The Battered Heiress Blues

5





After tidying up our mess, from searching for the gun permit, Kate retreated to her room to take a nap. A shower was necessary to humanize me before trying to tackle the police statement. Seeing Jackson had unsettled me. I couldn’t shake my anger about the fact that he wasn’t angry. I couldn’t understand how he had no emotional attachment for his own child. How is a man like that allowed to draw air?

I loafed around, busying myself with mundane tasks, trying to delay the recollection of that terrible night. I was clean and dressed. The house was tidy and quiet. I finally convinced myself that I had no more excuses.

Walking around downstairs, I tried to determine which room would be suitable for the grueling job at hand. The drawing room was too open and the kitchen too communal. I couldn’t afford distractions. Choosing the study, I closed both doors and sat at my mother’s desk. The frame with her picture inside was welcoming and calming. I took out some parchment paper and began to write.



To Whom It May Concern:



I’m an idiot.

I killed my child.

I’m the one who should be punished.

I’m the one who should have died.



Regrettably,





Julia Grace Spencer





I stared at the words on the page with frustration, finally, crumpling the paper and tossing it to the floor. –Again, deep breath.



To Whom It May Concern:



My name is Julia Grace Spencer. I am an American citizen that moved to Chimbote in December 2008 to serve as legal counsel to the mission and assist its parishioners with free legal aid. This help usually consisted of land transfers, hospice arrangements, managing education funds from donors, contracting endowments, and being a liaison to missionaries in other countries, regarding the needs of the facility.

In February 2009, Maria Costelano, a woman from a nearby barrio, showed up in my office, requesting help. Her husband, Hector, had been beating her and their four children. Before periods of abuse, he would steal the money she had saved from cleaning houses and disappear, leaving Maria with no funds to satisfy her bills or feed her children.

I advised Maria to move into the battered women’s shelter that the mission ran, but she refused, stating that Hector would find and kill her if she left him. He’d threatened to harm the children if she went to the police. I told her to bring her money to me and we would open a bank account without his knowledge. She agreed to leave some money in their quinta, to dispel any suspicion he might have, and would deposit the remainder in the new account for safe keeping.

Hector Costelano continued to beat Maria. In May, she required an overnight hospital stay to assess the probable diagnosis of having a traumatic brain injury from a blow to the head. He waited for her outside of the hospital with the children, in an act of intimidation, to persuade her not to file a grievance with the police, as I had insisted she do. Due to her fragile state and his custody of the children, she agreed to go home with him.

That violent act necessitated the need for a plan to be put into action, making Maria and her children safe. I contacted a doctor I knew in Lima, urging him to allow them to live in his clinic apartment in exchange for cleaning the clinic and cooking his meals. He agreed, after I made a hefty donation to his practice.

We waited until Hector was in a drunken stupor before making the escape. They left all of their belongings and boarded a bus for Lima in the middle of the night, fleeing for safety and harboring dreams of a better future.

When Hector awoke from his drunken state, he came to my office demanding to know their whereabouts. I dishonestly told him that I wasn’t aware of where they had gone and suggested that maybe Maria had taken the children to see her sister in the mountains. He threatened me, saying that if I had any part in him losing his children, that he would be back to take mine from me. I was thirty-four weeks pregnant at the time.

At first, I didn’t take his threats seriously. However, later in the week, I began to notice that he was following me to and from the mission. I asked Father John if he knew of two men that I could hire to escort me from my quinta to the church each day, until Hector found a new hobby. Juan and Miguel shadowed me for the better part of a month. This show of force seemed to have detoured retribution, scaring him off. Hector seemed to have moved on and was no longer visible in the community.

Our paths crossed again during the Feast celebration of Saint Anthony of Padua. People had lined the streets for the procession of the sacred statue. Many of the children had gathered around me as we sat, waiting for it to pass, enjoying candied apples. A pick up truck with men in the back crept by our location. I saw Hector’s face for the first time in weeks. He looked at me with contempt and slowly drew his finger across his neck and repeated the gesture across his waist. I lost my breath. Some of the people saw his warning and ran to the church to get Father John, who came immediately. He insisted that I move into the dorms at the mission until Hector could be apprehended.

