“Hey, sis,” John said. He stood in the open door of her small, cluttered office at Legal Aid. It was August 2011. The floor was carpeted in industrial carpeting, and the venetian blinds on the windows belied the small budget of the office. There were some personal touches. Mary’s degrees from Rice and Yale hung on the wall, and framed pictures of her and girlfriends at St. John’s, Rice, and Yale, as well as a few pictures of John’s twins, sat on the bookshelves. A small oriental rug that Mary had purchased on a trip to Turkey covered the floor under two Chippendale guest chairs she had brought from her parents’ house after she and John sold it.
“This is a nice surprise,” Mary said as she looked up from the pleading she was drafting. “What brings you down here in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon? The economy is picking up. Aren’t you busy doing the big, sexy deals?”
John shrugged, walking in. “Yeah, the usual exciting stuff: company A buys out company B. There are hundreds of assets and liabilities to catalogue and transfer—thousands of agreements to draft that keep scores of eager young lawyers billing away into the early hours of the morning. It’s thrilling. You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“No thanks,” Mary grimaced. “I’d rather help real people with real-life legal problems. But I appreciate someone’s got to keep the wheels of commerce turning so oil keeps flowing through the pipelines and the Galleria stays crowded with shoppers.”
“I’ll ignore your sarcasm for now,” he said, sitting down in one of the guest chairs. “I stopped by because there’s something I want to talk to you about. I thought your office might be the best place.”
Mary watched his eyes survey her degrees hanging on the wall. She knew he hadn’t understand how she could throw away an Ivy League legal education by working at Legal Aid. He always told her that’s where people in the bottom half of the class worked, which annoyed her.
Mary had graduated with honors at Yale Law and been a senior editor on the Yale Law Review, which was an automatic ticket to a Wall Street law firm. But she hadn’t even interviewed with them. The proceeds from the sale of the family grocery stores was more than enough to make both children comfortable, but she believed life was about more than money. She loved her clients and found purpose in her work.
“Spill it,” Mary said. “I’ve got to get these papers filed with the court before 5:00.”
“I want to talk to you about Diego,” John said.
“What about Diego?” She looked up. “I thought you liked him.”
“I do. Diego is a good man and a hell of an athlete.”
Mary’s annoyance was growing. “But?”
“You seem to be spending a lot of time with him,” John said.
“Is that a problem?”
“It’s just that we think this idea of an illegal alien prostitute being a member of our family could be embarrassing if it got out.” John took off his glasses and wiped them with a tissue from the box on Mary’s desk, not looking at her.
Mary sat back in her chair and put down her pen. She squinted her eyes at her brother as if seeing a strange new person.
“Who are you, John Chavez, son of a Mexican immigrant who came across the border without an official invitation from the United States of America?”
Her brother shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
“Pilar Chavez is not a prostitute, John. Prostitutes sell their bodies willingly for money. Young women who are kidnapped, beaten, threatened, and forced to have sex with any man who pays their captors for the opportunity to assault them are not prostitutes.”
Mary stared at him and continued, “The sex-trafficking business is unspeakably inhumane. We should have compassion for Pilar and women like her and try to help them—not condemn and shun them.”
John got up out of his chair and walked across the room to her bookshelf, where Vernon’s Revised Texas Statutes were displayed, before turning around and saying, “You are a lawyer, Mary. Under the law today, these women, Pilar included, are prostitutes. That’s a fact, regardless of your feelings about how things should be.”
“I’m also a woman and a human being who knows that sometimes the law, as written by men for the most part, is wrong,” Mary said. “I admire Diego for trying to rescue his sister. I’m grateful to have the opportunity to help him.”
John waited, eyes on the wall again, reading the degrees she knew he thought she’d tossed aside. “Are you sure it’s your feelings for truth and justice and not your feelings for Diego motivating you?” John asked, looking at his sister, his own face still blank.
The blood rushed to Mary’s face.
