Jimbo didn’t say anything to her about these trips. He didn’t speak about Las Vegas anymore, he never mentioned gambling. He also said nothing about a wedding. One night when they were naked, he slapped her bottom hard, and another night, her cheek. Now and then, he told her a dirty story.
Honorata spent hours roaming the streets surrounding Jimbo’s home, her eyes averted, imagining that Jimbo had someone watching her. She walked dully, her knees aching with the miles traversed, timing the speed of cars passing on the busy road. Timing them, estimating when they would pass her, thinking about what would be possible. The awareness of what she was doing would rend her nauseous, weak limbed. She would think carefully, It’s not true that I’ve missed my last chance. Her father used to say that tomorrow might always be better than today. He had said she was a strong girl, that God did not forget his children. And what would Tatay think of his daughter now?
Tatay had told her lots of stories about his parents, who had died in a bus accident when she was only five. They had gone to Manila and ridden on the top of a double-decker bus all the way down Roxas Boulevard. But there was an accident—her father never learned exactly what happened—and the bus flipped on its side right near the church. Many fell out of the top, but only Lola and Lolo were killed. Every year, Tatay went to Manila in June and prayed for his parents. When he came back, he would tell Honorata again the stories he knew of them and of how they had grown up. How Lola had been an orphan and lived on the streets. How Lolo had met her when he was in the army. How they had come back to his village, and, at first, the family had not accepted Lola, who was not from the mountains, but when she died, the whole village had mourned her.
In this story was something about Lola’s past. Even as a child, Honorata had known it. But she didn’t know what Lola had done or why the villagers mistrusted her initially. Tatay had wanted her to know about his mother. Maybe not everything, but the important thing: that once she had been shunned and then she had been loved.
Honorata thought about this story, and about Tatay telling her this story, nearly every day.
In October Jimbo came to her room excited.
“We’re going to Vegas tomorrow. Martin will be here to take us to the airport at seven. Bring that green dress.”
She looked at him, surprised.
He didn’t say anything more, and she didn’t ask any questions. He took her from behind on the bed, her face pressed into the flowered satin, and then he left.
“Be ready at six thirty.”
That night, Honorata packed the small bag her uncle had given her. Jimbo hadn’t said how long they’d be gone. She packed four dresses and several pairs of sandals. She packed a swimsuit. Was it always hot in Las Vegas? She added a white sweater. She didn’t have any identification. Jimbo had taken her passport when she arrived, nearly a year ago now. The passport her uncle had ready and waiting.
15
Years ago, when Coral was a junior in high school, her mother had kept her home—on a day she had a world history test—to go to the funeral of Odell Dibb, who owned the El Capitan on the Strip. It was a crowded service, but they had arrived an hour early and had seats even though many others stood or waited outside. Coral had never been in the First Congregational Church, and the only thing she knew about Odell Dibb was that her mother thought he was a good man. She didn’t know why her mama had made her attend the funeral; she didn’t like to miss school, and Ray Junior could have gone instead.
They weren’t the only black people, though. There were quite a few, and the Reverend Sherrell, from Antioch Baptist, was one of the men who spoke. He said that Mr. Del Dibb had been good to the African American community, had been part of the desegregation of the Strip in 1960, one of the negotiators of the Moulin Rouge pact, and even before that, he had been a champion and a fair man to whom plenty of local people owed a debt. There were other speakers too, and Coral shifted around in the hard pew, thinking about whether she could make up her world history test at lunch the next day and whether or not the teacher would be annoyed at her.
There was a large photograph of Odell next to the casket at the front. He was a white man, tall, with fine blond hair; the only interesting thing was his tie, which was fuchsia with narrow silver stripes instead of plain navy or red. Coral gave him credit for the tie. She glanced at her mother, who would not appreciate knowing her daughter’s not-very-solemn thoughts. Sometimes, her mama could tell what she was thinking, but Augusta just sat there, large and calm and elegant, with a black hat and the small white Bible she always held in church.
There weren’t many young people there. Why had Mama brought her? Mr. Dibb’s son, who looked about her age, sat with his mother at the front. They faced out, toward the congregation, which struck Coral as cruel. She gathered that Mr. Dibb had died suddenly, maybe a heart attack or a stroke. People kept saying he was only fifty-four, which didn’t seem that young. Anyway, his son was trying hard not to cry, and his face had a strained, purply look to it. He had wire-rimmed glasses and the same blond hair as his father, and Coral felt sorry for him. She’d never had a dad, but it would be terrible to lose one, and maybe Odell Dibb was a pretty nice guy, because his son was so upset. Mr. Dibb’s wife wore a hat with a low brim, and sunglasses, even in church, so Coral couldn’t tell what she might be like. She was small, and even though she had to be old too, she was wearing high black heels. She did not move the feet in those heels, even once, even a twitch, in all the time that Coral watched her.
When the service was over, Augusta nodded her head to one or two people but hustled Coral out quickly. They did not walk over to the reception hall afterward and they obviously weren’t going to the burial.
“I’ll drop you off at school. Then you’ll only miss half a day.”
“I don’t want to go to school in this dress.”
Her mama just looked at her, with one eyebrow raised.
“I already missed my world history test. I really don’t have anything I have to do there now.”
“Well, I’ll let you figure that out, Miss Coral, whether you have anything to do with your afternoon in school.”
Mama was mad. That sort of thing made her mad. Fine. She’d go to school, in a dress, but she was taking off these nylons as soon as she got there. Mama would never know about that.