I filed a complaint with the police, but Hector once again disappeared. The following week was my 35th birthday. The traditional celebration of being woken up to Mariachi music at midnight took place. They led me down from my bedroom to the mission courtyard where everyone was gathered under a canopy of strung lights. I had made many friends over the months and we enjoyed a special time of fellowship, food, and dancing.

During the party, a man, who seemed out of place, caught my attention. He walked through the crowds, vanishing behind partygoers and reappearing at will. I scanned the courtyard for him, but he was gone. After my friends sang to me and I cut my birthday cake, he reappeared suddenly, pausing briefly to pull something from his pocket. He placed a black statue in my hand, closed my fingers around the object, and walked away. I didn’t understand its significance and placed it in my jacket pocket, assuming that it was a birthday present.

Later, one of the cooks saw me dump it in my suitcase, and panicked, quickly leaving the room. She returned with Father John and some of the men who inquired after the object. When they saw it lying on top of my clothes, they told me I had to leave Peru. After explaining to me that I had received a death amulet, signifying my intended murder, I became angry, knowing that Hector was behind the statue. I thanked Father for his concern and agreed to leave for Lima until the police could capture Hector. I packed my clothes and prepared to leave on the evening bus.

I was anxious to say goodbye to my friends. Most came throughout the day and wished me well. They prayed that I would have a quick return to Chimbote.

An hour before my departure, I received a correspondence from one of the families I was assisting. I had been trying to get their daughter, who was dying from cancer, into the hospice program. The note read “Cecilia will die tonight. Please come to the clinic now.” I didn’t hesitate. I searched the courtyard for Juan or Miguel, but no one was around. I waited for a short time, but decided to go on alone in order to have time to visit before my bus arrived. My pace was slow. I felt thirty-nine weeks pregnant. The streets were deserted, with the exception of my little friend Daniel. He was waiting for me outside of the mission walls.

We walked along, holding hands and laughing about the numerous dogs that had taken to following us. I stopped to buy him dinner from a street vendor, before we continued on to the clinic. We arrived, expecting to see Cecilia’s parents waiting to greet us, but the lobby was empty. We proceeded in and sat down. No one ever came out so I instructed Daniel to wait while I walked back to the exam rooms. The clinic was eerily silent. The floors were dusty. Lights hung from cords above, swinging gently in the breeze. My search of the rooms yielded no results. Finally, I saw an open door with a light on. A shadow moved across the wall. I pushed the door in and entered. A blue curtain was drawn shut and I assumed that Cecilia was resting behind the drape.

Suddenly, I was startled by the door being slammed behind me. I turned back to find Hector standing in front of it with a knife. Clutching my belly, I began moving back to put some distance between us. The door opened behind him and Daniel ran across the room to my side. I yelled for him to go away, but he stood, motionless and afraid. I pushed him behind me and told Hector to leave. He laughed. He was drunk. The note had been a trap.

I whispered to Daniel that he should move with me and be ready to run. We walked in unison around the edge of the room, hugging the wall, as Hector advanced toward us. I angled my belly away from him, as he lunged toward me, grabbing me by the throat. He slammed me into the wall and began choking me, raising the knife to my cheek. I reached around, struggling for air, trying to find a weapon of any kind. My hand felt an open glass jar of some sort. Gripping the glass, I hit Hector with as much force as I could muster, releasing his hold on my neck. He dropped to his knees. His knife fell to the floor.

I gasped, trying to catch my breath, as I scanned the room for Daniel. He remained in the far corner, paralyzed with fear. The door was within my reach. Safety was at my fingertips, but I couldn’t leave Daniel alone with him. I knew he’d kill him. I had no option but to stay.

