“I'm sorry you had to see him,” she says, voice cracking and hoarse.
I stiffen involuntarily. The truth makes a pang in my chest. I can't pretend that the encounter didn't shake my core. I learned a long time ago that you can't run from your past, but I've been so careful to distance myself from the few things that can switch on the emotional tirade. It almost fell apart so easily.
“It's not any fault of yours.” I answer. “Besides, it got better at the end.”
I resume the massaging motion.
She laughs but there's no humor in it. I dab at the tip of her slender nose. Her beautiful eyes are swollen and tired, tinged red in a softness created by the steel surrounding us. Eyeliner is smudged beneath them. She's watching me out of the corners of her eyes.
I'm only fooling myself when I say I'm the least entwined. I'm just as imbedded in the game as everyone else. I just came by it from a much different road.
“It'll only get better, Frederick,” she says, voice so serious it hurts in my gut.
There's always a manly stir in me when she calls me by my given name, and not the shortened nickname everyone else uses. I ignore it as I've gotten so used to doing, always. Maybe by denying my human traits I can defeat them.
How does she banish her pain so quickly? It's an art that I've worked at for a long time. It comes to her naturally. I pull the cloth away to confront my reaction.
“I don't have much if I don't trust you,” I admit, looking away. I've never been much of a liar either, but when it comes to the truth, I'd rather keep it to myself.
She lays her head on my shoulder and says, “Tomorrow we go to see Abuela.”
My breath hitches and I try to hide it, even though I know she heard it. She hasn't been to see her grandmother in months, has barely climbed back into the lowest rungs of the woman's good graces since the fiasco that originally sent the siblings out of New Orleans. Even then, it was Charlie who kept them shielded from Abuela's wrath. He's the one who kept them from death by her command.
It won't make any difference, but I have to ask, “Are you sure that's a good idea?”
She sighs, audible frustration, and I'm not entirely sure if it's because I'm doubting her, or because she doesn't quite know the answer to my question. Finally she relinquishes the gun, lays it at her feet and pulls away from me to shift into a cross-legged, upright position. At least she's not folded in on herself. Progress.
She stares at the pistol as if it's some kind of oracle until at last she says, “I honestly don't know. But I owe her the respect in her mourning, and I have to try to earn her forgiveness. I'll beg if I have to. We can't have enemies on two fronts.”
I realize that I'm wringing the towel in my hands and that, as I do, it's cleaning blood off of them. Perhaps rebirth isn't just a farce. Maybe the forgiveness in which I've never believed is possible, and maybe all Maria really needs is a little faith from us – from Josh, the white knight; from me, the black knight; and from Izzy, the closest thing to a teacher she has left.
“And if we fail to earn that place back?”
Her eyes are wide, dazed as she wades through her own head. She lets the silence dance around us for a long stretch, during which I catch bits of blues guitar solos and an occasional muffled voice from the dining room.
She lets it go on long enough that I have time to hope that Josh is squirming in his own shoes, wondering what could be happening here. Then my skin chills and I know she's about to drop a bomb and shatter the stillness.
She says, “Then we may never leave the swamp, and all of this will no longer matter.”
Chapter 15 Uncertainty and Blood
Frederick
The road is dirt and gravel this far out, barely raised above murky green, eerily still water. We're surrounded by exotic creepers so lush they're surely the result of ancient voodoo. The Caddy eases along at a respectful speed, slowly enough for Maria to let the swamp accept her back into its sweltering heart, enough for her to garner the courage she will need to face the coming visit.
The air conditioner is cranking on overdrive, but relief barely makes it to me in the back seat. I'm slung against the door and stretched out as much as the leather beneath me will allow. My skin burns despite my khaki shorts and lightweight cotton button-up.
Izzy is in front of me in the passenger seat, and if it weren't for his systematic smoking, I'd have already forgotten he's there. He's barely spoken the whole trip. Really, we've all been uncharacteristically quiet.
Josh is across the seat from me, which only works because the car is so big. He had been tentatively humming along with the music on the stereo, but he fell silent, too, when we turned down this spellbinding road. Now he's sweating quietly in his t-shirt, staring out the window like a child. The innocence in his gaze is accentuated by the way his hair curls eagerly in the humidity.
He's never been to see Abuela. He has no idea what to expect. He knows only that he best be on extremely good behavior, that he should not speak unless spoken
