Elevator, The (12 page)

Isabel draws a breath between her teeth. She had been about to add that those first few weeks were a happy time, but how can she talk about the mill without mentioning
Papá
’
s
accident?

She looks away and searches for another story. “My marriage day,” she finally says. “When Carlos married me, I was happy. But the happiest day was when Rafael was born an American citizen.”

The woman called Michelle turns to face Isabel and leans against one of the bronze doors. “Tell us about Carlos,” she says, hugging her knees. “Did you date for a long time? Is he handsome? Does your baby look more like you or your husband?”

Isabel blinks, then gives the woman a bland smile, remembering that she and this
gringa
are from two different worlds. She met Carlos only three minutes before he saved her life; he married her three weeks later. And the baby, who had been in her belly when she met her husband, looks nothing like the man he calls
Papá.

Her gaze shifts to the pattern on the tile floor. “I owe Carlos everything.”

“Where’d you meet him?”

“A town in North Carolina…where I got off the bus.”

When the red-haired woman lifts a brow, Isabel knows they want the entire story. But how can she speak of Ernesto? Already these
gringas
think her poor and stupid. If they knew about Ernesto, they would also think her wicked. And if they knew what happened in the office on the thirty-sixth floor…

They must never, ever know that.

Still they keep watching and waiting, so what can she tell them?

“I love my Carlos.” She gives each of the women a brief, distracted glance and tries to smile. “When I got off the bus I had no money, so he took care of me and bought me a ticket to Florida. He found me a place to stay and three weeks later he took me to the church where a priest married us. He is a good father, and he keeps me safe. What more could any woman want?”

“What, indeed?” the red-haired
gringa
says, and even across the gulf that separates them, Isabel recognizes the tang of bitterness in the woman’s voice.

11:00 a.m.

“B
aby, if you love me, you will.”

Isabel stared at Ernesto through a haze of nausea. How could he be so insensitive? He knew about her pregnancy, he knew she was
enferma.
So how could he insist that she go to New York?

“Ernesto.” His name, once so lovely on her tongue, tasted like bile. “Ernesto, please, I am sick.”

“It’ll pass, baby. Soon you will be feeling good.”

He reached out, cupped her chin in his broad hand and looked into her eyes. “Doesn’t being my woman make you feel good?”

Yesterday she would have said yes.

Six months ago, during their first dance, she’d given Ernesto her heart. Two days ago, in her bathroom at home, she’d discovered that he had given her a baby. This morning she’d broken the news; he’d smiled and told her to go home and rest. When she’d come looking for him this afternoon, he’d barely glanced at her before asking her to go to New York.

If he’d meant to take her on a vacation, she’d have been thrilled beyond words. She’d have forsaken her family and lied to her
madre
for a chance to see New York on Ernesto’s arm.

But he didn’t want her to go as a
turista
. He wasn’t planning
una vacaciones
or a sightseeing trip; he wanted her to deliver drugs to his New York contacts.

He wanted her to hide cocaine in her belly.

“No, Ernesto,” she begged, searching for some sign of yielding in his eyes. “It would not be good for the baby.”

His hand rose to stroke her hair. “Nothing will hurt the
bebé.
You will be safer than most of my girls. If you are stopped, you will not be arrested because the Americans will not X-ray a pregnant woman. No X-ray, no proof.”

She shook her head like a dog stunned by a swift and unexpected blow. “What if they don’t believe I am pregnant?”

“They will make you pee in a cup, then they will see for themselves. You will be safe,
chiquita.
No one will bother you.”

Sick with the knowledge that he could use her in such a way, she placed one hand on her stomach. “Ernesto, I don’t want—ohh!”

His hand twisted in her hair until the pressure ripped at her scalp. She cried out, then closed her eyes and gasped as he leaned closer to exhale a beery breath in her face. “This isn’t about what you want,
chica.
This is about what you will do for me. Other girls have done it, and look at them—they have happy babies, no? So you will do it.”

“I am not like those other girls. I am too afraid—”

“I will ask Jesus Malverde to give you courage. He will be with you and bring you back to make me happy.”

“But—”

“If you do not do this…perhaps you will never see your brother alive again. I know Rodrigo, I know where he goes after work. I think my son would like to know his uncle some day, but that will be your decision.”

He released his grip on her hair, but as he walked away, a clump of long strands fell from his fist to the floor.

Isabel pushed herself to a sitting position and couldn’t help noticing the billboard outside the apartment window. Stop, the government-sponsored sign read, Love Can Cost You Dearly.

