outside the Santa Monica police department, afraid of its raw male power which would soon overwhelm me. I wrap my legs around Donnato and scream his name into the howling abyss.
TWENTY-THREE
I WAKE UP ALONE in my bed at noon the following day, immediately seized by the same anxious fear. It was just past dawn when I pulled into the garage at the Marina and incredibly I was still obsessing about trying to make the morning swim workout at the college when my hands pulled the quilt over my head and my brain finally shut off.
Now my eyes are dry and burning and there is an awful pressure in my chest. Disoriented, I lurch into the living room and dial voice mail at the office in order to focus on what appointments I have blown for the day. There are several messages, including one from Carl Monte, a social worker calling about Teresa and Cristobal Alvarado. With everything going on, it takes me by surprise but I call Mr. Monte’s office right back. They promise to beep him.
There is no message from Mike Donnato, but what did I expect?
I don’t know what I expected. I eat a grilled cheese sandwich and stir some cocoa powder into a glass of low-fat milk, staring dully at the billowing afternoon light outside the balcony. It has been a long time since I had sex and it is raw and sore down there, not your most romantic feeling. All I want to do is to sit in a hot bath.
I have noticed there is never any bubble bath around when you need it.
So I pull a bottle of dish detergent from underneath the kitchen sink and shoot a long stream of it into the tub, making mountains of sparkly white froth. I refill the bath with hot water three times until my skin is pink and tingly and the mirrors are all steamed up. I make a crown of foam on top of my head and put two silly mounds over my breasts like I used to do as a little girl, a bubble necklace and what the hell, a bubble beard, speculating on where Donnato is right now and if he is feeling as loose and full of wonderment as I. How will we be in the office? Will we see each other again? For the first time I can remember I have no control over what will happen next.
But that sublime balance on the razor’s edge of uncertainty lasts just a moment before I am suddenly flushed with violent panic. The memory of the dark belly of the helicopter bearing down on us in the strawberry field fills my head with terrible clamor and I almost vomit into the tub.
The phone rings and my heart convulses. Suddenly transformed to a female in a 1950s comedy (Jayne Mason could have played this role), I jump out, dripping suds, grab a towel, and spring for the phone, hoping to hear the voice of my beau.
It is Carl Monte.
“I’m a case worker at Children and Family Services,” he explains. “What is your relationship to the Alvarado children?”
“A distant cousin of their mother.”
“Do you know they are living with Mrs. Sofia Gutierrez?”
“Yes, she’s been taking care of them since their mother was killed.”
“But she is not a blood relation?”
“No.”
“Does that make you the closest relative?”
“There are a grandmother, aunts, and uncles living in El Salvador.”
“I need to tell you that if the children continue to live in this country, they will have to be placed in foster care.”
“What happened?”
“LAPD was called because a neighbor complained about a loud television. The investigating officers found two unsupervised minors in the apartment and contacted us.”
I am dressing as we talk. “Are the kids all right?”
“They’re in good health, but we don’t consider Mrs. Gutierrez a suitable guardian. For one thing her household income does not meet our standard. For another, it’s the law. Children can’t just live with any stranger who picks them up.”
I pull on jeans and socks. I understand the law.
“Unless you’d like to take them in yourself, Ms. Grey.”
“Then we will place Teresa and Cristobal in an appropriate foster care setting.”
“For how long?”
“That depends. We’re always looking for a legal adoption.”
“What’re the chances?”
“There’s hope for the little one. The older girl has some emotional problems that might make her less desirable.”
“You mean they wouldn’t be adopted together?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Well, Mr. Monte, that bites the big one.”
He doesn’t miss a beat, asking calmly if I’d like to be informed where the children are placed. I say okay.
“For the moment we’ve allowed them to live with Mrs. Gutierrez with home inspections twice a week, but she’s having a hard time understanding. She seems to hold you in high regard because you work for the FBI—”
I guffaw.
“So I was hoping you could explain this to her. Might make it easier for the children.”
Sure, I’ll talk to Mrs. Gutierrez. Anything to avoid the office today.
• • •
They call it El Piojillo — a few square blocks around MacArthur Park that is not so much a flea market as another continent grafted between the Wilshire District and downtown L.A. What used to be a fashionable address for wealthy whites, where old people from a nearby nursing home could rest their wheelchairs in the shade of an elegant park, is now one of the most crime-infested parts of the city.
It is also a place where the size, spread, and density of the Spanish-speaking population becomes impressively clear. Streets in every direction are overflowing with crowds of Latinos threading past unlicensed vendors selling sausages, stuffed animals, cassettes of
Mrs. Gutierrez and the children are waiting in front of the address she gave me. It turns out to be a
“Today Don Roberto doesn’t open until four. He is getting his apartment fumigated.”
“Who is Roberto?”
“The spiritualist who will answer our questions.”
“I don’t have any questions, Mrs. Gutierrez. I know what needs to be done.”
