Skye’s face changed at his parting remark. She looked both heart-broken and enraged. The last thing Damian saw as they led him away was her back, shoulders hunched over the table.
That was the only time Skye came to see Damian in prison. He didn’t see her again for the rest of his incarceration, not once over the next seven years.
DAMIAN STOOD AT THE ENTRANCE of Casa Paloma, by the tall wrought iron gates that had once barred his way. The first thing he’d done when he got out of prison was to put in an offer, and he stood now as master, where his mother had been the help. The few prospective buyers with the means to afford the property had turned away from the daunting task of restoring it. Years of neglect had left it in disarray. Vine-smothered walls and balconies obscured Casa Paloma’s graceful lines. Overgrown trees encroached like dark shadows around the edges. The garden had transformed into a jaundiced mess of dry, tangled weeds, trash bags, and empty beer bottles.
Damian removed the chains and pushed the gates open. They squeaked from worn, rusty joints. The main house stood before him, its boarded-up windows staring at him with pale, blank eyes. Damian walked past it, ignoring the flurry of grasshoppers that clamored out of his way, to the small, modest building in the back that had once housed the staff. It was a single row of dormitory style rooms with a communal bathroom and kitchen. He stood outside the third door, overcome with nostalgia and a strange, tight knot in his throat. MaMaLu’s broom was still leaning against the wall, mummified in layers of dust and cobwebs. Damian shuffled his feet at the entrance.
“It’s me, MaMaLu,” he said, trying to get the words past his clenched throat. “Your Estebandido is home.”
The door remained shut. There was no one to let him in, no one to stare him down for being a bad boy. Damian leaned his forehead against the door and traced the frame. Flakes of peeling paint fell on his shoes. His let his hand rest on the knob for a minute before walking in.
The room was much smaller than he remembered. A single shaft of sunlight lit up the dark, musty space. There was no lingering scent of the jasmine hair oil that MaMaLu used. The fabric partition between their beds lay crumbled on the ground, from the night they’d taken MaMaLu away. There were no tostadas waiting for him, no glass of horchata, but what broke Damian that quiet morning was her bed. MaMaLu’s bed was never unmade, but now it sat there, sheets pulled back, pillow askew, covered in dust. They had dragged her out, and it had stayed behind, empty and forgotten, unmade for the last twenty-three years.
Damian was moved to action. He took the bed sheets outside and shook the dust out of them. He pounded the pillow, turned the case upside down and shook it some more. He made the bed up, stretched the sheets out tight so not a single crease marked the surface. He turned down the top sheet and tucked the ends in. He returned MaMaLu’s pillow, stood back, repositioned it, and stood back again. A speck of dust settled on the covers, and Damian, determined to have nothing mar MaMaLu’s bed, started the whole process over again.