Chapter Nineteen
Just on the outskirts of Guadalajara, inhaling the fragrance of chocolate, Lydia stops dead in her tracks. Her hand flies up to her mouth. Lorenzo turns to face her.
“Yeah, so I guess the daughter read that article your husband wrote,” he says.
“Oh my God,” Lydia says.
“You didn’t know this?”
Lydia’s voice falters.
“Yeah, somebody sent her the article, and when she read it, she freaked out and killed herself. Left her papi a suicide note. Shit was ugly. That’s why.
” Lydia’s mind races to put the pieces together while the boy sicario talks.
“That’s why he went loco. Said you betrayed him, said your husband was responsible, said you were all gonna pay. He was really fucked-up.”
“Wait.” Because her brain has seized. It’s too full.
Marta. Isolated memories surge up in Lydia’s consciousness one after another and then pop like bubbles.
Javier in the bookstore, Skyping with his daughter in Barcelona before an exam.
Her apprehension, his fatherly encouragement.
Javier laughing when he told Lydia about the pogo stick Marta bought him for his fiftieth birthday.
How he’d tried it out just to please her and ended up with his back in spasms. Javier’s insistence that Marta was the only good thing he’d ever done in his life.
Es mi cielo, mi luna, y todas mis estrellas.
My sky, my moon, and all my stars. There’s an unwelcome pang in Lydia’s chest.
“She didn’t know? She didn’t know about her father, about the cartel?”
“I guess not.”
“How could she not know?” It seems so unlikely, but Lydia immediately perceives her own hypocrisy. She hadn’t known either. The first domino of her understanding teeters and falls.
Lorenzo shrugs. “I don’t know. But he made your family like a straight-up vendetta.
It was practically a press release for Los Jardineros.
Usually when there’s a job, you only hear what you need to hear, and it’s only the people involved who know anything about it, but this time was different.
Everybody in the city knew, everybody in Guerrero. ”
Lydia begins shuffling her feet beneath her again, but her mind is whirring like a disengaged motor.
She is blindsided. All this time, all these miles, the same futile, idiotic refrain kept presenting itself through her thoughts.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t supposed to happen.
She’d misjudged him. She had missed something.
A thousand times, she’d replayed the conversation she’d had with Sebastián the night before the article came out.
He’d asked if they should go to a hotel for a few days, to be on the safe side.
“No, I think we’re fine,” she’d told him.
“A hundred percent?”
“Yes,” she’d said. “A hundred percent.”
How that answer has haunted her. It has followed her into sleep every night.
It has twisted in her gut without reprieve.
All the frivolous reasons she hadn’t wanted to go to the hotel: She hated to uproot Luca, for him to miss school, for her business to suffer.
She hated the interruption to their routine.
And she’d believed, truly, that Javier wouldn’t hurt them.
What she wouldn’t give to go back to that moment with Sebastián, to say anything else.
To suck those words back in and obliterate them.
A hundred percent, she’d said. How presumptuous she’d been, how foolhardy!
Of course she couldn’t account for every eventuality.
Why hadn’t she seen that sooner? She could never have predicted this, but she could’ve predicted that something unpredictable might happen.
Why, why, why. Her body feels like cracked glass, already shattered, and held in place only by a trick of temporary gravity.
One wrong move and she will come to pieces.
Marta’s death changed everything, of course.
It changed everything. Behind her shock, Lydia can sense waves of competing emotions, but she shuts them all down.
De ninguna manera. She will feel nothing about Javier’s dead daughter.
No, Lydia will not even say her name. She will feel nothing about his anguish.
The note he sent her at the Duquesa Imperial: I’m sorry for your pain and mine. Now we are bound forever in this grief.
No.
No.
His grief is not the same as hers. Lydia will not feel empathy for him.
She will rage. She will inhabit the fury of her own senseless bereavement, the one that Javier invented for her.
Instead, she will walk, she will leave him behind, she will repeat the sixteen names of her murdered family.
Innocents, all of them. Sebastián especially. An honorable man doing his job.
She will list them and repeat them and remember.
Sebastián, Yemi, Alex, Yénifer, Adrián, Paula, Arturo, Estéfani, Nico, Joaquín, Diana, Vicente, Rafael, Lucía, and Rafaelito.