I screamed at Daniel to break his trance. He tried to run to me, but Hector caught his shirt as he brushed by him, throwing him back into the far wall. Hector ignored me and began to walk toward Daniel. In an effort to draw his attention, I threw another glass jar at him, striking his head. He recoiled, swung around, and came at me, leaving Daniel alone. His fist hit the side of my face with such force, that blood sprayed his dirty white shirt. The side of my body crashed against the dusty floor. I was gagging on the blood that I couldn’t help but swallow.

Daniel rushed to my side. He wasn’t hurt. The blood seeping into my eyes had clouded my vision. I told him that he must run and not look back when Hector came at me again. I pulled myself up as he taunted me with how he would torture us.

A shiny object caught my attention on the table next to me. I reached for the scalpel. Hector laughed as he picked up the long knife from the floor, realizing that he was better equipped for our final battle. I looked at Daniel and yelled for him to run as I sprinted forward. I saw him clear the door as our weapons met their targets. I thrust the scalpel into Hector’s neck, while feeling a burning tear in my body as I watched him fall to the floor. I looked down and saw the knife sticking out of my abdomen. My hands were drawn to its rubber handle. I pulled it out and stood watching blood pour out of my belly. The handle became slippery. The blade fell off my fingertips, clanging against the concrete. Within a minute, my legs buckled. My body fell hard.

A gargling sound was coming from my mouth. I tried to spit out as much blood as I could to aid in breathing. I was helpless to move. I saw Hector pulling himself to the door- the scalpel still in his neck. He disappeared around the corner, leaving a blood trail. Every shadow, cast by the swinging light made me worry that he was returning to finish me off. I grew very cold and tired. I heard the sounds of crying before losing consciousness.

These are the events that led to the death of my son, Connor. I urge you to find Hector Costelano and prosecute him for his crimes.

Julia Grace Spencer



I folded the pages and slid them into an envelope. Acknowledging my part in Connor’s death made me feel sad. If I had only stayed at the mission, my son would be alive. One poor decision had robbed me from experiencing life though the eyes of my child. After placing the envelope against the picture of my mom, I pushed the chair away from the antique desk, and decided to leave my troubles behind for a walk on the beach. The crisp air always helped to clear my mind. Perhaps, Kate would be up by the time I returned.

Reaching for the flip-flops that rested by the front door, the wood creaked as I opened it, startling Sheriff Martin who was dropping an envelope onto the monogrammed welcome mat.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he nervously offered.

“You didn’t,” I said puzzled. “I haven’t done anything else wrong today, have I?”

He chuckled, “No. I’m just here for the donuts.”

“Right.” I felt a smile break the tension that paralyzed my somber face.

“I’m just leaving the rent check.”

“Rent check?” I was confused.

He pointed in the direction of the cottage, down the path, beyond the chapel.

It all came together now. He was with the boy on the beach. I was his landlord. Kate would be sorry to have missed this.

“You were flying the kite?”

“Yes, me and my son Mattie.”

“The cottage holds many special memories for me. I haven’t been inside it for several years.” Thoughts of long afternoons, lying in bed with Henry, listening to the surf crash against the sand, made me wish I could turn back time to my college days. Life was simpler then.

“Are you heading out? I won’t keep you.” He started to move back toward the steps as I followed him.

“I was just going for a walk.”

“Would you like to see it…the cottage?”

“Really, I wouldn’t be intruding?” I could use some distant happy memories to replace the recent images engrained in my mind.

“No, not at all. We don’t get a lot of visitors. I’m new here.”

“Let me leave Kate a note. I’ll be right back.”

I scribbled my whereabouts on a pad resting on the foyer table, intentionally closing the door loudly to awaken her as we left.

“It’s just the two of you?” I asked.

“Two against the world.” He grinned nervously as we made our way down the path.

“I know exactly how that feels. My brother and I practically raised ourselves.”

“Did you live here?’ He motioned back toward the main house and seemed intrigued to get to the bottom of my past.

