“That’s because they aren’t people to you.”
“Oh my,” she said. “That doesn’t seem right, does it?”
“It’s just the way it is,” Rivera said. “It’s the same with the person who fixes your car. Or opens the door for you at a hotel. That’s why they make soldiers wear uniforms.”
Rivera found another dancer and fitted it into the box. “You didn’t tell about your name yet.” When he looked down, Mrs. Hailey was still looking up expectantly.
“You want the whole story tonight, don’t you?”
“The whole story,” she said.
She was the only white person he had told it to, including Kleinman. He had decided she was harmless, and for some reason, telling a white old lady about his past made Rivera feel better. Made him proud of how far he’d come.
“Your real name is…”
“Quinto.”
“Fifth.”
“Right. My mother said I was named for May 5. That’s an important holiday in Mexico. But my cousin Ray told me she named me Quinto from watching movies.”
“I love this part,” Mrs. Hailey said. She was smiling broadly, her eyeglass chain shaking.
“The priests showed movies,” he said. “And sometimes with old movies, you see numbers before the picture starts. Like a countdown. The night I was born, my mother was watching when the film stopped at the number 5. Ray said it got stuck there. The 5 stayed on the screen until it burned up. They had to stop the projector.”
“And that’s when your mother went into labor.”
“Yes, right after. Ray says she thought the number 5 was a sign. She was afraid if she didn’t name me Quinto, something bad would happen.”
Still smiling, Mrs. Hailey raised her cane and shook it.
“While I finish the ornaments, would you please fill out my time sheet?”
Rivera looked down. “It’s right next to you, on the clipboard with the pen.” She put the cane aside, got the clipboard and brought it close. “First date it—February 6. Then write eight-thirty where it says ‘time of arrival,’ and ten-thirty for ‘time of departure.’ Then sign it.”
He watched her fill out the form. The coroner would establish Burlson’s time of death in that time period. It took her over a minute, but at last she signed. Mrs. Hailey looked up, smiled at her accomplishment, and shook the pen to show her work was done.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You don’t need this, do you?” she asked. “Aren’t you the boss?”
“It’s just good business,” Rivera told her. “For our records.”
The whole thing was funny to her, and she was laughing again. Not at Sweeney, although he was now wearing his village-idiot hat. It was a pork pie, stuck all over with golf tees and score cards, little pencils. He turned to her and she shook her head, unable to stop, waving a hand.
“You have a point,” he said.
There was none, and she doubled over. He came back to the blanket, reached down and scooped ice from the bucket into his glass. Brenda wiped her eyes. “Only really confident players can wear a hat like this,” Sweeney said.
He poured out more chardonnay and waited for Brenda to get her glass. She recovered enough for him to pour. They clinked and drank. Sometime after nine, he had ordered Chinese and called the front gate about the delivery. Styrofoam cartons and dishes were spread around them. He had brought a blanket from the house.
She stopped laughing and wiped her eyes. Sweeney’s clubs lay strewn on the grass, along with the little socks that went on his woods. He had lined up two empty wine bottles to mark their tee-off space. After the second bottle, Brenda’s learning curve had flatlined. In front of the blanket, a trail of golf balls ran up the gully, out onto the fairway. Even Sweeney had muffed a few shots, but she thought that was just to make her feel better.
He flopped down next to her. Hands clasped at his knees, he looked out. His face was shiny, and Sweeney was now in full golfer’s mufti—the hat, fancy saddle shoe golf cleats. It was cool now, but his black silk shirt was plastered to him. Her own Kelly green blouse had dark patches under the arms and down her center. Hands braced behind her, she looked up at the sky and didn’t care. She felt liberated. Lighter. Happy to be outside. Even the grass felt different to her now, prickly and coarse under her palms. Star-filled, she thought, still looking up. Star-crossed. She felt pleasantly drunk.
“It wouldn’t be wise for me to live here,” she said.
“Too easy?”
That was exactly it. She looked at him. He was wiping his face with a used paper napkin, getting barbeque sauce on his forehead. “I’d call in sick half the time,” Brenda said. “Editors would just stop calling me.”
“You’re right. A freelancer would need discipline. Better to grow up with it.”
“Or come to it from poverty.”
He tossed the napkin on a paper plate. “You mean Rivera,” he said. “Whatever else is true about the guy, he’s come a long way.”
Until now, she had forgotten the whole reason for coming here.
“I learned some things,” she said. “That’s why I wanted to see you.” Sweeney was looking up now, thinking of something else. She touched his arm, and he turned to her. “On our way here,” she said, “on Friday, I thought James Rivera was the poster boy for pulling yourself up by your bootstraps. You seemed to have doubts.”
She told him about Chester Ivy and Noelle Harmon. Then her chance encounter with Ray Colon. “I drove him to Immokalee,” she said. “He told me his cousin came here as a crew member on a ship. There’s no sign of James Rivera on the All Hands on Deck website. This afternoon, I went to Marco. I talked to a security guard. One of Rivera’s customers died there on Thursday. The guard loves Rivera, like everyone else. He shows up with groceries for his
