15. Whispers from the Root #2
Willie had been preparing for this day for years.
The premonition was foretold when he was a child living in Puerto Rico.
It was at his father’s velorio when Dona Mercedes pulled him aside.
He had never spoken to her before, was afraid of her and how La Dona commanded authority.
While others cried before his father’s casket, Dona Mercedes led Willie away and told him there would be two others, strangers he would know nothing about, not their names or where they came from or how their histories were intertwined.
Dona said, “All three of you will lose a part of your body you cherished the most. When that day comes, you will return to the island and speak to the one who caused your father pain.”
He tried to examine the rest of his burly body, but with every touch, he left a mark, forgetting how razor-sharp the spurs were.
Willie tried to recall what his counselor advised him to do whenever he got mad.
He counted to a hundred, then he counted backward, but the anger escalated. Willie wanted to break shit.
This path he was about to undertake would only lead him right back to jail.
All that he’d worked on, lost forever. The long lineage of grief he could never seem to pull up from under continued, but at least there was this rage.
With the spurs, he tore down the art pieces he created, slashing the canvases of mountains he traveled with his father, and the depiction of the small farm the family once owned.
His favorite piece was of the fighting roosters. His father loved those roosters.
“Fuck it,” Willie said, his voice hoarse. “If this is what God wants, it’s what I must do.”
It took him a few tries before he could place the extra-large workman’s gloves on to conceal his sharp claws. Willie waited until the house was quiet to sneak out, the necessary papers folded in his back pocket, proof of who was responsible for his father’s death.
The three met in front of the historic home of Don Manuel González.
The stately colonial house located in Old San Juan dated back from the mid-nineteenth century with a full-grown flamboyant tree in the courtyard.
The Spanish-architecture home had fifteen-foot-high ceilings, iron wood beams, and black-and-white checkered floors.
For many years, the location was used for commercial endeavors like music videos and was even named a landmark twenty years ago.
When that happened, Don Manuel held a large celebration complete with a trio, a salsa band, and a celebrity actress who flew in from Miami, Florida, just for the occasion.
It was a full weekend of dancing and drinking, with Don Manuel in the center of his home enjoying every second.
Standing in front of the estate stood Norma, Claudia, and Willie.
The three looked at each other and only gave a slight nod of acknowledgment.
It was late and the streets were peaceful except for the faint sounds of music playing from a nearby bar.
The heavy wrought iron gate opened for them as if aided by a gust of wind, and the three entered without speaking a word to each other.
Inside, Don Manuel had trouble sleeping.
The eighty-three-year-old sat in his living room listening to boleros sung by his favorite artist, Tito Rodríguez, as he was accustomed to doing so during those long nights.
In his hand he held a glass of gin, neat, and sipped it slowly while contemplating how time was escaping him.
How old friends have died or are dying. There was not much left to do but enjoy the treasures he surrounded himself with.
The good he believed he’d done throughout his life.
Don Manuel counted his blessings, but he failed to notice how the three had entered the room.
Startled, the old man stood up, angry at the intrusion.
“?Qué quieren?” he said, unable to bely the undertone of fear. “What do you want?”
His English was proper, which was not surprising for someone who believed the language would save him, a language that allowed the walls to depict the vast timeline of Don Manuel’s accomplishments.
There was Don Manuel posing with various presidents: the Bushes, President Trump, President Obama, and Trump again.
Laughing with Ferré and Barceló and Rosselló.
All with sinister smiles. He intentionally glanced over to the framed photo of himself standing in front of one of his new factories as if to alert the strangers of his importance.
Willie walked toward the wall and addressed the awards and laminated newspaper articles.
Before he lifted the picture of Don Manuel graduating from an American university, Willie peeled off his oversized gloves.
With his long talons, he thrashed the photo against a table. He picked another and did the same.
“You… you can’t do that! The police will be here any second,” Don Manuel said. “Do you know who I am?”
Willie ignored his question and turned to the wall on the opposite side of the room, which was covered with artwork.
“You have such a beautiful collection. So many hanging here for you to enjoy,” Willie said. “I remember this one in particular.”
