Elevator, The (14 page)

When they are finally escorted from this building, photographers will snap their cameras and reporters will listen for sound bites to play on the six o’clock news.

Sonny will take her home, where the kids will welcome her with open arms. She’ll soak for an hour in her whirlpool tub, then she’ll slip into her robe, take the pistol from her coat pocket and shoot her worthless husband between the eyes.

She’ll be suitably distraught when the police arrive. With the children by her side, she’ll point to the door that leads from her bedroom to the pool. “There,” she’ll say. “An intruder. He came in and murdered my husband.”

When the police wonder about a motive, Gina will gently suggest that the publicity attracted the attention of a wild-eyed lunatic, possibly someone who lost a relative in the hurricane. Crazed with grief, he came to the house because he thought Sonny didn’t deserve to have his wife safely returned to him….

She lowers her head and rubs her temple. Okay, so there are a few problems with the scenario—fingerprints and gunpowder residue, all kinds of details to consider. But she’ll figure something out. She has hours to think and plan.

She glances at the others. The maid, who seems more nanny than daredevil, is coiled into the shadows at the back; Michelle is watching the elevator buttons as if she expects them to spring to life at any moment. The woman is unrealistic to the core, but optimism might be part of her nature. She reminds Gina of her college roommate, Trina, who attacked everything from her studies to her love life with the confidence of a girl who knows the power of her charms.

If she weren’t so damnably frustrating, she might be good company.

Gina props her shoulder against the wall and lowers her head. Despite her distress, her thoughts keep drifting toward Sonny. Why is that? Force of habit? Like phantom pains from a limb no longer attached to a body, she may always think of Sonny as if he’s only in the next room.

But even bad habits can be eradicated. One thing’s for sure—Sonny has never loved her the way this Carlos fellow loves the Mexican girl. Gina still can’t believe Isabel’s story—how can a man meet a woman, feel sorry for her and commit to her, just like that? He had to have another reason, some angle to play, but Gina can see nothing in the girl’s face or figure that would suitably reward a man for taking an unremarkable girl into his life.

She finds herself recalling a moment clipped out of time, perfectly preserved by the alchemy of memory: Sonny at the kitchen table in navy slacks and a white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A sharpened pencil rests on his ear.

Her younger self sits across from him, a secondhand typewriter beneath her fingertips, a nine-month-pregnant belly balanced on her lap. She is barefoot because the day is a scorcher, while a portable fan on the floor tries its best to move the heavy air.

Sonny is poring over actuarial tables, preparing to send out quotes for a stack of prospective customers.

“Sonny—” she frowns at a scribbled note on a page “—I can’t read this.”

“Hmm?”

“Your letter to John McKee.” She picks up the steno pad and turns it to face him. “See this?” She taps the spot with a fingertip. “What is that supposed to be?”

She holds the notepad aloft while she finishes proofing an already-typed page; when she looks up, she finds Sonny staring at her. “What?”

He says nothing, but leans his head on his fist and smiles.

“Sonny, don’t tease. What are you doing?”

“Looking at you,” he says. “At my beautiful, intelligent, wonderful wife.”

And at his words her heart jolts, her pulse pounds and her first honest-to-goodness labor contraction steals her breath. “Ooooooh.” She drops the steno pad and pushes away from the table. One hand flies to the small of her back. “Oh, Sonny!”

“Baby, are you—is it—”

“Time,” she snaps between clenched teeth. “I think it’s time.”

While Sonny races for the suitcase, the car keys and the list of family phone numbers, Gina stands and watches in alarm as her water breaks and floods the kitchen floor. Matthew comes into the world two hours later, emerging from between her legs to land in Sonny’s capable hands.

And Sonny…weeps. He lifts the wet baby and kisses it, then he brings Matthew to Gina and kisses her forehead, her nose, her cheeks, all the while thanking her for giving him a son.

She lifts her head and blinks the images of the past away. Sonny had been no less grateful and moved at the birth of his daughters, and with each child Gina felt that no two people could be more closely bonded than she and her husband.

In those days, she never dreamed her marriage could die. But over the years she has gradually transferred her passion for Sonny to her children, who have thrived in its light and love.

Sonny never even noticed…or did he?

I
sabel curls into the corner and wraps her arms more tightly around her legs. Though the car is warm and perspiration has dampened her forehead, an uncontrollable current moves through her body, shivering the coward that lives within her skin.

These
gringas
are trying to act brave, but still they talk of dying. What do they know of death? The one with red hair says she has been reviewing her life, but her hand is weighted with a diamond big enough to choke an iguana. What will she review, all the presents she has received? The comfort she has known?

The other woman, the younger one, speaks too loudly and too quickly. She is trying to fool herself into thinking they will be rescued at any moment, just as Isabel once thought the
policía
would protect her family.

She used to dream of such crazy things. She dreamed of dancing with a handsome man and being called beautiful. She dreamed of having babies and going to church with her husband and laughing with the other village women as she worked to care for her own family.

Yes, she has a family now, but she is too afraid to go to church, too terrified to hope for happiness and too ashamed of her fear to pray for courage. Carlos pretends not to care that Rafael is not his son, just as he pretends she is beautiful. He is a good man, sometimes a foolish man, and he will be dead if Isabel does anything to attract the wrong kind of attention.

