Coral looked back at the police officers.
There was a third person now, perhaps the driver of the maroon car, and Coral studied him, thinking it might be her friend Tom. Tom Darling wouldn’t be here unless something big was happening. He might come out if there was a negotiation. Was that what this was? The man turned, and it was Tom. Coral had met him in a Leadership Las Vegas class nearly a decade ago. They were paired for the shift in a patrol car, and Tom had needled the officer driving them. “Hey look at that lowrider. Think his plates are right?” And the officer had thought Tom was serious, but Coral knew that Tom was being ironic, messing with the patrol officer to see how he thought. Or maybe he was trying to make a connection with her, a black woman riding in a white cop’s car. She hadn’t really known, even then, why Tom had needled their driver or what he really thought. Who was he making fun of? Maybe himself.
Still, Coral liked Tom. What was he doing here?
Coral almost went back inside. She wanted to get her phone. Maybe there was something on the news. But she was looking at Tom, thinking about whether she might go tell him she was there, when she saw the flash of the school bus pulling away in the distance. She looked at her watch. Three thirty. Malaya would be coming home.
30
Ms. Navarro had stopped talking.
The man had told her about the paternity test, and at first, she kept protesting. She yelled out, “You don’t know Malaya! She gets these cockeyed ideas. She’s very wild. She’s tricked you, gotten some blood. You don’t know how wild she is.”
And the man stood there. Listening. Not saying anything. Not moving.
It was obvious that Ms. Navarro was wrong. This man, this huge man with a gun and a ring larger than her wristwatch, was Malaya’s father. And Ms. Navarro did not want him to know. Had somehow hidden the child from him.
Now here Engracia was, with memories of her own child filling every cell in her body, in this ridiculous moment, with a man who might kill her, who might kill Ms. Navarro, who might kill himself. Who really, after all, had some reason for what he was doing. Because who would not hate the person who had stolen your child from you?
She thought of Juan, and of how Diego had missed him, and, for some reason, of a time when Juan was galloping around the little apartment with Diego on his shoulders, and somehow galloped too high and banged Diego’s head on a low section of the ceiling. Diego started to cry, and Engracia was annoyed. Then she saw Juan’s face, crumpled and aghast. Diego saw it too, and the boy stopped crying to lean over and kiss Juan’s cheek, saying, “Papa, it’s okay. It didn’t hurt. Papa, it’s okay.”
“Rita,” the man was saying, “My lawyer phoned you as soon as Malaya and I did the tests. He sent you a letter. It was certified mail. I know you got it.”
“I threw it away.”
“You threw away a certified letter? Without opening it?”
“It was from Chicago.”
“Did you listen to his messages?”
“No,” she shook her head. “But you did look for me. You said you didn’t.”
“Malaya gave me your address. I didn’t look for you.”
Honorata stared at him defiantly, but all he said was, “You hated me this much?”
“Yes.”
His voice was very soft. “I didn’t hate you. I missed you.”
Ms. Navarro looked at him, and Engracia could see the tremor in her back and her shoulders.
“I never meant for you to feel like that about what happened,” he went on. “I thought you wanted to come. I thought you chose me.”
The pain that crossed Ms. Navarro’s face was unguarded and intense. Engracia understood that she could not speak.
“I’m not what you think I am. But I know why you feel that way. I’ve had years to think about it. To think about what I did. To think about how you felt.”
Engracia looked from one face to the other. What had happened between these two? She thought of Malaya—that odd girl with the striped hair and the tattoo. This man might be surprised by Malaya.
“It didn’t matter what you wanted. It was what you did.”
“I know. I know that, Rita.”
“Honorata.”
“Honorata. I know what I did. I’ve spent seventeen years thinking about it. About your uncle. About how angry I was. About how I didn’t care what that meant for you.”
“She’s not your daughter.”
“She is.”
“No. No!”
Engracia watched Ms. Navarro fold over then, her face in her hands, and she saw the tears leak out from her fingers, and she saw the way the man watched those tears, watched Ms. Navarro. And the room was very quiet.
The telephone rang.
Engracia jumped.
“Don’t answer it.”
They had all been sitting, frozen in place, for a while. Ten minutes? Half an hour? It was impossible to tell. Engracia’s mind wandered. She felt her mother near, though she knew her mother was in the village—she would be making tortillas, and talking with one of the other women while she waited for her sons to come home—and yet Engracia could feel her presence, as she had longed to feel her presence when Diego was hurt, as she had tried to feel it night after night in the months since. But her mother was here, somehow, now.
The phone stopped ringing. And then started again.
They all ignored it.
Engracia shifted her position, and the man said, “You have to stay here. We stay here until we figure this out.”
Engracia settled back into her seat. Ms. Navarro did not move, the man did not move. It was not clear what would break the stillness.
“Honorata, I’m not here to hurt you. I tried every way I could to reach you.”
“That’s why you bring a gun? To my home?”
The screech in her voice startled all of them. A vein in Engracia’s temple throbbed. She looked at the man.
“I shouldn’t have brought the gun.”
“Get rid of it! Get it out of here! I’m not talking to a man with a gun.”
“Will you talk with me if I put it in my car?”
Ms. Navarro stopped speaking again.
The phone rang.
“Honorata, I don’t want this gun. I shouldn’t have brought it. I wasn’t going to bring it in. But I—I don’t know, I couldn’t reach you. I’ve been sitting in that car, outside your door, all morning. I got—I got crazy. Sitting there. Thinking.”
Ms. Navarro would not look at him. She had moved inside herself; Engracia could not guess what she was thinking or feeling anymore. Had anyone heard her say “Gun. Man”? Was there anyone who had an idea something was happening here?
Engracia was not afraid—or not completely afraid. Her body still shook; she feared the rip of the bullet. She feared how death would happen. She waited for Honorata to grab the gun. She waited for the struggle, the sound. How much would it hurt? Dios had put her here. He had put her here for a reason. So she would pay attention. She would be ready. She would be grateful for these last moments, how it felt to see and smell and hear, how her skin tingled, how she could sense her mother—but not Diego. Her son was too young, she had decided, too young to let her feel him.