to be turning into a cheap tour of the city. She knew it would be the next day before they headed to the mountains, but Miguel’s dragging along was maddening.

  Finally, he did stop and pointed to a sign at an intersection. “This is the way to Tlantaloc. I would like to show it to you. Do you mind? We have time.”

  The light changed, but Miguel didn’t move. A horn blew.

  Patricia spoke out of frustration. Another delay, she thought. “What is it?”

  “It is the place where the garbage is. Where the pepenadores live.”

  Patricia had seen stories on TV of people who lived near smouldering heaps of refuse and picked through the garbage, selling the things they found. “I don’t think so,” she said quietly.

  “It has history. I insist.” He turned the car down the pot-holed road.

  Patr
icia crossed her arms, barely containing her frustration. She had a good idea what Miguel was up to. He wanted to show her the “real” people of Mexico. He was still on the crusade that carried him away from her a lifetime ago. To him, she knew nothing of poverty, so he was about to show her what it looked like. She drew herself up inside and braced herself against images, smells, and emotions that she knew all too well. They had reached the outskirts of the suburbs, and the houses were no more than lean-to shacks. Pieces of metal or cardboard, maybe one or two walls of concrete blocks. Pigs roamed the sides of the road rooting at coconuts. An acrid burning odor drifted on the air even before a seared landscape came into view.

  Patricia leaned forward and tried to take in what she saw.

  “What in the world happened here?” Charred earth and blackened walls of houses stretched for acres around them. “Was it the earthquake?” She twisted around in the seat. Devastating destruction was all around them. Anger and frustration melted as if touched by the flames that had burned the very dirt beneath them. Her definition of poverty was being rewritten.

  “Surely, you know about the fire.” Miguel declared.

  “What fire?” She hardly knew she asked the question, still enthralled by the power of flames.

  “Tomas did not tell you?”

  “Miguel, I told you I don’t know.” Her vision blurred as she watched two little boys, blackened by soot from head to toe, digging what looked like peaches out of a charred can. She hardly heard the words Miguel was saying.

  “A year before the earthquake, a truck parked here in front of Pemex tanks exploded. Five hundred people were killed. Burned to death. Thousands were injured and homeless. And you did not know?”

  “The Pemez fire,” she gasped. “Of course I heard about it on the news. It was horrible.” More terrible than words, she thought, as she tried to comprehend what he was trying to say.

  “Miguel, what did Tomas know about this place?” Her voice trembled.

  They had moved past the blackest of the ruins. A gray mountain of debris rose in front of them. Like disoriented ants carrying food away from their hill, people moved down the ever crumbling, ever moving mound with pieces of metal, plastic or cloth in their hands. Anything of any semblance of value. Around the base, small piles of like material grew slowly, minutely. A raw, acrid odor, so thick it was almost visible, drifted in the air.