The piece, a blurry version of life on a farm, had a similar style to that of Willie’s work. He walked to the old man, and with his claw pushed Don Manuel back until he plopped down onto the sofa. Willie caressed Don Manuel’s face, leaving a bleeding wound.
“The artist’s name is Pedro. He worked at the bookstore, but everyone came to him for his paintings. It was his job to create the pamphlets,” Willie said. “Do you remember what you did to him? Don’t worry, I’ll remind you.”
Norma pulled her sunglasses off, and Don Manuel groaned. He pressed his body against the armchair and tried to disappear into the fabric.
“My father’s name was Rogelio, but everyone called him Yayo. He led a small ministry,” Norma said, holding tight to the rosary. “When the new construction began on the beach, the residents came to him. He held meetings in the evenings to help them decipher the legal papers.”
“I don’t know anyone by that name,” Don Manuel cried out. “Please go away.”
Norma continued amid Don Manuel’s protests.
“Of course you know who he was. This was the file you made of him. You hired a photographer to take photos of him before and after the meetings. You documented the dates and times, who met with him, where they lived. Here’s the file.
” She pointed to the documents, but the old man closed his eyes tight.
“Look at me!” Norma yelled.
Willie stood behind the man, dragging his claw across the cushions of the sofa. “Open your eyes or I will pluck them out like olives.”
Don Manuel opened his eyes wide. Sweat soaked through his expensive linen shirt. The reason behind this sudden visit was slowly dawning on him.
“You signed the order to have my father meet a group in Vega Baja that needed his help. He never made it there, did he?” Norma said. “His body was found a few days later. An accident, the newspapers said. But many knew otherwise.”
“No! No! That wasn’t me. This is a mistake,” he pleaded. “Listen, I have money. I can pay you. I can pay each of you a lot of money.”
Claudia, the youngest of the three, watched from a dark corner of the room.
“Let’s just kill him,” she hissed. “Why are we prolonging this?”
Norma walked over to her, but Claudia quickly looked away from those nightmarish eyes, wishing the woman would put back on her sunglasses.
“That’s not how this is supposed to go. If it’s not done right, our bodies will be stuck. Is that what you want?” she calmly asked. “Dona Mercedes was specific. We have to follow her instructions.”
“I can’t.” Claudia tried hard not to cry. Her hooves made a loud clopping sound against the Spanish tiles as she paced. “This is all too much.”
The old man’s eyes frantically turned to her. “Please, help me,” he said, his voice trembling.
Claudia clopped over to him and slapped his wrinkled face hard.
“My mother was murdered. Her name was Iris.” Claudia lifted her leg and slammed her hoof down on Don Manuel’s sandaled feet, causing the old man to tumble off the sofa and howl out in pain.
“She worked as a secretary in one of your factories. She noticed how your workers dumped this oily liquid down the river,” Claudia continued.
“My mother was never quiet. She told everyone who would listen. Told them how it wasn’t right.
That this was our island. If we didn’t say something, who would?
These are the transcripts of all the calls she made.
It’s all right here.” She rained the documents onto Don Manuel’s back.
“Do you remember now?” Claudia towered over the man.
“They said it was her fault. She was too promiscuous, going out at all hours of the night. Her clothes were too tight, she was too much,” she said.
“But her coworkers at the factory never believed the stories. They knew what really happened to her. They were afraid if they said something they would lose their jobs, or worse.”
Overcome by emotions, she moved away from the old man and returned to her corner.
The articles never mentioned how much her mother loved to ride her horse.
She was so free back then, even with a child in tow, a single mother.
Iris was fearless. She didn’t deserve the violence inflicted on her because of what she stood for.
Willie stopped himself from reaching out and trying to comfort Claudia, to offer her some words of condolence.
The group meetings he attended taught him enough to just listen.
Still, the anger he felt in Florida bubbled inside him.
Like Claudia, he wanted to end this person’s life more than anything, a thought that had festered for so long, ever since that upsetting conversation with Dona Mercedes.