“It’s close to my home. I can walk from there.”
So Coral took her to Saint Anne’s, and watched while she pulled open the heavy door and stepped inside the sanctuary. They’d said very little in the car. Coral had asked her if she could get her something to eat or drink, and Engracia had refused. Coral had explained that she was the choir teacher at a high school, had taught music at an elementary school before that, that she had known Malaya from the time she was a baby.
To this, the housekeeper said very little.
“Listen, what happened to you today. It might have been pretty traumatic. It might come back to you. And if so, you should talk to someone. The priest or something.”
Coral felt foolish saying this: it was none of her business, and she didn’t know why she’d said it. She just wanted to say something. It had to have been terrifying, and this woman seemed so forlorn.
Engracia looked at her strangely.
“Today?”
“Yes. I mean, I don’t know what happened, but—well, it must have been frightening.”
“Today didn’t scare me. Today doesn’t matter.”
It was a strange reply. Sad. Coral didn’t know what to say in return.
“Okay. Well, I’m sorry. I’m not prying. I wish you well.”
“Thank you for the ride.”
“You’re welcome.”
Coral still felt foolish, but she was glad she’d driven Engracia. The bus really might not have come for hours. And it was much too far to walk.
It wasn’t until the next evening, after Malaya had told her some of what had happened, that she understood what Engracia’s strange words had meant.
35
The man stood at the door a long time before ringing the bell.
He had walked up the steps quickly, with confidence. He had been about to push the bell, and then paused, his hand just inches from the button. He stood there, thinking, hesitating. And then he dropped his hand to his side and stared at the door.
Unless the person inside was watching for him, there was no way to know he had arrived. It took him a long time. More than five minutes. Maybe ten. His chest heaved slowly, in and out. Who knows what he was thinking. Whether he was afraid. The minutes, the years, he might have been reliving.
He rang the doorbell.
Jimbo was wearing a suit. A very nice navy suit, with a white shirt and a narrow mustard-colored tie. His shoes were expensive, of course, and recently polished. He looked good. Not old and red and fat, as he had looked that day.
“Honorata.”
He handed her a bouquet of white roses and a box of croissants from Bouchon. He must be staying at the Venetian. She started to say his name, to say hello, but seeing him so soon after the way he had terrified her, even though she had invited him to come this time; suddenly Honorata didn’t trust herself to speak. She took the flowers and motioned him to come inside.
Jimbo did not look at the study as he passed it. He followed the line of her arm, directing him to the table in the kitchen. It was a sunny nook, and outside the bay window, the wisteria was thick with its violet blooms and the door to the backyard was open, so that they could hear the bees buzzing, delirious in their lavender nirvana. An old woman, very tiny, sat with her eyes closed and her face to the sun near the far wall. Rita’s mother. He set the pastry box on the table. Honorata opened a cupboard and found a vase.
“I’ll just put these in water.”
“Sure.”
“I’ve made coffee.”
“That’ll be nice.”
And he stood there, so large in her kitchen, too large for the narrow wooden chairs, and he didn’t seem to know what to do, whether to stand or to sit, what to say.
“Please sit.”
He looked around, perhaps wondering where Malaya was. Honorata did not say she was upstairs, probably listening.
“Here are some plates. And napkins. I’ll bring you coffee.”
Jimbo nodded his head, but did not risk speaking. He pulled out a chair and settled himself into the seat gingerly. Honorata’s kitchen made him feel like crying. There were embroidered curtains at the window over the sink and a red wooden frame where cups hung crookedly. A small ceramic tiger, made by a child, sat in the kitchen window, along with a dusty popsicle frame surrounding the faded photo of a small girl. There was a set of brightly decorated canisters for flour and sugar and tea; there was a teakettle on the stove. The yellow-and-blue mat near the sink was folded under at one corner; Honorata straightened it with her foot while she clipped the ends of the roses.
It was everything he had wanted, everything he had hoped for, everything he had finally put aside that night at Caesars when this very woman had told him she never wanted to see him again. A wave of bitterness passed over him, a taste like bile, but almost immediately, he felt remorse. It wasn’t her fault. He knew this. He had known it a long time. But he had wanted a family. There had been so much loneliness. And when Malaya had found him, he had almost gotten them all killed. He wanted, suddenly, to be out of this kitchen, away from her. He pushed his chair back from the table.
“Do you want cream and sugar?”
He paused, about to stand.
“No.”
And too, there was the way she had yelled, “I hate you! I hate you!” over and over. All these years later. She still hated him. Had anyone ever hated him before? Jimbo wasn’t the sort of person people hated. Usually he was someone people did not notice. Old and fat and somehow unappealing; for as long as he could remember, he had sensed the way that he was slightly repellent to others. He didn’t know why. He kept himself very clean. He wore good clothes. He spoke respectfully. But it had always been there, like a pheromone that repelled.
“Thank you for coming,” Honorata said quietly. “I know you could have met Malaya without me. She would have gone with you.”
Jimbo said nothing.
“But my mother’s going with you tonight. You understand?”
“Of course. I’m glad she’ll come.”
“I was wondering what you’re going to do. Where you’re going to go with Malaya?”
Jimbo had given this a lot of thought. All he really wanted was a chance to see her, to listen to her talk, but he wanted her to enjoy it too.
“I thought maybe we would see Celine Dion tonight. Or Jersey Boys. Has she seen those?”
Honorata looked taken aback.
“You’re taking her out?”
Jimbo was equally flustered.
“I’m not taking my daughter out. I just want to do something nice. I’m sixty-six years old. I don’t know what Malaya likes.”