Chapter 55
In fact, it was nearly noon. I would need to take the car if I was going to be on time for Henry.
As I approached the bridge, slowing to look for a parking space, with a bloom of dread, I saw Louise.
She was waiting for me. At least she was outside of the courtyard, I consoled myself; we wouldn’t be overheard.
“Mia, at last; I’ve missed you,” she called warmly as soon as I began across the street. Then, seeing my face, “What’s wrong?”
Impulsively—she always managed to get my guard down—I was about to tell her Tom was in the States; I was worried about the future of the project. Catching myself, I said only, “It’s nothing. I have a lot of errands I have to run after being gone so long.”
She had been studying me closely, in a way that made me want to reclaim myself, shrug away her hand when she set it onto my shoulder.
But it had been such a punishing twenty-four hours, so isolating, that I was at the same time comforted, Louise squeezing my shoulder gently now, saying, “I know it’s difficult, but these moments are opportunities. ”
I nodded. Stupidly I began to cry.
“Why don’t you let me take the children for you?”
“No, no”—wiping at my face. “I’m fine, really.”
“At least let me take Ida. It would give you some time to get your errands done, settle in a bit.”
I hesitated.
“Say yes.”
“Okay, yes, then,” I said, thinking how happy Ida would be to see her, how much she loved Louise’s house.
The kindergarteners were already being brought out, and to draw the conversation to a close, I asked if I could give Louise a ride back home or into town.
No, she was stopping by the gallery to say hello to Hector and Fabiola; she’d be back for Ida at two o’clock.
“Here, then.” I handed her a fifty-peso note. “This way you and Ida can take a cab home.”
“I couldn’t possibly.”
“You’re helping me so much, please.” I pressed it into her hand, hurried to collect Henry.
He’d been tired, his teacher told me. I carried him, heavy-lidded, to the car.
At home, we watched television together on the couch while María cooked.
I tried to think what I was going to say to Tom when he called, indulging the thought that after our conversation, he would call the gallery for me and fix everything; contriving how I could orchestrate that to happen, impress upon him his strength and my incompetence so that he would offer without being asked.
My body felt leaden, as if I had the flu.
I curled tightly against Henry, longingly listening to María pad back and forth in her plastic sandals setting out the dishes, knowing she was setting the table for four and saying nothing.
“Is the senor bringing Ida?” she finally asked from the top of the two gentle stairs that led into the living area, seeing me still on the couch.
“No, María, lo siento. He has business, and Ida is with a friend; they won’t be home for comida.” As I spoke, I’d cowered a little, but she had no discernable reaction. She simply said:
“Bueno, senora, la comida está preparada.”
A half an hour later, as María was clearing the dishes, the landline rang.
“It’s me.”
“Tom.” I had run into the living room, coiling the phone wire nervously around my finger, my head lowered as if about to receive a blow.
“It’s over.”
“The meeting? Did it go okay?” I knew from his voice that it hadn’t; that wasn’t what he’d meant.
“I just told you, it’s over. The backers pulled out.”
“But will you find other ones?”
“No, we won’t find fucking other ones,” he said, in a voice laden with mockery. Then, pointedly, “And what about you? Have you gotten our money back?”
I was quiet for a moment, thinking.
“I’m in Houston, by the way.”
I started. “What, already? But when does your plane arrive in León? I’ll pick you up.”
“Don’t bother,” he said, explaining shortly that two other partners and the firm’s lawyer were with him to help wrap things up in Mexico; they’d get a car together; the firm would pay.
We hung up. After a moment, I asked María, could she watch Henry for half an hour?
It had suddenly occurred to me that I could return the lithograph unopened.
“Sí, sí, senora, no hay problema.” Henry had gone back to watching television, perhaps sensing that I didn’t have the bandwidth to refuse him anything.
I got in the car and drove into town, circling for a parking spot near Parque Juárez and finally finding one.
I hurried up the street toward La Conexión, seeing the rose seller at the corner on her wooden stool, irritated somehow by the predictability of her presence, her oldness and meekness, the deference with which she always wrapped the roses in newspaper.
I stepped inside the narrow door; before I’d even reached the counter, I said tersely, “I’m here for my mail. Number 189A.”
With a smirk, the girl turned and disappeared into the back. I craned forward but couldn’t see anything. A few moments later, she reappeared, carrying only a bundle of envelopes.
“Wasn’t there a larger package?”
“Larger package, no,” she said, her eyes wide in a pantomime of innocence or else stupidity that nevertheless reassured me, because it meant I hadn’t yet received the lithograph, there was hope.
I said, trying to infuse every word with authority, “I’m expecting a work of art from a gallery in Oaxaca. However, I don’t want to accept it. I want it returned.” Her expression had shifted, and I repeatedly loudly, as though speaking to a dimwit, “Quiero devolverlo.”
“Sí, senora, pero este paquete ya ha llegó.”
I gaped at her. “What do you mean, it already arrived? Then where is it?”
“Don’t worry yourself, senora,” she said. “No se preocupe, your mother signed for it.”