“And last Thursday?”
“Yes, she arrived at eight in the morning, but left almost immediately because Frankie had problems with his glucose levels. The se?ora was very angry. She told Kathryn to leave and not come back.”
“They had an argument?”
“Yes.”
“What did Mrs. Leroy have against her?”
“She said she was brazen and vulgar.”
“Did she tell her that to her face?”
“She used to tell me. And her husband.”
Evelyn explained that Kathryn Brown had been looking after Frankie for a year. From the start she got on badly with Cheryl Leroy, who thought she was indecent because she came to work in low-cut T-shirts with her breasts half-exposed. She was rude and common, with the manners of a platoon sergeant, Cheryl used to say, and besides, there were no signs of improvement in Frankie. She had given Evelyn instructions that she should always be present when the Brown woman was working with him, and to tell her at once if she saw any signs of abuse. She did not trust Kathryn and thought she was very rough with the exercises. Once or twice she had wanted to fire her, but her husband was against it, as he was with all her initiatives. In his view, Frankie was simply a spoiled brat and Cheryl was jealous of the physical therapist because she was young and pretty. For her part, Kathryn Brown also spoke badly of Mrs. Leroy behind her back. She thought Cheryl treated her son like a baby, and that children needed authority. Frankie ought to be eating on his own: if he could use a computer he could hold a spoon and brush his teeth, but how was he going to learn with that alcoholic, drugged mother of his who spent all her time in the gym, as if that could keep old age at bay? Her husband was going to leave her, that was for sure.
Evelyn would listen to the accusations from both sides with her mind a blank. She never repeated any of it. Her grandmother had washed her brothers’ mouths out with soap whenever they said anything dirty, and hers whenever she repeated gossip. She found out about her employers’ arguments because the walls of the house kept no secrets. Frank Leroy, who was so cold with his employees and his son, so controlled even when the boy suffered an attack or tantrum, would fly into a rage with his wife at the slightest excuse. That Thursday Cheryl, who was worried about Frankie’s hypoglycemia and suspected it was the physical therapist who had caused it, disobeyed her husband’s orders and fired her.
“Sometimes Mr. Leroy threatens his wife,” Evelyn told them. “He once put a pistol in her mouth. I wasn’t spying, I promise. The door was half-open. He said he was going to kill her and Frankie.”
“Does he hit his wife? Or Frankie?” asked Lucia.
“He doesn’t touch the boy, but Frankie knows he doesn’t love him.”
“You haven’t answered if he hits his wife.”
“Sometimes she has bruises on her body, never the face. She always says she fell.”
“And do you believe her?”
“She falls over from the pills or the whiskey, and I have to pick her up and put her to bed. But the bruises come from fights with Mr. Leroy. I feel sorry for her, she’s not happy at all.”
“How could she be, with a husband and son like that . . .”
“She adores Frankie. She says that with love and rehabilitation he’s going to get better.”
“That’s impossible,” muttered Richard.
“From what I see, Frankie is the se?ora’s only joy. They love each other so much! You should see how happy Frankie is when his mother is with him. They spend hours playing, and often the se?ora sleeps with him.”
“She must be very anxious about her son’s health,” commented Lucia.
“Yes, Frankie’s health is very delicate. Could we call the house again?”
“No, Evelyn. It’s too risky,” Lucia said. “We know his mother was with him last night. We can assume that if you’re not there, she’ll take care of him. Let’s go back to our most pressing problem: what to do with the body.”
Richard caved in so quickly that later on he was amazed at his own inconsistency. Reflecting on it, he concluded he had spent years fearful of any change that might threaten his security, and yet perhaps it was not fear but anticipation: maybe he harbored a secret desire for divine intervention to descend and disrupt his perfect, monotonous existence. Evelyn Ortega, with this corpse in her trunk, was the exaggerated reply to this latent wish. He needed to call his father because today he would not be able to take him out for their customary Sunday lunch. For a brief moment he was tempted to tell him what they were going to do to help Evelyn, because he was sure that old Joseph would be applauding from his wheelchair. He’d tell him later on, in person, so that he could see the look of approval on his father’s face. For whatever reason, he put up only minimal resistance to Lucia’s arguments, and went off to look for a map and a magnifying glass. The idea of getting rid of the body, which only a short time earlier he had flatly rejected, now seemed to him inevitable, the only logical solution to a problem that all of a sudden was his as well.