“I wish. This was my mom’s house. Cancer took her not long after my brother was born. My father kept us in New York after my nana died. I was forced to leave my Southern roots behind and live the life of a chameleon. We spent some wonderful summers here though. I counted the months, each year, until the last day of school. Tommy and I would have our bags packed and ready to go at the sound of the afternoon bell. I would get butterflies in my stomach as the car approached the tall gates. Driving under the canopy of trees to the main house felt like being transported to a new world- a happy one. We’d go room to room, taking the white sheets off the furniture. We had our silly rituals.”

“That sounds nice.”

I was lost in the past as we walked in comfortable silence. He inquired about the history of the house and the construction of the chapel, as we passed by the cemetery. I couldn’t look to my left, knowing that Connor was just over the tall cypress hedges.

Within a few minutes, we turned down the walk toward the cottage. Henry and I used to ride bikes from the main house to claim some hours of privacy, away from the visitors who had accompanied us from Harvard. We’d race. Somehow, I always seemed to win. The fix was in and I always claimed my prize.

“Does it look the same?” he asked.

The cottage stood in all its old glory; the keeper of many secrets. The white paint was peeling off the roughened corners, but it was still magnificent. The black hurricane shutters were still framing the windows, with the exception of the one at the end that had fallen and taken rest against the house.

“Remarkably, yes.”

“Come in and meet Mattie.”

“I’d like that.”

He held the door open, motioning me forward.

“Who is with Mattie?”

“A group of women from the church take turns sitting with him from time to time when I have to work or run errands.”

“How old is he?”

“He’s four. He doesn’t speak yet, but I’m hopeful.”

“Do you mind if I…?”

“He has autism. He doesn’t communicate with words yet, but I have faith that we’ll find the right key to unlock his world one of these days. There are some promising therapies that may prove beneficial. I’m trying to educate myself.”

Not much had changed in the house. The walls were still a casual whitewash. Most of the same furniture still remained. We stopped in the kitchen.

“Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“Sure.”

I sat down on a stool while he busied himself brewing the coffee. The volunteer from church came in to speak to him, trying to ascertain when she’d be needed next. They reviewed his schedule, he thanked her, and she left. Mattie was in the living room, sitting on the floor alone, gently rocking back and forth while the television played cartoons. He left me briefly to hug his son, but he didn’t respond. Gabe looked sad, but quickly recovered and entered the kitchen composed.

“Cream and sugar?”

“Please.”

He poured coffee into the mugs and handed me the one that read ‘World’s Best Father.’

“Where’s his mom? Oh, sorry, that’s none of my business- it’s too personal. Really, I’m not fit for public company yet.”

“It’s okay. I don’t have any secrets. Oddly enough, it makes it more real to talk about it, you know? She left a year ago when it became clear that something was challenging our son. She couldn’t accept him like this. She wasn’t prepared for how she viewed him- as imperfect.”

“His own mom?”

“Don’t judge her too harshly. I’ve learned to accept her decision and just be thankful that she gave birth to such an extraordinary boy. Mattie is amazing. She’s the one missing out,” he replied, looking toward Mattie with love.

“How can you be so forgiving?” My face couldn’t hide the contempt I felt for a woman I had never met. I would have done anything to have my child with me and here she is, throwing her baby away, because he wasn’t perfect in her eyes. What a monster. I looked down at the half empty mug trying to compose myself. I felt bad for putting him on the defensive.

“Don’t misunderstand; I wasn’t always in this headspace. I was mad as hell a year ago, but I learned some very important truths about suffering.”

“Go on…” I was anxious to get a grasp on that teaching, considering this eternal state of being utterly pissed off with most everyone and everything.

“Suffering and punishment don’t necessarily go hand in hand. They’re not mutually exclusive. That mentality is a crock of shit; excuse my language.”

“What do you mean?”

“God is a loving God. He doesn’t look down one morning and decide to afflict a child with a disease, or in your case, take your son from you. It’s really kind of arrogant and self-centered to think that He derives satisfaction from our misery or has a need to stick it to us or teach us a lesson.”

