letting her body
dictate what she could and could not do, but it was good they’d chopped this
journey into small bits. If she wanted to look fresh and cheerful for dinner,
she needed to rest. Her reunion with her old high school friend had been wonderful,
but the hours of chatter had drained her. She hated to admit she was getting
old.
“Salvador will not talk to any of us. He is a bigot, that
man. He calls us ‘peasants’ and ‘redskins.’ He called my sister . . .”
Dulce stared at the ceiling and gulped back a tear. “He called my sister ugly
names and said her family would not get one cent from him. We do not want his
money. We want Lucia. She is only five and should be with family, not
strangers.”
The guest room they’d been given had two narrow beds covered
in matching blue-and-brown checked covers. Mame reflected that her friend had
obviously not changed her children’s décor since they’d left home. Of course,
neither had she.
“Your family should have hired a lawyer,” Mame said. “If
your sister left a will appointing you as Lucia’s guardian, and her husband
left no will, then it seems to me the law is on your side.” She lay back
against the pillows and practiced deep breathing.
“We tried.” Dulce clenched her fists. “Money talks and we
have no money. His lawyer went to court to say our will is forged and that we
must have torn up his son’s will. Our lawyer said the court might place Lucia
in a foster home until the dispute is satisfied. She is already traumatized
from losing her parents. She used to chatter like a little parrot. Now, she
sits there like a lost mouse. It is this…this…” In frustration, she shook her
fist at the window.
“She’s lost both her parents. Violently. It will take her
time.” Mame tried to sound soothing, but Dulce’s unspoken rage and grief filled
the room. She remembered her own despair when she’d lost her brother and her
best friend in a single night. If it hadn’t been for the children . . .
She understood Dulce needed her niece as much as Lucia
needed her. God had chosen Mame to help them through this, because she
understood the anguish and frustration of loss. “Once we take Lucia home where
she belongs, away from the school and a man who despises her, she will
recover.”
Dulce hung her head in acceptance. Wishing she were
stronger, Mame closed her eyes again and sought sleep. She wouldn’t let Elliot
and the hospital be right. She would heal herself.
“Why did you leave the orchid?” Dulce asked quietly. “It has
no flower.”
“It has the promise of flowers.” Mame smiled and relaxed,
knowing she was right in this. “Someday, Alys will bloom like that flower.”
“You are loco ,
Mame.”
“That’s what Jock always told me.” Being crazy had its good
sides as well as its bad. Remembering Jock, the sensible one of their
inseparable trio of high school comrades, Mame drifted into dreams. He’d told
her she’d never make a career of go-go dancing.
He’d been right, but she’d had fun trying.
* * *
“Remington was a realist. He sculpted what he saw.” Elliot
held the hotel room door for her after returning from their walk through the
museum. The western art had refueled Alys’s excitement for the days ahead. She
wanted to see Indians and deserts and cactus.
“Frederic Remington was a salesman.” Alys flung her purse on
top of the suitcase he’d lugged up earlier. She hadn’t considered how difficult
hauling that thing around would have been for her if it hadn’t been for Elliot.
“He sculpted emotionally appealing images for the masses.”
Now that they were finally alone, she was stalling. Elliot
hadn’t signed up for another room. He’d returned here without a word of
expectation. She’d had hours in which to imagine how she would do this. She
couldn’t decide if she was nervous or eager or both.
As if he’d known what she had in mind, Elliot had gone out
of his way to be accommodating.
dictate what she could and could not do, but it was good they’d chopped this
journey into small bits. If she wanted to look fresh and cheerful for dinner,
she needed to rest. Her reunion with her old high school friend had been wonderful,
but the hours of chatter had drained her. She hated to admit she was getting
old.
“Salvador will not talk to any of us. He is a bigot, that
man. He calls us ‘peasants’ and ‘redskins.’ He called my sister . . .”
Dulce stared at the ceiling and gulped back a tear. “He called my sister ugly
names and said her family would not get one cent from him. We do not want his
money. We want Lucia. She is only five and should be with family, not
strangers.”
The guest room they’d been given had two narrow beds covered
in matching blue-and-brown checked covers. Mame reflected that her friend had
obviously not changed her children’s décor since they’d left home. Of course,
neither had she.
“Your family should have hired a lawyer,” Mame said. “If
your sister left a will appointing you as Lucia’s guardian, and her husband
left no will, then it seems to me the law is on your side.” She lay back
against the pillows and practiced deep breathing.
“We tried.” Dulce clenched her fists. “Money talks and we
have no money. His lawyer went to court to say our will is forged and that we
must have torn up his son’s will. Our lawyer said the court might place Lucia
in a foster home until the dispute is satisfied. She is already traumatized
from losing her parents. She used to chatter like a little parrot. Now, she
sits there like a lost mouse. It is this…this…” In frustration, she shook her
fist at the window.
“She’s lost both her parents. Violently. It will take her
time.” Mame tried to sound soothing, but Dulce’s unspoken rage and grief filled
the room. She remembered her own despair when she’d lost her brother and her
best friend in a single night. If it hadn’t been for the children . . .
She understood Dulce needed her niece as much as Lucia
needed her. God had chosen Mame to help them through this, because she
understood the anguish and frustration of loss. “Once we take Lucia home where
she belongs, away from the school and a man who despises her, she will
recover.”
Dulce hung her head in acceptance. Wishing she were
stronger, Mame closed her eyes again and sought sleep. She wouldn’t let Elliot
and the hospital be right. She would heal herself.
“Why did you leave the orchid?” Dulce asked quietly. “It has
no flower.”
“It has the promise of flowers.” Mame smiled and relaxed,
knowing she was right in this. “Someday, Alys will bloom like that flower.”
“You are loco ,
Mame.”
“That’s what Jock always told me.” Being crazy had its good
sides as well as its bad. Remembering Jock, the sensible one of their
inseparable trio of high school comrades, Mame drifted into dreams. He’d told
her she’d never make a career of go-go dancing.
He’d been right, but she’d had fun trying.
* * *
“Remington was a realist. He sculpted what he saw.” Elliot
held the hotel room door for her after returning from their walk through the
museum. The western art had refueled Alys’s excitement for the days ahead. She
wanted to see Indians and deserts and cactus.
“Frederic Remington was a salesman.” Alys flung her purse on
top of the suitcase he’d lugged up earlier. She hadn’t considered how difficult
hauling that thing around would have been for her if it hadn’t been for Elliot.
“He sculpted emotionally appealing images for the masses.”
Now that they were finally alone, she was stalling. Elliot
hadn’t signed up for another room. He’d returned here without a word of
expectation. She’d had hours in which to imagine how she would do this. She
couldn’t decide if she was nervous or eager or both.
As if he’d known what she had in mind, Elliot had gone out
of his way to be accommodating.
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