Coral backed out of her garage slowly. There were people walking in the street, and she looked down at her phone, to see if she had any messages, while they walked by. She clicked through the list—Ada’s riot of emoticons and a cat video from Isa—and then she backed her car onto the street.
It was Malaya walking. Malaya and an older man, quite large. They were straight ahead of her, and in her rearview mirror, she caught sight of Honorata standing near her mailbox, watching the two. Something about her pose alerted Coral, and she looked again. Was that Malaya’s father?
His head was tipped down, listening to his daughter. He was a big man, but he walked lightly. Beside him, Malaya Begtang’s face was lit up. She was talking, and her hands were moving, and while Coral watched her, she took a little skipping step, either to catch up with her father’s stride or out of pleasure—Coral couldn’t tell. She looked young, younger than she had seemed in a long time, and Coral thought of the little girl who would stop by to show Trey her artwork, or to ask if she could give the little boys some suman her grandmother had made. That little girl had been so beautiful, so full of light.
For a second, Coral imagined she saw that light shining off Malaya’s rainbow hair, reflecting on her father’s navy suit. She thought of her own boys, of the way they still curled into her lap or into Koji’s, like animals claiming their owned territory. She thought of Trey, and of her husband standing on his tiptoes to rest an arm around his nephew’s shoulders. She thought of her brother telling everyone at school that she was a 100 percent Jackson. She thought of her mother, holding her hand as they sang at Macedonia Baptist on Sundays. And here was Malaya, looking into the face of the father she had thought she might never know.
Malaya and her father reached the corner. As they turned to walk toward the park, the girl looked back, past Coral in her car, to her mother still standing near the mailbox. The girl looked, and she smiled, and she waved. Tiny in the rearview mirror, Honorata waved back.
36
Coral had lived in Las Vegas for nearly all of her forty-nine years, but she had never set foot in the El Capitan. It was ironic that she would be headed there now—nearly two years after it had been scheduled for demolition, more than three decades since her father had died, now that her brother no longer owned it.
But Engracia worked at the El Capitan—had apparently worked there before her son had died—and she had been so reluctant to meet with Coral, so reluctant to discuss that day or what she had done, Coral wasn’t about to complicate things by not accepting the first place she suggested. Engracia would come to the Midnight Cafe at nine in the morning, just after her shift ended. Coral had intended to be there early, but Isa couldn’t find his baseball mitt, and Gus had yelled that if he were late, he wouldn’t get to play and why did Isa always lose his things, and so Coral had stopped to help Isa find his glove, and Koji had given her a quick kiss; she could catch up with them later.
She was on her way to the El Capitan to meet Engracia at the request of Honorata.
Her neighbor had knocked on the door a few weeks after the incident and asked if she had time for some tea. She had made a cake, if Coral wanted to come down. So Coral, who wondered why Honorata had not called first, raised her eyebrow to Koji, ruffled the top of Isa’s hair, and told them she’d be back in an hour or so.
Honorata’s house was very clean. There were several pieces of furniture made of black lacquered wood, and, as usual, there was not a speck of dust showing. There were embroidered pillows on each chair, and embroidered curtains in the kitchen; Honorata had made these. It was a cheerful room, very light, and Honorata’s mother was there, playing something on an iPad.
“Hello, Mrs. Navarro. It’s nice to see you.”
Honorata’s mother stopped playing her game long enough to stand up and give her neighbor a hug. “Hello, hello,” she said. Coral had never heard her speak much more English than this, but Nanay had been sending Malaya down with plates of lumpia and pancit for years. Coral knew that Nanay appreciated how Malaya felt about them: had noticed the hours Keisha spent playing with her when she was a toddler, had observed Trey’s gentle teasing when she was eight, knew how much Gus and Isa had loved their babysitter.
Honorata motioned for Coral to sit down, and then she brought out a cake, decorated with coconut and set on a clear glass cake stand.
“It’s a beautiful cake.”
Honorata’s mother nodded approvingly.
“Good cook. My daughter good cook.”
Coral thought of Augusta, who had lived in her own house to the very end. She had never been sick enough to leave it, though Coral had always thought that her mother would one day live with her, and that she would have the chance to care for Augusta in the way her mother had cared for her. But it wasn’t to be. At seventy-six, which wasn’t so old, her heart gave out. They’d always known it would be her heart.
Honorata sliced the cake, poured some tea, and placed three sections of tangerine on each plate before handing one to Coral and another to her mother.
“Is Malaya home?”
“She’s asleep. I want to talk before she comes down.”
“Of course.”
Coral had thought Honorata might want to explain about Malaya’s father, but she didn’t say anything about James Wohlmann. She must have known that Malaya had told Coral everything, but Honorata didn’t give Coral any more information. This also made Coral think of Augusta, and how her own mother had never felt the need to explain herself. Still, Coral had just seen Malaya walking down the street with her father; she wondered how things were going.
“My housekeeper, Engracia . . .”
“Yes.”
“I’m worried.”
“Malaya told me about her son.”
“Yes. But that’s not why I’m worried.”
“Oh.”
Honorata did not continue right away, so Coral took another bite of cake. The grandmother patted her arm in an encouraging way. Finally, her neighbor continued.
“She’s nice person, this housekeeper. Wise person. Even though she’s very young.”
Honorata wiped some crumbs off the counter, added some more cake to her mother’s plate, picked up a napkin that had fallen to the floor.
“She might not be legal. Immigrant, I mean.”
“Right. Well, I don’t think what happened here will matter. The police don’t turn that sort of stuff over to Immigration. And she didn’t do anything.”
“Yes. I see.”
“Is she still working for you? Is she worried Immigration will find her?”
“No. She hasn’t come back to work here.”
Coral could have predicted that Honorata would not tell her why. Her neighbor didn’t have ordinary conversations with people. Talking with her was like throwing a ball against a cracked wall: it bounced back, but not necessarily the way you predicted.
“She took the gun.”
“What?”
“She took Jimbo’s gun. She hid it in her pocket. The police didn’t search her.”
“Wow.”
“That took a lot of courage. To take a gun when she’s not legal. Right?”