“You’ve sure given this a lot of thought.”

“I was really angry at first, but what can you do with that emotion- it’s poison. It only harms you. My ex didn’t care that she was leaving me with a child. The world didn’t care that my son was sick. I didn’t see the point in being so pissed off after a month of feeling sorry for myself.”

“You don’t blame God- hold him accountable for your difficulties?”

“Man has some part in it- free will and all. We usually suffer because either we, or someone else, decided to exercise their free will to inflict pain or create disorder. And sometimes, shit happens-there’s absolutely no reason for it. Why are you so angry…unless you’d prefer not to discuss it?”

“I got my son killed.”

He felt uncomfortable with my answer and disengaged in the conversation. I needed to back-peddle.

“I’m sorry. That was too direct, wasn’t it? It’s just that we don’t know each other very well, yet, and it’s refreshing to speak openly about how I feel without having to edit. You don’t have any unrealistic expectations about my coping abilities since we’ve only just met. I can be mad at myself without you trying to convince me that someone else killed my son.”

“I read the article in the paper, Julia. You didn’t stab yourself.”

“No, but I put myself in the situation for that result to occur.”

“You can’t be responsible for that man’s choice to harm you. You’re the victim. It doesn’t matter where you were at the time. You couldn’t have made his choice for him.”

Memories flew back into my mind and I sat up straighter, taking a deep breath. I had to be responsible. The pain of that kept Connor present in my mind. Gabe could tell that I was upset by his comments. He shook his head, struggling to find the right words to calm the conversation.

“I apologize. I’ve had a lot of time to think about why Mattie is trapped inside his body. My conclusions aren’t the gospel. They just help me sleep at night.”

“I don’t mean to sound bitter and hostile. I’m just really angry with God, much to the disappointment of my brother, the priest.”

“Oh well, he probably has much better theories than someone like me.”

“Not really, he’s never faced a crisis of faith. I’d rather hear your thoughts. Please. If you don’t, I’ll think it was because I was rude.”

“I just think that there is this great need to assign blame, in our society. I think that’s why my ex-wife struggled so much. She was convinced that it had to be something she did or didn’t do. I never thought that for a second, but I was unable to convince her. She blamed everything from having a glass of wine before she knew she was pregnant to an x-ray she had in her third trimester, after a slight fender-bender in the mall parking lot. Blame was so necessary to her that she never allowed herself to imagine that Mattie was truly perfect in his own way, and that furthermore, God thought that we were strong enough to raise him.”

“You obviously are. Look at you. A man raising his child alone with no challenges is commendable, but you’re doing it…”

“-With a lot of help. Don’t be fooled. My mother is the one who organized the church volunteers to sit with Mattie during my work shifts. She comes every other weekend and takes Mattie back to Tybee Island because she says that I need down time. Much to her dismay, I honestly just sit here and watch the clock until he returns Sunday evening.”

“Do you date?”

Gabe didn’t quite know how to deal with my straightforwardness. He shifted on his stool and blushed.

“Are you asking me out?”

“Heavens no- I mean, you’re a great looking guy and a family man, and trust me there’s nothing sexier than that, but I’m a mess. I should have little orange cones all around me with caution signs posted. I’m rambling.”

I took a big sip of my coffee. I could feel my cheeks flush. They must have been turning a bright shade of red.

“So you’re asking in a general sense?”

“Yes. Why don’t you date…allow yourself the possibility of happiness?”

“My life really isn’t conducive to dating.”

“Well that’s a cop out.”

“I can’t envision a woman getting a glimpse of my life with Mattie and being all in. His own mom bolted on us.”

“It has to be said, from someone much more emotionally immature than you; she’s a moron- a complete jackass, actually. Mothers don’t leave their children. Babies are precious. They’re a gift. You don’t toss the gift just because you don’t like the package it comes in. You’re too forgiving. There are a lot of women out there that would adore you and Mattie.”

Gabe smiled. He obviously wasn’t used to receiving compliments.

