The Orphans of Race Point: A Novel (32 page)

“From what I hear, you Catholics are good at guilt—that is, when you’re not diddling little kids and screwing around with people’s moms.”

Gus is unshaken. “I hate those things as much as you do, Mila.
More.
But if you think the Church—or any person, for that matter—is nothing more than their worst sins, you’re blind.”

He’s staring at me, and I start to feel nervous again, so I pull out my pack of breath mints and pop a whole handful of them. “I don’t care about your Church, Mr. Silva, or about your guilt for denying God. What I want to know is how you feel when you think about my mother.”

“When I think of your mother, I feel tremendous sorrow—and yes, some guilt, too. If I had tried harder, maybe I could have prevented her death.”

Then, before I have a chance to respond, he does something that completely freaks me out. He pulls out this picture of me when I was little. “She gave me this the first time she came to see me. I’ve been carrying it around ever since.”

“Kind of like the book?”

“Yes, something like that. In fact, they’re both tied to the same event for me.”

I’m supposed to bite. You know, ask him
what
event. But I’m too sad to care. The guy who was convicted of killing my mom has been walking around for all these years with a picture of my little-girl self in his back pocket. I quickly turn my head, refusing to look into the scared eyes of the kid I used to be.

“You have no right to that picture. You never even knew that girl.”

“Wrong on both counts. I have every right. Your mother gave me that picture on a night I have paid for dearly. And I
did
know that kid. The minute I saw her eyes, I knew her better than I’ve known members of my own family. Look at her, Mila. She’s just a little girl, but she’s already seen way too much.”

I try not to look, but I do—and, God, I hate that kid. She’s so vulnerable, a good wind would break her in two.

“Obviously, the picture didn’t mean much to her,” I say, fighting back tears.

“Wrong again. I really didn’t know your mother very well, Mila. She didn’t tell me a lot about herself, and I’m not sure if the things she did say were true. But I know she loved you very much. She had given up on herself, but she thought I could help you.”

“What could you possibly do for me?”

He holds up the photograph of little-girl me again. “Maybe I could help you make peace with
her.
”

“Don’t play shrink with me, okay?” I say. “That’s not why I came here.”

“Then why? You wanted to look at me again?”

“Yeah, maybe I did.”

“So what do you think?” he says, smiling again.

I appraise him openly the way the guards did to me in my skirt. I look from the top of his iron-gray head to the penetrating eyes, to the small white scar on his left cheek, and finally settle on the arms that are folded across his chest. There’s a hokey valentine tattoo on his bicep that’s partially obscured.

“To tell you the truth, I have no idea what she ever saw in you.”

He laughs out loud. “Believe it or not, Mila, your mother and I were not lovers. In fact, I haven’t been with a woman since high school. That sounds crazy to most people—impossible even. But it’s true.”

“Whose name is that inside your heart tattoo, then?” I ask.

He unfolds his arms, and lowers them so I can’t see it anymore. Even though my intention was to
ping!
a few nerves, I wish I hadn’t asked. Still, I can’t help pressing a little further: “Is it my mother’s? Or the doctor’s?”

But instead of answering, he lifts a finger in the air again, signaling for the guard. For a minute, I think he’s going to walk away on me like he did the last time, but this time he stops to say goodbye. “Thanks for coming, Mila,” he says. “And if you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to get in touch.”

My first instinct is to say something bitchy like I always do—
As if I’d ever need anything from you.
But the plain kindness in his eyes stops me.

And then he’s gone. Bang. I’m left sitting on my orange plastic chair, trying to blot the ridiculous tears on my face with a Kleenex. I mean, there’s absolutely no way I’m walking out of this place bawling over the guy who ruined my life.

I’m not really sure how long I sit, going through my bag, and reapplying lip gloss. But when I finally get out of there, I’m confronted by the woman I almost forgot.

“You all right?” she says.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” I snap. “You’re the one who looked like you were going to have a meltdown in there—over a
book
, no less. And why are you still here? I thought you were going for coffee.” I flip back my black hair and stand up as straight as I can, wishing I’d worn one of my long Frida skirts and the jewelry that goes with it, the costume that gives me strength. If I had, tears definitely wouldn’t be streaming down my face the way they are.

