White Shotgun

Still in heels and the silk dress, Cecilia trades the doctor’s coat for an apron, refusing offers of help.

“No, no. You relax. I hope your ride on the bus was okay. Giovanni picked you up?” “Everything was fine. He said he had been studying — seems like a good kid.” “We are proud of him. He is going to carry the flag for our contrada during Palio. It’s an honor. They always pick the most handsome young man.” She caresses Nicosa’s cheek. “It used to be his father. Still is.” Nicosa removes Cecilia’s hand and kisses her palm with the passing intimacy of a long marriage. “Where is Giovanni?” he asks.

“He’s at soccer. After school he practices the flag, and then soccer,” she tells me with a smile. “Busy schedule.” “We had a nice talk.” I describe our conversation about his love for Siena.

“That’s more than we talk to Giovanni in a week,” marvels Nicosa.

Cecilia says, “He likes to talk in the car.” “Or shopping. He’ll quote Dante if you buy him a pair of tennis shoes.” Cecilia frowns, retrieving a melon from the window, swinging her hips around the kitchen in sensual display; just like Nicosa, she’s sexual and distant at the same time.

“You’re making him out to be a brat. He is not a brat,” Cecilia says.

“I would never say that about my son! He’s a good student and stays out of trouble; what more can we ask? Do you need me to cut the prosciutto?” “Non ora. Fra un po.”

“Voglio vedere Giovanni giocare.”

“Va bene.”

Her husband leaves, and Cecilia lets out a sigh that probably says more than she would like me to know at this point. Her demeanor is guarded. Despite the excited welcome, she is hovering on the other side of the island and keeping her eyes on the food prep, as if to maintain a distance while evaluating the stranger in her kitchen.

“Nicoli wants to see a little of Giovanni’s practice,” she says. “We will have something to eat in a minute. I would have met you at the bus, but we had to perform an emergency C-section.” “Mom and baby okay?”

“The baby will have some problems,” she says, ending the discussion.

I try to let things unwind as if I really were just a long-lost relation. There are moments of awkward silence. She takes a bowl from the refrigerator and starts dipping zucchini blossoms into a batter she must have prepared between surgeries. I thought I was efficient. But these are petty thoughts. This is an industrious woman who is also a publicly betrayed wife. Despite all that, she and her husband seem to be — wildly and improbably — in love. It makes me see that Sterling and I are still way at the beginning.

“Do you think Nicoli bought my story about selling security systems?” “Sounded good to me,” she says. “Do you really?” “When I was on the robbery squad at the FBI, I used to collect the tapes from the surveillance cameras in banks. It’s about as technical as popping out a CD.” “Don’t worry; Nicoli wasn’t paying attention.” “But you’re still afraid to tell him I’m an agent.” “Not afraid. It’s just not a good time. He’s sensitive about politics.” “Is something wrong?”

“Not at all,” Cecilia answers in a reserved tone, confirming my sense that we have taken several steps back from the warmth of our initial contact. “Tell me about you. Are you married? Do you have children?” “No children, married to the job.” Don’t push it. We have time. “How did you find out about me in the first place?” “I first heard your name when I was a child. My father told us that we had a relative in America named Ana, and if we ever wanted to meet her, we must work hard in school so we could visit. I never knew if you were real or something he invented so we’d get good grades. Who in your family came from El Salvador?” A delicate aroma of dough sizzling in olive oil arises from a large copper skillet.

“My father. His name was Miguel Sanchez.” Cecilia freezes on the spot, still gripping a slotted spoon. “Your father was Miguel Sanchez? I didn’t realize he was your father.” “What did you think?”

She fumbles. “I thought maybe he was an uncle or a cousin and that you and I were distantly related. But, Ana, he is my father, too.” I am not impressed. “Seriously, it’s a common name.” “Yes, it is a common name,” she snaps impatiently. “But for him to speak of a girl named Ana in America? That is too much of a coincidence. Did you know he was from the town of Cojutepueque?” “I thought it was called La Palma, but that could be wrong.” Cecilia has put down the spoon and turned off the stove.