If she makes a single mistake, her family will be killed.

Ernesto promised he would find her if she ran away. The authorities in America can be bribed, he warned her, and they watch everyone, all the time.
So if you run from me,
chica,
I will find you. I will pay many American dollars to find where you are, and I will come in the dark and cut you while you sleep.

Carlos does not understand why she wants to work the night shift.

Why she can only sleep in the day.

Isabel pressed her head into her mother’s lap and sobbed. As tears rolled over her cheeks, hot spurts of loss and shame, she confessed everything, even Ernesto’s threats. “I am only glad,” she finished, “that
Papá
is not alive to see the way I have disgraced him.”

“Shh, Isabel.”
Mamá
stroked the tears from Isabel’s face, her fingers cool against her daughter’s flushed skin.
“Silencio, chica.”

After a while
Mamá
pulled Isabel into her arms, dried her tears and told her not to worry. “Your
papá
was not afraid of the drug dealers,” she said, her own tears barely dammed. “We will not be afraid, either. We will go to the authorities and tell them what Ernesto has asked you to do.”

And then, to demonstrate her courage,
Mamá
went to the
teléfono
and called the police. A sergeant took her name and said he would see her
mañana.

Across the room, Isabel listened as tears flowed down her face. But she was no longer weeping; her tears were a simple overflow of feeling for her parents, both of whom had courage enough to stand up for what was right.

She remained by her mother’s side for the rest of the night, keeping an eye on the clock as they folded laundry and listened to the radio. She dreaded Rodrigo’s approach because she would have to tell him what she’d done. He would listen. And then he would tell her she’d been a fool to approach Ernesto Fuentes.

Rodrigo had not come home by the time her mother put out the lamp. “You know your brother,”
Mamá
said, a tight smile on her lips. “Young men stay out too late.”

That night Isabel lay in a rectangle of moonlight that slanted through the window and drifted over her bed. Music came through the window, the soothing sound of her neighbor’s guitar, but though her thoughts were thick with fatigue, she would not let herself sleep until Rodrigo came through the door.

Shortly after one, she heard footsteps in the courtyard. She threw back her blanket and padded to the front door, then peeked out the window. No one moved in the moonlight, but a pale shape lay on the cobblestone path.

A smile tipped the corner of her mouth. Had Rodrigo come home drunk? If so, she would not be the only one suffering from shame in the morning.

Drawing her nightshirt closer around her neck, she opened the door a crack. When no one jumped out from behind the courtyard wall, she opened the door wider and peered into the night.

What she saw made her blood run cold. Rodrigo lay motionless on the path, tinged with blue and clad only in his underwear. His bare legs had been crossed at the ankle and fastened to the ground with a spike; his arms had been extended and firmly fixed through each wrist. Blood trickled from a stab wound not in his side, but at his heart.

Above his head, where Pontius Pilate had posted
This is the King of the Jews,
another tyrant had staked a different note:
Esta Puedo Ser Su Madre.

This could be your mother.

Isabel ran forward and clutched the note to her breast, then rocked back on her bent legs and shattered the silence with her screams.

Michelle shifts her weight and tries to find a more comfortable position. One of her hip bones keeps grinding against the tile floor and she can’t deny that her bladder feels fuller than it did the last time she checked her watch. What are they going to do if they’re trapped for several more hours?

Gina aims a perfectly painted fingernail in Michelle’s direction. “It’s going to get worse, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“The discomfort, the stress, the need for a bathroom.” Gina’s gaze drops to her empty hands. “We’re going to be a mess by the time we get out of here.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Michelle glances at the walls, which gleam like chocolate in the emergency light. “We might be tired and a little hungry, but I don’t think I’ll be in desperate need of a bathroom for a while. I can hold out until Eddie gets here.”

The redhead’s mouth twists in bitter amusement. “You really think he’s coming?”

“I do.”

“Then I hate to break the bad news. That man is probably tucked away somewhere safe and he’s written us off. Face it, dear heart, no one is coming for us until after the storm has passed. Sunday night, maybe Monday morning, they’ll send out rescue teams. If we’re lucky, we’ll be out of here Monday. If we’re not lucky…” She lowers her head to her bent knees and clasps her hands around her ankles, then turns her face toward the closed doors.

Michelle waits, but Gina doesn’t finish her thought. Hopelessness is seeping through the car like poisonous gas. Soon they’ll all be affected unless—

“Maybe,” she says, looking at Isabel, “if we keep our minds off the hurricane and try not to think about running water, we’ll be okay.”

Gina’s shoulders contract in a shudder. “The last thing in the world I want to think about is water.” When she turns her head toward the center of the car, Michelle is glad to see that the woman hasn’t completely surrendered to despair.

“Hey,” she says, nudging Gina’s foot with her sneaker. “Why don’t you tell us more about your family?”

The corner of the redhead’s mouth dips in an odd smile. “So now we’re going to play Show and Tell?”

“We’re just going to tell. I’ve already dumped my purse, so unless you two are hiding something, neither of you has anything to show.”