I’m afraid the doctor’s about to go soft on me and try to hug me or something, but all she says is: “You’re crying.”

“It’s just that he’s nothing like I ever expected him to be, okay? It shocked me when I first visited, but this time—”

“If Gus was angry with you, you have to understand. He’s been through a lot.”

“That’s just it. He’s
not
angry. He’s—I don’t know—
nice
—and I have no idea why. I don’t deserve it.”

“Apparently Gus thinks you do. So you like him.”

“I didn’t say that, did I?”

“But you did like him. You
do
like him. Most people react to Gus that way.”

“You certainly do. I couldn’t help noticing that the two of you were doing some serious
reacting
in there,” I say. “God, you’re still in love with the guy, aren’t you? You’ve always been in love with him.”

I only want to divert attention from myself and how I’m feeling—which is more confused than ever. But when I see the pain in her eyes, I’m actually sorry I mentioned it.

“Anyway, I’m not most people. The guy supposedly killed my mom. And my dad—my whole family—hates him more than anyone on earth. I shouldn’t even be here.”

But the doctor is focused on one word. “You said ‘supposedly
.’
Does that mean you don’t believe Gus killed your mother?”

By then we’ve reached the exit and I’m absolutely dying for a cigarette. I bolt out of the door, light up, and head for the car as fast as I can. But the doctor keeps pace with me.

“Is that the real reason you came here, Mila? Because you think Gus is innocent?”

I try not to look at her face. “Don’t be ridiculous, Everyone says he did it. I mean, who else—”

Hallie knows she’s hit a nerve, but she doesn’t know why. Still, she can’t let it go. “Do you know why your mother went to see Gus in the first place?”

The April wind is lashing my bare legs, and my hair keeps blowing in my eyes. I push back my hair. “She went to talk about God. Why else do you go to a priest?”

“You’ve read the newspaper accounts of the trial, Mila. The things that were said about your father.”

“You know what? I’ll take the bus.” I start walking in the direction of the bus stop, even though my new shoes are absolutely killing me, I left my credit card at home, and I don’t even have the twenty bucks for the fare.

Predictably, the doctor follows me—not because she gives a damn how I get home, but she thinks she has me on the ropes. I put my head down and talk into the wind. “Gus Silva was the one who said those things about my father. And for obvious reasons. No one else corroborated his lies, if you recall.”

“Maybe because no one else knew what happened in that house. No one but a dead woman and a small child who was too young to take the stand and tell what she’d seen.”

“I saw nothing, señora. You got that?
Nada.
If I could have taken the stand, I would have said the same thing as every one else: my dad adored his wife. Forever and always. Just like you love your killer priest.” We both know I’m lying, so I turn away quickly, and start fumbling through the cute little red bag that contains every necessity in life but cash.

“Look at me when you say that, Mila,” she says.

So I spin around and face her. “My father didn’t do it. That’s one thing I’m sure of. Is that good enough for you?”

She lowers her head, then reaches out and touches my arm. “I’m sorry for badgering you. I mean it. I’m just so desperate to find something that will help Gus. If he knew I was treating you like this, he’d kill me.”

“Not a very good choice of words, Doc.” I’m hoping that if I piss her off enough she’ll stop trying to be nice to me.

But she doesn’t even seem to hear me. She slings her arm over my shoulder. “If you don’t take the bus, I promise I won’t say another word about Gus’s case.”

“One thing I can’t stand is people pretending to care about me when they’re just pursuing their own agenda.” I shake her off, not about to admit how good her arm felt around me.

“You’re right: I was pursuing my own agenda. The reason I used my only day off to drive you here was because I thought I might learn something about your mother through you. That wasn’t fair.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“Listen, Mila. Gus asked me to drive you here and back, and there’s so little I can do for him. Please let me do this one thing.”

