The Dead Women of Juarez

On Sundays this church gave the Tridentine Mass. Other churches served their flock in Spanish, but here were the Latin words recited by a pair of ancient priests with hair the color of ash and snow.

On Sundays Paloma sat with these old women and worshipped. She prayed fiercely, and when the time came for Remembrance of the Dead, she and the women linked hands and held tightly, as if the strength of their human chain was the only thing keeping them in the pew.

The air grew warm and thickened with the mingled odor of flowers, incense and sweat. Lingering smoke drifted high in the vaults of the ugly old church, visible in the light coming through the upper windows. Sooty black stains remained on the stone where countless masses left their mark before.

When the mass was finished, Paloma and the women filed out with the other parishioners. They shook hands with the priests and emerged into the bright morning. Only now that they had said their prayers and received blessings did the women speak to one another. Paloma stayed with them.

The first question each woman asked was always the same – “Have you heard anything?” – because they had all lost someone. In Juarez the bodies of dead women were often found, but other times they vanished and never reappeared. To Paloma, these were the worst, because the women and girls could not be dead if they couldn’t be buried, so they existed forever out of reach in Limbo. When the old women in black held onto each other during the Remembrance of the Dead, they held onto their hope, too.

Paloma had no news for any of them this week. She let her eyes wander the half-dirt street, past a line of battered old cars, and settle on a pick-up parked along a broken curb.

New trucks weren’t unusual in Juarez; even when a family couldn’t afford a proper home and squatted in the colonias, sometimes and somehow they could still pull together enough money for a shiny truck. This one was black and had tinted windows and a long cab with double doors for a back seat. Four men lounged against it, the rims of their sunglasses glinting. One man pointed a little camera at the women in black and the ugly church. He was too far away for Paloma to hear the click of a shutter. He lowered the camera again.

Paloma stepped away from the women. The women were talking and would talk for a long time before walking to a late breakfast. The street was littered with yellow-slate rocks. She stooped to grab one. When she straightened again, the man with the camera took another picture.

She hurled the stone. The men scattered and the rock smacked the side of the truck, bounced and hit the ground. One of the men started toward her, but another held him back. Behind Paloma, the women in black fell silent.

“Go home!” Paloma yelled at the men.

One of the women in black made a hissing noise. “Paloma, ?que tu esta haciendo? ”

The men by the truck lingered. One of them, the angry one, made an obscene gesture at Paloma. She stood in place, ready to pick up another rock, ready to yell or fight or even flee to the church. The men got into the truck. The taillights flashed, big tires in the back crushed gravel and then the truck was gone.

Paloma turned back to the women in black. They stared and suddenly Paloma felt embarrassed. At the door of the church, other parishioners were frozen in place and watching.

“Vamos,” Paloma said.

She went to the women and they left together, away from the ugly church and the empty space on the curb the truck abandoned. They would have a light meal together and talk some more and pray and hope before parting ways until the next week.

On Sundays that was the way it was.

ELEVEN

KELLY WOKE LATE AND LAY IN THE slanted rays of sun casting from the bedroom window. For a while he just stayed there, but in the end he forced himself to rise and visit the bathroom for a piss and a shower. He wrapped a towel around his waist. Maybe he was a little thinner lately; he wasn’t sure.

He opened a front window and the door to the balcony to let some air flow through the place. Breakfast was light because he hadn’t had time to shop, but with money from the night before he could afford to splurge at the groceria come Monday. Some Sundays he had a beer to wash it all down, but not today.

Sunday was a day for dressing up, or at least putting on a shirt with buttons and better shoes than his ratty high-tops. He shaved his neck but left his beard-growth alone. He wore a leather belt with a silver-and-turquoise buckle that was a Christmas gift from Paloma.

It was close to noon before Sevilla knocked on Kelly’s door. Kelly saw him through the open window first, leaning against the iron railing outside with his jacket open against the burgeoning heat, a holstered automatic against his side. Kelly opened up and Sevilla walked in without further invitation.

His full name was Rafael Sevilla and he was, to the best of Kelly’s estimation, closing in on sixty or just past it. His hair used to be black, but now was mostly white, though the whiskers of his little beard were still hanging on. He tended to short as many Mexican men did, but he made up for it with an upright bearing and presence.

“Good morning, Kelly,” Sevilla said in English. He always spoke English to Kelly, even though his accent was heavy.

“Senor Sevilla.”

Sevilla investigated the kitchenette, the empty pans and dishes. He had a large nose and dark eyes and a heavy, melancholy face. He joked he was part hound. Kelly stood by the open door. He glanced outside. Sevilla was alone.

“I hear you went to the clubs with Esteban last night,” Sevilla said. “All night long, club after club. You know, I wonder what the two of you are up to when you do that.”

Kelly finally closed the door. Sevilla wandered to Kelly’s couch and sat down. He had an old man’s belly, but he wasn’t fat. He always rested so his gun was available, never pinned beneath or beside him.

“Are you two selling drugs to the Americans again?” Sevilla asked.

“Wouldn’t the city police want to know?” Kelly returned. He went to the kitchenette and busied himself cleaning. It was easier to keep his voice steady when his hands were busy under warm, soapy water. “Not state police.”

“We’re all on the same side,” Sevilla said. “Besides, you know what drugs mean these days. Did you know they found six bodies without their heads outside the city limits last week? Who knows where the heads are.”

“Esteban isn’t cutting off anybody’s head.”

“Maybe I see a bigger picture. Maybe I’d like to know where Esteban gets his product.”

Kelly rinsed and dried his pan. “No one cares about a little weed.”

“Marijuana? Not really. Who hasn’t had a little hierba? But drugs are on everyone’s mind now. We have more federal police in the city than we have flies.”

“So, what, then?” Kelly asked.

“Chinaloa,” Sevilla said, and he looked over his shoulder at Kelly with his dark eyes. Kelly couldn’t figure their color; maybe they were brown, or maybe green. He didn’t like to look too long, because it was the intensity behind them that made him uncomfortable more than the mystery of their color. Kelly watched his hands instead.

“I don’t handle that stuff.”

“Never?”

“Never. You should know that by now.”

“But Esteban deals it,” Sevilla said.

“You know that, too. Goddammit,” Kelly said, and he cracked two plates together in the sink. “Don’t you get tired of coming around here? I got nothing for you. Okay? Nothing.”

Sevilla made a gesture with his hands as if he were tossing an invisible ball back and forth. He half-smiled and turned away. “Maybe I just like to talk to you, Kelly. Nobody wants to talk English with me.”

“Talk to the turistas,” Kelly said.

“Even turistas hate cops. They think we’re all taking money or looking to bust them for having a good time. Why do they think that, Kelly?”

Kelly shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s you they don’t like.”