“It’s in the mountains, thirty-five minutes from the capital, San Salvador. My mother was Eulalia. Together they owned a fish market. It started out as a space in the mercado but eventually they bought three stalls. She ended up running it because Papa wasn’t always there. He was often in America.” “Where in America?”

“Nobody knew. At times he would send money, so maybe that’s why she tolerated his absence. He would come and go. Then one day he never came back.” “Do you have a photo of him?”

“Somewhere.”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t remember what he looked like. He died when I was five, and my grandfather threw out all the pictures.” Cecilia is shocked. “He died?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“How?”

I hesitate. “Are you sure you want to know?” She nods. “He was murdered.” “Did they ever find the killer?” “No. The case was never pursued. In fact, there never was a case.” “Capito. Because he was a Spanish man, in the country illegally.” I don’t answer.

Cecilia brushes moist eyes. “We never knew what happened to him,” she murmurs. “I was a teenager when he left for good.” “This is crazy.”

“My mother told me that he had a wife in America.” I remember the day I found the marriage certificate in a bank vault in Santa Monica, California, after my own mother died, proving that she had been married to Miguel Sanchez. Her relationship with a brown-skinned immigrant was the cause of my California grandfather’s lifelong rage at both of us (she, the whore; me, the half-breed), and why my mother and I stuck together, afraid of his explosive fits. I suppose I’m still fighting the bad guys because I couldn’t fight Poppy. Now the sudden recollection of my mother — for some reason, that damn worn apron made of soiled, quilted squares that had seen a hundred meat loaves and pans of brownies, which she would never replace because it was good enough — makes me soften with longing for her comforting presence, taken away too soon.

“This woman in America,” I press. “Did you know her name?” “It was a strange name. Like a princess in a fairy tale.” “Was it Gwen?”

My mother’s name. The recognition is instantaneous. Miguel Sanchez’s other wife. We stare at each other.

Oh my God!

“We are half sisters!”

We embrace, embarrassed, giddy.

“What do we do?” Cecilia’s brown eyes are wide.

“I don’t know!” I laugh. “Make dinner?” Cecilia throws a cold stare at the assemblage of dishes as if about to sweep it all aside.

“We should be making Salvadoran food!” “What is Salvadoran food?” “You’ve never had pupusas?” she cries. “Living in Los Angeles? Corn tortillas stuffed with pork? Next time I will cook them for you.” Our chatter becomes animated as we compare childhoods — what we wore to school, friendships, crushes, restrictions, dating, church. I cut the melon and remove the rind. Cecilia takes a package from a cabinet near the cold stone floor. Sliding the burlap wrapping away, she reveals a dark pink hunk of prosciutto, which she slices with the practiced care of a surgeon. Moments later, crescents of bright orange melon and transparent feathers of prosciutto are arranged on a platter. We lay linen on the table, set the silverware and pasta bowls. She minces garlic, lemon zest, and parsley with precise, aware movements; not hurried, not dismissive, not just throwing something in the microwave, and I try to slow down and follow the rhythm of her lead.

Nicosa returns with Giovanni, who is fresh from the field of battle — pink-cheeked, with muddied legs and reddened knees, his hair as soaking wet as if it had just rained.

“Cosa e sucesso?” Nicosa asks, sensing that something is going on in the kitchen besides pasta with cherry tomatoes.

“We just found out we are sisters,” Cecilia announces.

“E vero? Really?” “Half sisters,” I murmur awkwardly, still not used to the idea. “Same father, different mothers. Different countries.” “We are sisters!” Cecilia declares. “There are no halves.” Giovanni gives me a sweaty hug. “You are my aunt!” He grins.

“You understand why this happened?” Nicosa demands. “Because it is Palio.” Giovanni’s cheeks flush. I