bar—has been talking about getting a cat. She might want to keep her.”
The look Ann gave him when he agreed had set Richard’s heart thumping wildly. “You’re such a good sport,” Ann smiled dreamily, her eyes half closed. At that moment, Richard realized he was in love.
It was raining when they left Mike’s Pastry in the North End. The kitten was snuggled against Ann’s chest, sleeping. Richard hailed a taxi. At the door to her friend’s house, Richard told Ann he would come by in the morning to take her to breakfast. They had been a couple ever since.
Nineteen years later, Richard loved Ann more than ever, though her impulsiveness was a stressor in their relationship. He was concerned for his wife’s physical safety in Tijuana and for her mental state. Not only did she blame herself for Travis’s disappearance, she seemed to be re-writing history. Her belief that she was a negligent mother was not borne out by the facts. She had lovingly cared for their child, countless times putting Travis’s needs above her own.
He remembered the time Travis had a nasty respiratory infection. Ann had insisted on staying by his bedside for days and nights on end, even though Richard had offered to share the burden. When the fever passed and Travis was sleeping comfortably, Ann was so worn down by lack of sleep and nutrition that Richard had to call a doctor for
her
.
Ann, Richard realized with sharpened anxiety, seemed unable to take credit for the good that she did, only for the imaginary bad. Her compulsive need for perfection distorted her perceptions. Because nothing she ever did was good enough, she was always pushing herself to do more. And when things didn’t turn out the way that Ann thought they should, she got frustrated and blamed herself.
That it took the tragedy of their son’s disappearance to bring out this dormant aspect of his wife’s personality deepened Richard’s sorrow.
Afternoon
A fter her harrowing trip to the Ruiz factory Ann risked a taxicab back to the center of Tijuana. The thought of the beggar lying in wait for her along that lonely stretch of road between the factory and the city center trumped all concerns that a ruthless cab driver would harm her. Slumped in the back seat of the speeding vehicle, she let the warm air from the open windows stream over her face and arms. Her parched tongue felt like swollen rock in her mouth.
It was past two o’clock when Ann alighted from the cab on Avenida Revolución. Unsure what to do next she wandered down the street, past men hawking trinkets on the half-empty sidewalks, past shuttered shops. Waiters in white aprons tried to lure her into restaurants for a margarita or carnitas. She bought a can of soda from a vendor. The random bullets and kidnappings, a by-product of the drug wars, she realized sadly, must have destroyed the once bustling tourist trade. She passed prostitutes dressed in short, schoolgirl skirts with knee-high socks—an occasional would-be customer checking them out, these sad-faced women theirs for a few pesos.
Ann had a fleeting thought that searching for Travis in Tijuana was futile. But damn it! It felt so good to do something and not just wait for the police to call. She considered turning her phone back on to check in with her husband, but she was afraid he would bawl her out again.
Ann continued walking past Avenida Revolución’s giant arch. She pulled out a picture of her son and the image of Kika that she had downloaded from the Internet. Stopping random people, she asked if they had seen her son and the social worker. After suffering countless blank looks and some sneers, she started entering cantinas and other retail businesses to talk to people, to get at the names of the local “men in charge,” as she came to think of them. Max Ruiz was a big businessman. Someone was bound to know where he lived. Ann realized with a sudden pang of distress that she had pinned all her hopes of finding Travis on this Ruiz
The look Ann gave him when he agreed had set Richard’s heart thumping wildly. “You’re such a good sport,” Ann smiled dreamily, her eyes half closed. At that moment, Richard realized he was in love.
It was raining when they left Mike’s Pastry in the North End. The kitten was snuggled against Ann’s chest, sleeping. Richard hailed a taxi. At the door to her friend’s house, Richard told Ann he would come by in the morning to take her to breakfast. They had been a couple ever since.
Nineteen years later, Richard loved Ann more than ever, though her impulsiveness was a stressor in their relationship. He was concerned for his wife’s physical safety in Tijuana and for her mental state. Not only did she blame herself for Travis’s disappearance, she seemed to be re-writing history. Her belief that she was a negligent mother was not borne out by the facts. She had lovingly cared for their child, countless times putting Travis’s needs above her own.
He remembered the time Travis had a nasty respiratory infection. Ann had insisted on staying by his bedside for days and nights on end, even though Richard had offered to share the burden. When the fever passed and Travis was sleeping comfortably, Ann was so worn down by lack of sleep and nutrition that Richard had to call a doctor for
her
.
Ann, Richard realized with sharpened anxiety, seemed unable to take credit for the good that she did, only for the imaginary bad. Her compulsive need for perfection distorted her perceptions. Because nothing she ever did was good enough, she was always pushing herself to do more. And when things didn’t turn out the way that Ann thought they should, she got frustrated and blamed herself.
That it took the tragedy of their son’s disappearance to bring out this dormant aspect of his wife’s personality deepened Richard’s sorrow.
Afternoon
A fter her harrowing trip to the Ruiz factory Ann risked a taxicab back to the center of Tijuana. The thought of the beggar lying in wait for her along that lonely stretch of road between the factory and the city center trumped all concerns that a ruthless cab driver would harm her. Slumped in the back seat of the speeding vehicle, she let the warm air from the open windows stream over her face and arms. Her parched tongue felt like swollen rock in her mouth.
It was past two o’clock when Ann alighted from the cab on Avenida Revolución. Unsure what to do next she wandered down the street, past men hawking trinkets on the half-empty sidewalks, past shuttered shops. Waiters in white aprons tried to lure her into restaurants for a margarita or carnitas. She bought a can of soda from a vendor. The random bullets and kidnappings, a by-product of the drug wars, she realized sadly, must have destroyed the once bustling tourist trade. She passed prostitutes dressed in short, schoolgirl skirts with knee-high socks—an occasional would-be customer checking them out, these sad-faced women theirs for a few pesos.
Ann had a fleeting thought that searching for Travis in Tijuana was futile. But damn it! It felt so good to do something and not just wait for the police to call. She considered turning her phone back on to check in with her husband, but she was afraid he would bawl her out again.
Ann continued walking past Avenida Revolución’s giant arch. She pulled out a picture of her son and the image of Kika that she had downloaded from the Internet. Stopping random people, she asked if they had seen her son and the social worker. After suffering countless blank looks and some sneers, she started entering cantinas and other retail businesses to talk to people, to get at the names of the local “men in charge,” as she came to think of them. Max Ruiz was a big businessman. Someone was bound to know where he lived. Ann realized with a sudden pang of distress that she had pinned all her hopes of finding Travis on this Ruiz
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