Gina props her chin on her hand. “Okay. My husband is named Sonny, and for twenty-one years, I’ve been a faithful wife.”

“And you have three teenagers?”

“One handsome son and two beautiful daughters.”

Michelle smiles, feeling for the first time that she and this aloof woman might have something in common. “My boyfriend,” she says, “has three children. But he has two boys and a girl.”

Gina pulls her bent knees to her chest, but her eyes remain distant and abstracted. “Children are precious,” she says, her eyes drowsy and abstracted. “In fact, I think the happiest day of my life was when my son was born. I thought I would never love anyone as much as Sonny, but then my son came along. Suddenly my life began to revolve around that boy…and I’ve been centered on my children ever since.”

She lifts her head and looks directly at Michelle. “They say women fall in love with their babies because of some temporary hormonal surge, but don’t believe them. I adore my kids. Always have, always will.”

Michelle drops her hand to her belly and feels the burgeoning warmth beneath her palm. How will a baby change her life? Years ago she believed the occupation of motherhood was only slightly more estimable than fast-food service, but she’s beginning to see things from a different perspective.

“My kids aren’t perfect,” Gina continues, propping her cheek on her knees. “But I’d do anything to protect them—anything at all.”

Her last words are edged with a sharpness that cuts through the soft spell cast by her tone. Michelle stares into the woman’s stony features as a ripple of alarm undulates down her spine. Do most mothers feel that protective? Hers didn’t.

She leans back and tries to picture herself in the stands of a soccer game, her fist clenched in the face of some bully’s mother.

Yeah, she could do that. She’s worked hard to cultivate a sophisticated facade, but underneath she is still as rough and tough as Bald Knob granite.

Suddenly aware that her skirt was far shorter than anyone else’s, Michelle tugged on her hem, then followed Howard Jones into the cubicle in front of his office. “This will be your space,” he said, gesturing to the desk, chair and padded walls as if he were granting access to a royal box at the opera. “You’ll be close enough to hear if I raise my voice even a little bit.”

She nodded and refused to look at him, knowing that the gleam in his eye had nothing to do with her meager word-processing skills. Six months as a Kelly girl had taught her a lot about men and their secretaries—a girl could get into trouble in a hurry if she didn’t establish strict boundaries right away. A too-quick smile, a too-friendly expression, an offer of a ride to lunch…any of these innocent things could lead to trouble if a boss were inclined to step out on his wife.

She’d worked as a temp for the Jones Personnel Agency last week; Howard had been so impressed with something about her that he’d offered her a permanent position. Because she liked gathering experience from many different companies, Michelle wouldn’t have accepted the offer except for two things: Howard’s wife worked in the office to his right, and Olympia Densen-Jones insisted on paying the office help $8.50 an hour, double the minimum wage.

After living for months on baked beans, tuna fish and hot dogs, Michelle was looking forward to fresh fruit and an occasional meal out.

Olympia breezed out of her office and gave Michelle a quick smile. “I’m glad you’re here. Howard—” she cut a glance to her husband “—aren’t you supposed to have a nine o’clock meeting with Tom Oliphant?”

Howard flushed. “Um, yeah. I was on my way.”

“Bye, then.” Olympia tilted a polished cheek toward him. “See you when you get back.”

Michelle looked away and suppressed a smile. Howard Jones’s name might be listed first on the business cards, but anyone who spent five minutes in this office would learn who really called the shots.

“Well, then.” Olympia pressed her hands together as her husband left. “Howard was so impressed with you last week. He said you have a real aptitude for the business.”

Michelle shrugged away the compliment. “I’m not so fast on the computer.”

“You can learn the computer. What we need are folks with people skills, and something tells me you have plenty of those.” Her eyes rested on Michelle’s face and lit with speculation. “We’re in the business of matching people with jobs, and we’re good at it. If you’re as creative and bright as I think you are, you’ll be a natural.”

Michelle stiffened, uncomfortable with such free-flowing praise. “I’ll try to do the best I can for you.”

“Don’t try—just do.” Olympia swiveled on her leather pumps and placed her hand on the top of a tall metal filing cabinet. “What we do is teach our clients how to market themselves—not everyone looks as polished as you did when you came through our door. We’re in the business of creating what I call pleasing people packages. We take what clients have to offer, dress it up a bit, and offer them to a prospective employer. Once our clients have been through our polishing sessions, they almost always get the job.”

Michelle folded one arm across her chest. Maybe this job would pay off in ways she hadn’t expected. “You dress people up?” she asked, hoping she didn’t sound like a hick. “In new clothes?”

Amusement flickered in Olympia’s eyes. “Sometimes. But mostly we dress up their résumés. For instance—” she opened the top drawer of the filing cabinet and pulled out a folder “—take Bill Baker, a former mail clerk for one of the mining companies. By the time he left for his first job interview, he thought of himself as a former director responsible for fielding, targeting and expediting crucial corporate communications. And here’s Sally Courtland. She came to us as a secretary and left here an administrative assistant. Same job, same responsibilities. But a little judicious résumé enhancement can lead to higher pay and a much better job.”