“Throw in a chimichanga with extra hot sauce and you’ve got yourself a deal,” I say as if I’ve got all the options in the world. “I’m starving.”

We’re pulling out of the taco shop when she asks me what all the
muchas gracias
and
señoras
are about. “Are you planning to study Spanish in college?”

“College is for middle-class kids hoping to pursue a career in business. In case you didn’t know, I’m already
financially secure
, as my dad would say.” Some sour cream squirts out of my chimichanga and I lick it off my hand.

“Maybe I read you wrong, but I thought you were the type who valued education for its own sake. Not to mention, you might learn a skill that could lead to a useful life.”

“Why go to school and study Spanish when you can move to Mexico and actually live it?”

“So that’s your plan—move to Mexico and sit by a pool, smoking pot for the rest of your life?”

“I didn’t say anything about pot, did I? Though right about now it doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

She tosses her yellow waves and laughs out loud in a way that reminds me of of the priest. On the way home, I sit back and study her, thinking how close they must have been. Close enough to
become
each other in some way. For just a moment, I wonder if by hanging around with E so much in these formative years, I might unconsciously assimilate part of who he is into my bloodstream. If it goes on much longer, twenty years from now, I’ll probably end up carrying around a fifty-pound pack of books and railing about the Constitution to strangers in Dunky’s. Thank God I told him to fuck off when I did!

But somehow I can’t stop thinking about what I saw in the prison. How they were with each other. The strange interaction over the book. “You two must have laughed a lot when you were together,” I say, still watching her on the sly.

“Excuse me?” she says, obviously lost in her own thoughts.

“You and the Padre—you must have laughed a lot when you were my age,” I repeat.

“All the time.”

At this point, I’m in serious danger of starting to like Hallie. She’s so young in a way. Not young as in immature; it’s just that her heart doesn’t seem to be scabbed over yet like most adults’.

“Do you have a boyfriend, Mila?” she asks. The dreaded question. Usually followed by the even more predictable comments on how pretty I am; surely a lot of boys would be interested, etc.

“Let’s just say that with my mother’s track record in love, I avoid it.”

“I see,” she says quietly. “How about a best friend? Someone you tell absolutely everything to?”

“I have myself.”

“And that makes you happy?”

Now I’m getting annoyed. And as anyone who knows me well can tell you, when I get mad, I can’t help it. My tongue automatically turns into a razor. “Obviously, not as happy as you were with your boyfriend. Until he tried to kill you, that is.”

She doesn’t say anything at first, but her lips tighten, and I can tell I’ve hit her in the solar plexus. Annoyingly, she turns up her dumb song again and tunes me out until it’s over. Then she switches off the radio and we ride the rest of the way in silence.

When we reach the Castle, I don’t even expect a goodbye. But to my surprise, she looks at me with this crazy sincerity and says, “Good luck, Mila.”

Good luck?
Good fucking luck?
What’s that supposed to mean?

I’m almost too flustered to thank her for an unpleasant ride to a place I wish I’d never been, but somehow I manage to get out an embarrassingly emotional
muchas gracias
before I escape.

T
he signs tonight at the Dismal
Kingdom are not favorable: the stones are dark and forbidding, the Bug’s Porsche is in the driveway, and when I look inside, I see Eileen standing in the window, watching as I get out of the doctor’s shitbox car. Before she or the Bug can question me, I slip up to my room and lock the door, intending to plead a menstrual headache if anyone knocks. That should scare the Bug away!

But amazingly no one comes to the door. It’s just me and my chrome-yellow walls and Frida staring down at me, her eyes as dark as Gus’s were earlier.

My phone is blinking
número dos
—two messages—and for a minute my heart soars. I knew E would call! Take that, señora! I
do
have a friend after all, and one who’s way too smart to do anything like join the priesthood or end up in jail. But when I play the messages back, the first is from my manicurist, reminding me of an appointment I made for the next day, and number two is from a girl in English class who was assigned to a project with me.

So after I change into my Frida clothes, I lay back on my bed and try not to hear Hallie’s voice in my head, gently taunting me about my solitariness.
And that makes you happy?