“Yeah…they’re beating down the door to get in.”

“First, you have to take the invisible go away sign off the door so they know they’re welcome.”

“Still, I don’t really have an opportunity to meet women.”

“I know one.”

I smirked and he caught on quickly.

“Not that gun happy crazy Brit? I have enough troubles.”

“Her name is Kate and she’s amazing- a little outspoken, but she’s British, what can you expect? They have a dry sense of humor. You get used to it.”

“She is pretty,” he thought aloud, “Why is she here?”

“Her brother and I…well, he and I are involved. It’s complicated. Kate and I are best friends. We all went to college together. She came in after the funeral and is staying here indefinitely, it looks like.”

“What occupation has that kind of flexibility?”

“She’s a writer- magazine articles mostly, but she’s been working on a book for awhile.”

“That’s interesting.”

“You’d be doing me a favor if you asked her out. She doesn’t know anyone around here either and I know that I’m boring her to tears. She’s rude. She’ll tell me eventually. I’d rather head that off at the pass.”

“Well…”

“She thinks you’re hot. She said that when we saw you down at the beach.”

“She did?”

“Yeah. I’ll even babysit Mattie. Why don’t you go tonight? Have some dinner?”

There was a knock at the front door. Gabe excused himself to answer it. I was perturbed that we were interrupted when I was on the crux of sealing the deal. He returned with Kate in tow.

“Look who’s here,” Gabe said fidgeting.

“How was your nap?”

“Uneventful. No crazy ex-husbands disturbing the peace.”

Mattie ran in to the room and stood by Gabe.

“This is Mattie.”

Kate knelt down, realizing that he wouldn’t respond and hugged him tightly.

“Hi Mattie, I’m Kate. I live next door in that big white house. You must come and have tea with me sometime.”

Mattie ran back to the living room and began lining up his trucks. She followed and sat down in front of him, mirroring his every move, car for car, until two lines were forming. I looked up at Gabe and smiled with that ‘told you so’ grin. Kate had just affirmed my earlier argument for dating. I motioned my head towards her, egging him on to be assertive. We walked over to join them. Gabe knelt down beside Mattie and looked up at Kate.

“Mattie has horse therapy at a nearby farm. We usually go for ice cream before he leaves with my mom for the weekend. Would you like to join us?”

Kate was trying to be calm, but she was visibly about to jump out of her skin.

“Love to go.”

Her smile made my heart happy. Maybe her joy would be contagious. She paused and turned her head back toward me, concerned to leave me alone.

“Do we have plans? Do you want to come?”

Gabe realized that she was trying to be inclusive.

“Of course, you’re welcome to come with us, Julia.”

“No. I have thank you notes to write. The sooner I start them, the sooner I’ll be done. Why doesn’t Gabe join us for card night?”

“What’s card night?” Gabe inquired.

“We try our hand at poker and blackjack; have some pizza and a few drinks. We’re not that good, but we enjoy playing.”

“That sounds like fun. Maybe once I get Mattie on his way.”

“Good. It’s settled. I’ll see you both back at the house around seven o’clock? I’ll order the pizzas.”

I said my goodbyes to Mattie and left, relishing in my match making abilities. On my way back to the house, I stopped at the gate to the cemetery. I still couldn’t go in, but I decided to sit awhile in the chapel and ponder Gabe’s opinions on suffering, before heading home.

After fifty notes of thanks, I ordered the pizzas and hopped in the shower. Kate and Gabe arrived a little after seven o’clock. I could tell that they had hit it off. She was laughing like a school girl and hanging on his every word. He was eating it up. He certainly wasn’t used to the attention. He and I were very similar. We were both suffering from a failure to thrive. No one had touched us in so long that we were wasting away. At least Gabe had a prospect. Good for him.

We finished eating and adjourned to the drawing room. Kate turned on music while Gabe shuffled the cards. I filled three baskets full of food. They would act as our poker chips. We took our seats. Let the games begin.