Times ,” Pete said, his Spanish rusty and not coming to him with much ease. “ Tienen un momento para hablar? ”
The woman didn’t respond. She knew why they were at her house.
Before the old lady could respond, another woman, younger and smartly dressed, appeared next to her.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, I’m Kathy Bentley,” Kathy said, sticking out her hand to the new arrival. “I’m a writer for The Miami Times . I’m working on a story about Erica Morales, your niece. We wanted to know if you and your sister had time to talk about her for the newspaper. We’re very sorry for your loss, but if you have a moment to spare, we feel it’d be an important story to share with our readership.”
The younger woman scrunched up her nose and looked at Pete, as if to say, “Who is this?” She wrapped her arm around her sister. “Erica wasn’t my niece,” the woman said, her voice lowering. “She was my daughter. I’m Odalys Morales. Her mother. This is my older sister, Olga. She just arrived from Cuba, so you’ll have to forgive her lack of English skills.”
Pete felt foolish and figured Kathy did, too.
“And who are you?” Odalys asked, her eyes on Pete.
“I’m Pete Fernandez.” He stuck out his hand, which Odalys glanced at before ignoring. “I’m a colleague of Kathy’s.”
Odalys let out a long sigh and whispered something to her sister. She motioned her head to the house. Olga nodded and walked into the house, not bothering to say goodbye. Odalys rubbed her temples and closed her eyes before looking at Kathy and Pete.
“What can I do? I’ve already talked to the police,” she said. “My little girl is dead. I really just want to be left alone.”
“I apologize for intruding, ma’am,” Kathy said. “I’d only need a few minutes of your time.”
“For what, lady?” Odalys said. “You and this guy show up like nothing? To chat with me about my dead daughter like it’s no big deal?”
“We didn’t mean any offense…” Kathy started.
“You didn’t mean any, but it happened anyway,” Odalys continued.
“We think we can help you,” Pete said. “If we write this story, draw some more attention to your daughter, maybe someone will come forward with information. It’s the best thing we can offer you now, which isn’t a lot, I know. But information is key. If we get anything that could help the police or get someone to come forward, it’d be worth your time. We don’t want this to fall through the cracks.”
Odalys’s shoulders slumped in resignation.
“All right,” she said, turning around and heading toward her house. “Let me make some café and we’ll talk.”
***
The Morales home was small but welcoming; the furniture and decor reminded Pete of his own grandmother’s house. The lighting was low, to conserve whatever cool air the ancient air conditioner was still able to spit out, and the shelves were stacked with books two-deep. A quick scan showed various volumes focused on the plight of the exile community and many histories of Cuba—essential reading for any educated household this close to the epicenter. They sat in the cozy living room, Kathy and Pete on chairs brought over from the dining room, Odalys sitting across from them on a colorful couch that didn’t look very comfortable. She rubbed her palms on her black pants and nodded to Kathy, as if to say “Let’s go.”
Kathy took the cue and pulled out a notepad and tape recorder. “Do you mind if I record this?”
“Not if it means you won’t misquote me,” Odalys said, no sign of humor in her voice.
Kathy clicked the record button on the tiny device and slid it toward Odalys, resting it on the long coffee table between them.
“Odalys, can you tell us a little about what Erica was like?”
Odalys cleared her throat and waited a few seconds before speaking.
“Erica was a good girl,” Odalys said. “She did well in school, she had good friends from around the neighborhood. She was
The woman didn’t respond. She knew why they were at her house.
Before the old lady could respond, another woman, younger and smartly dressed, appeared next to her.
“Can I help you?”
“Yes, I’m Kathy Bentley,” Kathy said, sticking out her hand to the new arrival. “I’m a writer for The Miami Times . I’m working on a story about Erica Morales, your niece. We wanted to know if you and your sister had time to talk about her for the newspaper. We’re very sorry for your loss, but if you have a moment to spare, we feel it’d be an important story to share with our readership.”
The younger woman scrunched up her nose and looked at Pete, as if to say, “Who is this?” She wrapped her arm around her sister. “Erica wasn’t my niece,” the woman said, her voice lowering. “She was my daughter. I’m Odalys Morales. Her mother. This is my older sister, Olga. She just arrived from Cuba, so you’ll have to forgive her lack of English skills.”
Pete felt foolish and figured Kathy did, too.
“And who are you?” Odalys asked, her eyes on Pete.
“I’m Pete Fernandez.” He stuck out his hand, which Odalys glanced at before ignoring. “I’m a colleague of Kathy’s.”
Odalys let out a long sigh and whispered something to her sister. She motioned her head to the house. Olga nodded and walked into the house, not bothering to say goodbye. Odalys rubbed her temples and closed her eyes before looking at Kathy and Pete.
“What can I do? I’ve already talked to the police,” she said. “My little girl is dead. I really just want to be left alone.”
“I apologize for intruding, ma’am,” Kathy said. “I’d only need a few minutes of your time.”
“For what, lady?” Odalys said. “You and this guy show up like nothing? To chat with me about my dead daughter like it’s no big deal?”
“We didn’t mean any offense…” Kathy started.
“You didn’t mean any, but it happened anyway,” Odalys continued.
“We think we can help you,” Pete said. “If we write this story, draw some more attention to your daughter, maybe someone will come forward with information. It’s the best thing we can offer you now, which isn’t a lot, I know. But information is key. If we get anything that could help the police or get someone to come forward, it’d be worth your time. We don’t want this to fall through the cracks.”
Odalys’s shoulders slumped in resignation.
“All right,” she said, turning around and heading toward her house. “Let me make some café and we’ll talk.”
***
The Morales home was small but welcoming; the furniture and decor reminded Pete of his own grandmother’s house. The lighting was low, to conserve whatever cool air the ancient air conditioner was still able to spit out, and the shelves were stacked with books two-deep. A quick scan showed various volumes focused on the plight of the exile community and many histories of Cuba—essential reading for any educated household this close to the epicenter. They sat in the cozy living room, Kathy and Pete on chairs brought over from the dining room, Odalys sitting across from them on a colorful couch that didn’t look very comfortable. She rubbed her palms on her black pants and nodded to Kathy, as if to say “Let’s go.”
Kathy took the cue and pulled out a notepad and tape recorder. “Do you mind if I record this?”
“Not if it means you won’t misquote me,” Odalys said, no sign of humor in her voice.
Kathy clicked the record button on the tiny device and slid it toward Odalys, resting it on the long coffee table between them.
“Odalys, can you tell us a little about what Erica was like?”
Odalys cleared her throat and waited a few seconds before speaking.
“Erica was a good girl,” Odalys said. “She did well in school, she had good friends from around the neighborhood. She was
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