“I’m not talking about that family,” she said. “I’m talking about my biological family.”
“I don’t understand.”
“My mother and father disappeared in a secret detention center for subversives.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that,” said Jack.
“What if it turns out that they were leftist extremists-terrorists who killed or maimed innocent people? What good would it do for me to know that?”
Jack was suddenly reminded of something Alicia’s grandmother had told him about the blind eye of a nation- friends and neighbors who watched teachers, journalists, and housewives taken by force from their homes and did nothing about it, except to nod in agreement when someone at a cocktail party shrugged and with a dismissive wave of the hand remarked, “They don’t take people away for no reason.” Jack said, “Somewhere between eighteen and thirty thousand people disappeared in the Dirty War. Many of them were completely innocent.”
“Exactly. And right now, I can count myself among the lucky ones who have that consolation. My biological parents are dead. They were the innocent victims of a terrible dictatorship. My adoptive father may or may not have been part of that hellish regime, but I still have the only mother I’ve ever known. She loves me unconditionally, and she has no one’s blood on her hands. For me, that’s the only happy ending to this story.”
A city bus rumbled past him, and Jack stepped away from the gritty black cloud of diesel fumes at the curb. “What about your grandmother? How does this end for her?”
“I’m not numb to her suffering. I realize that she has to find some kind of closure.”
“You’re the only one who can give it to her.”
“Don’t you think I know that?”
“Then please, do something about it.”
She paused, seeming to consider it.
Jack said, “People have gone to a lot of trouble to bring you two together. Innocent people have died.”
“You can’t mean Falcon.”
“No. He was the one who tipped off your grandmother as to your whereabouts, but I didn’t mean him. I mean people like the midwife who delivered you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your mother was a numbered political prisoner with a hood over her head when you were born. But she shouted out her real name during the delivery. The midwife had a conscience. She tracked down your grandmother and told her about you.”
“Is that true?”
“Yeah. And then the midwife went missing. She’s among the Disappeared.”
“How do you know that?”
“Listen to what your grandmother has to say. She knows.”
There was another long pause, and Jack sensed that he was getting through to her.
“All right,” said Alicia.
“Do you mean it? You’ll see her?”
“Yes,” she said, clearly struggling. “I mean-no. I can’t. I can’t do it.”
“But you agree that she needs closure, don’t you?”
“I’m so confused. Can’t you see what a mess my life is? The Mendozas are either a bad joke or a terrible tragedy, depending on who you talk to. My mother needs me now more than ever.”
“Isn’t there something you’d like to say to your real grandmother?”
“Of course. But I want you to do it for me. Please. Just tell her…tell her that I love my mothers. Both of them.”
“After all she’s been through, do you really think that’s enough?”
There was silence on the line, and after several long, contemplative moments, her reply came in a barely audible voice. “It’s the best that I can do. I’m sorry.”
Jack heard the click as she hung up, which triggered a flash of emotion. It was as if he were watching his own grandmother’s heart breaking in the exact same place and for the very same reasons that it had broken so many times before. The pain, however, was quickly followed by a deep sense of dread. Jack wasn’t at all sure that he could do it, but he had no choice.
He tucked away his cell phone and prepared to deliver Alicia’s final message to her grandmother.
chapter 67
A licia drove Vince and her mother home from the cemetery. It was a sunny Saturday afternoon, and even the first day of winter was way too hot for their black attire. Alicia cranked up the air-conditioning, but her mother switched it off. An earlier attempt at conversation had drawn a similar reaction. Her mother seemed averse to consolation of any kind, as if an overall state of misery were a prerequisite to a widow’s proper grieving.
The graveside ser vice had been private-just Alicia, her mother, Vince, six of the mayor’s closest friends who served as pallbearers, and a presiding Catholic priest. The funeral mass, on the other hand, had been public in the extreme. The Church of the Epiphany was South Florida’s version of the Crystal Cathedral, an award-winning architectural gem with soaring ceilings, towering windows, and so much natural light that you couldn’t help but feel God’s presence. Though outside the Miami city limits, it was the only church large enough to accommodate the crowd, and it was packed to capacity. Alicia sat between Vince and her mother in the front row. Behind them was a virtual who’s who in Miami politics, friends and foes seated shoulder-to-shoulder. Their ranks stretched all the way to the vestibule, like so many waves of power. Among them were a former governor and U.S. senator, the lieutenant governor, a congresswoman, state representatives, mayors from around the state, and judges, not to mention the entire city council, the county commission, and the lobbyists who controlled them. The business community was equally well represented, as there was nothing like the death of a Latin leader to bring out living proof that Miami-land of opportunidad-had more self-made Hispanic millionaires than any city on earth. As yet, neither the mayor’s secret past nor his final words to Jack Swyteck-“I am the doctor”-had leaked to the public, so Alicia alone noted the irony that was buried in the third verse of one of the church’s oldest funeral hymns:
Often were they wounded in the deadly strife.
Heal them, Good Physician, with the balm of life.
The eulogies were delivered in both English and Spanish, heartfelt and even a few humorous stories about a compassionate man, a doting husband, a loving father. For the moment, Mayor Mendoza had officially joined the ranks of those beleaguered souls who had escaped the wrath and judgment of mere mortals through the expedience of untimely death.
Invited guests gathered for food and refreshment at the Mendoza house after the ser vice. Parked cars lined both sides of the street for several blocks. The press was not allowed on the property, but they blanketed the neighborhood. It was as if the local media had decided to hold the tough questions until the mayor was buried, and now they were ready for the real dirt. Editorials called for a complete investigation. Talk radio was buzzing with all kinds of theories, some of them crackpot, some not. A local television station did a segment on the Disappeared and the Argentine Dirty War. The Tribune dispatched its Pulitzer Prize-winning investigative reporter to Buenos Aires. It would only be a matter of time before the mayor’s dark past came to light.
Police officers stood outside the front gate at the end of the driveway, directing traffic. There were more guests than expected, and many of them flocked to the mayor’s widow and daughter the moment they entered the house. Alicia accepted the sincere condolences of several well-wishers and then quickly excused herself.
“Are you okay?” Vince asked. They were standing outside the carved double doors to her father’s library.
“Yes, I’m all right. Really.” She could tell that he wanted to speak with her alone, away from her mother. Vince had been supportive all week, but something was clearly weighing on his mind. Whatever it was, Alicia wasn’t ready to deal with it. “I just need some time to myself.”
“You go ahead,” he said. “I’ll get something to eat.”
She thanked him with a little kiss, then retreated into the library and closed the door behind her.