The picture beneath the words featured a young woman being led away in handcuffs while in the background her silk-shirted, blue-jeaned, drug-dealing boyfriend smiled and smoked a cigarette.

As rain streaks the cab windows, Eddie Vaughn clicks his tongue and studies the wavering pavement. “Yesterday,” he tells Sadie, “the white lines on this highway told me where to drive. I know those lines haven’t moved, Sades, but I’m not seein’ them. If you spot one, give a shout, will you?”

The dog shifts her weight on the seat and sits a little straighter, knowing she’s been asked to do something.

Eddie chuckles and returns his gaze to the wet road. Sometimes he’d give his last dollar to know how much of his conversation the dog comprehended. Heather used to mock him, saying he put too much store in what Sadie understood, but sometimes he is sure the dog grasps far more than his ex-wife.

“Whoa, girl.” He extends his arm to shield the retriever as he applies the brake. The instinctive action is unnecessary, for Sadie’s harness is attached to the seat belt, a precaution he insists on taking whenever his best friend travels with him.

Ahead, on what looks more like a pond than a road, yellow beacons flash a warning. Swirling red and blue lights signal the presence of an emergency vehicle, so maybe a cop will be able to tell him what’s going on.

The only other car on the road, a Ford Explorer, pulls a U-turn before it reaches the yellow lights. Eddie presses forward, driving as fast as he dares until he reaches the roadblock.

The Pinellas County deputy draped in an orange poncho is a woman. Water streams from the brim of her plastic-covered hat as she bends toward the window to shout an unintelligible order.

Unintelligible:
fourteen letters, difficult to understand.

You could fill half a column with that one.

Eddie presses the window button and flinches as cold rain invades the sanctity of the warm cab.

“We’ve gotta keep people off the bridge,” the deputy yells, her voice hoarse. “We’ve got storm surge coming in soon.”

Eddie peers through the gathering gloom and studies the bridge ahead. The three-mile Howard Frankland links the peninsula of Pinellas County with Tampa. Most of the bridge rides about twelve feet above the bay, all but “the hump,” a towering, sloping span designed to permit the passage of tall ships.

“Listen—” Eddie tries to speak in a normal voice, but the deputy shakes her head and cups her hand around her ear.

“It’s like this,” he yells, leaning out the window. “I’m an elevator-repair technician. We’ve got some women stuck in a downtown skyscraper and I’ve got to help ’em out.”

The woman stares at him for a moment, then his words fall into place. “You’ve got people in downtown Tampa? But those roads were blocked off last night.”

Eddie grips the steering wheel. “I guess they found a way around the barricades.”

The deputy rolls her eyes, then points toward the bridge. “If you go over, you won’t be able to come back for a good while. This bridge is going to be underwater in a couple of hours. The Skyway’s already closed and the Causeway will be swamped any minute.”

Eddie squints at the long gray bridge, barely visible in the pouring rain. “I guess I’d better find a rock to crawl under, then.”

Though the look in her eye makes it clear the deputy is questioning his sanity, she leans in again. “You got gas? There’s no gas within a hundred miles of here.”

“I filled up yesterday. And I have a spare gas can in the back.”

“Well…all right, I’ll let you through. But you be careful, you hear? Winds are awful strong on the hump.”

“I’ll take my time.”

“Don’t take too long.”

He rolls the window up as the deputy grabs on to her hat and ducks into the wind. A moment later she swings one of the barricades aside, leaving just enough room for his truck to squeeze onto the approach to the bridge.

He hasn’t driven forty yards when the sky opens and releases a deluge. He turns the wipers to their top speed, but he can hardly see past the wall of water streaming over the windshield. Beside him, Sadie whimpers and lies flat, her plumed tail drooping off the bench seat.

“Don’t fret, girl.” Eddie keeps his gaze on the road, knowing one false move could land him up against the guardrail or in the bay. “We’re gonna be fine. Just two miles of straight road, then the hump, then we’re in Tampa. We’re practically there.”

When Sadie whimpers again, Eddie reaches into his pocket and pulls out a liver-flavored dog biscuit, which the retriever accepts with delicate pleasure.

Eddie feels his mouth curl into a one-sided smile. As long as the dog is willing to eat, things can’t be all that bad.

Eddie rolled over and felt his arm drop into emptiness. He opened one eye, momentarily confused. This wasn’t his bed, not his apartment. He was stretched out on a narrow sofa in a stranger’s living room.