Mamá. Repeat. Her husband, her sister, her niece and nephew, her aunt, her two cousins, all their beautiful children.
Her mamá. Lydia will not stop saying their names.
Lorenzo is saying something beside her, but his voice recedes behind her own recitation. She needs to be away from him. She will walk beside Luca instead, press his warm fingers into the palm of her hand.
Her repetition will become a prayer.
They pass into busier neighborhoods with curious dogs and kids riding bikes and women pushing strollers.
Luca sees one man with a white cowboy hat riding an old pony and talking on his cell phone, which makes him laugh.
There are also girls who look to be around the sisters’ age who stand near the tracks in groups of two and three.
They wear clothes that look like Mami’s underwear, and white high heels or knee-high boots.
They have neon pink lips, and they call out to their countrymen in their Central American accents as they walk past. The girls invite the men to come have a beer or a smoke or a rest, and Luca knows there’s something off about their appearance, their dress, something improper about their posture—so languorous against the bustle of the day.
But he doesn’t understand how it all works.
He doesn’t understand the difference between the men who shake their heads sadly and avert their eyes, and the ones who leer and whistle, who trot off to disappear into darkened doorways with those young dress-up girls.
When he tries to ask Mami about them, she only shakes her head and squeezes his hand.
Several times they pass clusters of uniformed men who rouse themselves when they notice the passing migrants, but each time this happens, Danilo removes the still-sheathed machete from his shoulder and swings it alongside his body as he walks.
He does some elaborate shuffle that passes for a dance, and sings as they go, “?Guadalajara, Guadalajara! Tienes el alma de provinciana, hueles a limpio, a rosa temprana…” When the men in their uniforms notice him, they return their interest elsewhere, so by the time they reach La Piedrera, Lydia feels as though Danilo has saved their lives perhaps seven times.
She grips his hand and says thank you, but he shrugs it off and wishes them a safe continued journey.
He turns and ambles back down the tracks the way they came.
They hear him singing as he goes. “?Guadalajara, Guadalajara! Sabes a pura tierra mojada.”
“I wish he could come with us all the way to el norte,” Rebeca says to Soledad as they watch him go.
“I can take care of you,” Lorenzo says in response.
The sisters turn to look at him.
“Nah, we’re all set,” Rebeca says. “Thanks.”
Lorenzo shrugs, but Soledad has no patience for this cholo and has never been a champion of subtlety anyway. She wheels on him.
“Are you still here? Did we invite you to join us or something? Because I don’t remember doing that.”
“Damn, girl. Cálmate. We’re all going to the same place, aren’t we?”
“Are we?”
“I mean, what, you own Guadalajara now?”
She turns away. “Come on,” she says to Rebeca.
The girls start to walk, and Luca with them.
Lydia doesn’t move. She knows Lorenzo could use that phone in his pocket to call Javier right now.
He could snap her neck and then snap her picture, collect a big reward.
Her death could make him a Jardineros hero.
But isn’t it possible that, beneath the shield of his baby narco swagger, he’s also a scared boy, alone in the world and running for his life?
And isn’t it also probably true that if he persists in not murdering them, he might know more things about the cartels that could help them?
He’s already been a wellspring, and Lydia would like the chance to interview him further, to pump him for more information.
Luca and the girls look back at her from the corner they’re about to turn.
Luca is holding Rebeca’s hand. The pace of their life has become so fast and so slow; Lydia never has enough time to make decisions.
She works from instinct alone, and her instinct is strong in this instance.
It tells her to go, to get away from him.
“Can I ask you one thing?” she says.
He shrugs.
“Do you think he’s still looking for us?”
“Sin duda alguna,” he says. Without a doubt.
It’s not surprising, but still, there’s no comfort in the validation. Her body feels leaden. “But we’re safer here, yes?”
Lorenzo’s wearing a string backpack. He squints and looks around. “I don’t know,” he says. “I mean, anywhere is safer than Acapulco.”
“But he has alliances in other plazas?”
“Claro que sí, there’s a lot more cooperation with the other cartels than there was before him. He’s got reach. Deep into rival territories.”
“Which ones?” she asks.
“I don’t know. What do I look like, some kind of maldito expert?”