He closed his eyes and deliberately let his mind run backward. Yesterday…Pete Riddleman had thrown a party to welcome the new lifesaving crew to Panama City Beach. After the orientation meeting, they’d all gone over to Pete’s place, where Mr. Riddleman had stashed plenty of beers in iced tubs. At eighteen, neither Eddie nor the other newcomers were old enough to drink in Florida, but Pete’s father had winked and said as long as they stayed at the house and didn’t drive drunk, everything would be a-okay.

Eddie rolled onto his back and forced himself to focus on the ceiling. Across the room, a couple of guys snored into air that smelled of cigarettes and sour beer. Riggs and Murtaugh argued on the television as a
Lethal Weapon
DVD repeated its play cycle.

Eddie lifted his head, felt an invisible two-by-four slam the empty space between his eyes, then let his throbbing skull drop back to the sofa pillow.

A hangover. His first.

He lifted his hand and gingerly massaged the bridge of his nose. How did people cure this misery? His friends could sleep it off, but Eddie had pulled the first shift; the condominium bosses expected him to be in his chair by nine o’clock.

What time was it?

Careful not to lift his head, he raised his left arm and moved his wristwatch into his field of vision. Eight-thirty. Still time to make the chair…if he could coax his body into an upright position.

He let his arm drop, then groaned when the limb struck his stomach. His newly awakened belly roiled with nausea, and the thought of coffee only increased the turbulence.

He pressed his lips together, closed his eyes and reminded himself that the john was only a few yards away. Through the living room, if his memory could be trusted, and to the left. There he’d find a toilet. Shower. Sink. Maybe an Alka-Seltzer or an aspirin in the medicine cabinet. He wouldn’t be choosy.

He breathed hard through his nose, marshaling his strength, then pulled himself upright. Bodies lay scattered over the floor—young men sacked out on pillows, on blankets, one guy sprawled on his back in a bean-bag chair. Eddie rose and ignored all of them, bulleting his way to the sanctuary of the bathroom.

He barely made it to the toilet before his stomach revolted at the sudden change in position. He retched for what felt like an hour, then rose in a stooped posture and moved to the sink. He rinsed his mouth and splashed his face with cold water. He clung to the edge of the vanity and peered into the mirror.

Bleary-eyed Eddie Vaughn would lose his first post-graduation job if he didn’t get down to the beach on the double.

He splashed his face again, scrubbed his skin dry with a towel and staggered back through the living room. None of the other guys stirred as he moved to the kitchen, where Mr. Riddleman had piled his collection of car keys in a brandy snifter. Eddie fished out his key chain, winced at the jangling sound it made, then waved a silent farewell to Pete, who was sleeping on a chaise longue by the pool.

In his car, he tapped out the rhythms of Wilson Phillips’s “Hold On” as he wove in and out of the beach traffic. Nine o’clock on a Friday morning, but every driver on the highway was out for a relaxed Sunday drive.

Except Eddie.

At ten minutes past the hour, he zipped into a parking spot, dropped two quarters into the meter and grabbed his gear from the back of his Jeep. He sprinted past the bed of tall sea grass, his sneakered feet pounding the wooden boardwalk, then came to an abrupt halt.

A knot of people had assembled near the empty lifeguard station. A dark-haired woman in a black bathing suit crouched at the center of the circle, a pale boy face-up on the sand beside her. A man knelt across from the wailing woman and desperately tried to blow life back into the boy’s lungs.

A grim-looking onlooker propped his hands on his hips as the woman sobbed, then his gaze brushed Eddie’s. His hot look seared Eddie with scorn and reproach.

An investigation later established that the boy had gone into the water at 8:50 a.m. and had been caught in the riptide only a moment later. Because the child had begun to swim before a lifeguard had been expected on duty, a civil court ruled that the condominium wasn’t liable and Eddie could not be faulted for the boy’s drowning.

The legal decision did nothing to assuage Eddie’s guilt. If he had not partied the night before, he probably would have reported to his stand early…and the boy would still be alive.

After successfully completing twelve months of lifeguarding without further mishap, Eddie moved back home to Birmingham. He set aside his plans for college and checked out vocational schools instead. He thought about firefighting and briefly considered police work, then he fell in love with elevators.

Through careful maintenance and the occasional rescue, in the elevator business you could save a life every day.

Despite her intention to remain calm, by eleven-thirty Michelle is as frustrated as a race car driver stuck in commuter traffic. In order to stop thinking about Parker, she’s forced herself to focus on the problem with Greg Owens, but she can’t do anything until she reads the man’s application. Once she sees how the columnist has presented himself, she should be able to find him a legitimate job offer within a week or two.