“I saw the way you looked at him,” John said. “You may not even realize it. He’s a handsome man, for sure. I’d even say he has charisma in a macho sort of way. But be careful, Mary. We don’t know anything about him besides what he’s told us—and even he is guessing about Pilar’s situation. He can’t know for sure she was kidnapped. He’s going on circumstantial evidence. For all we know, Pilar is a willing participant. Can you objectively consider that? Put your lawyer hat on for a minute, Mary.”
Mary’s face was warm, but the heat of her anger flowed into her chest. “Of course, I have considered that. I just feel like he is right about what happened to her.”
“There are those feelings again!” John quipped.
Mary stood up abruptly and walked toward the window in her office, weighing her words carefully now. “You started this conversation by saying ‘we’ are concerned. Who’s ‘we’?”
When John didn’t reply, she turned to face him.
“Does ‘we’ include Sara Beth? Is she concerned that her society friends might find out she’s distantly related by marriage to a sex slave? Would they snub her if they knew this dirty little secret?” Mary felt her anger color her words.
“Sara Beth has a right to be concerned about how this might be perceived.” John’s face finally showed some emotion: he was angry now too. “She’s worked hard to secure a respected place for our family in the community.”
“Oh, please,” Mary said, exaggerating the words. “No one will ever know about Pilar unless Sara Beth tells them. Of course, that would require a little discretion on Sara Beth’s part!”
“It’s not just Sara Beth,” John interrupted her.
Just then the intercom on Mary’s desk rang. Mary pushed the button, and her secretary asked if she wanted to take a call from another lawyer she had been trying to reach all day.
“Tell him I’ll call him back, Suzanne,” Mary said sharply. Then she looked at John and asked, “Is there another ‘we’?”
“Mary, you must realize there are important people in my firm who wouldn’t look favorably upon this whole situation. I’ll be up for partnership consideration in a year. My firm is conservative. I will be the first person of Hispanic heritage up for partner. It’s important that my family have an impeccable reputation.”
“Ah, the corporate ‘we.’” Mary sighed.
“Besides, think of your position,” John said. “What you do here is sanctioned and respected by the bar. But you are not supposed to be representing illegal immigrants. ‘Illegal’ means they are breaking the law. It’s outside the scope of your charter.”
“Pilar didn’t exactly intend to immigrate to the United States, John. She was kidnapped and smuggled across the border against her will by criminals. Besides, I am not providing legal representation to Pilar or Diego. On my own personal time, I’m helping an upstanding young man who is in this country legally. He asked for our help finding and saving a sister for whose misfortune he feels responsible. Do you remember the story he told us about our father and Isabel, the young girl with whom he ran away? I think that part of Dad’s occasional moodiness, his wanting to forget about his life in Mexico, and his drive to succeed in this country all rose out of that event. He probably felt responsible for her death all his life. I can’t ease Dad’s pain now, but maybe I can do that for Diego. Maybe that’s why he appeared in our life.”
“Or maybe cosmic redemptions don’t exist! Maybe Dad had the right idea that we should not get involved in an unhappy heritage in the old country and just be glad we’re living in the States!” John practically shouted at his sister.
Mary and John were both angry now—something entirely new to their relationship. Neither of them liked it. Finally, John asked in a calmer voice, “Do you deny that you have romantic feelings for Diego?”
“My romantic feelings, even if I have any, don’t matter. Diego has two obsessions in his life—finding Pilar and winning soccer games. There isn’t room for anything or anyone else. Those are the things that define him right now.” Mary walked back to her desk and sat down again in her chair, ruffling some papers.
“Look, Mary,” John sighed, taking her hands in his. “My selfish objectives aside, I don’t want to see you get hurt. I think you are leaving yourself open to getting hurt emotionally by a man who you admit has overriding interests that consume him. They may make him incapable of receiving and giving love.”
“Who said anything about love?” Mary retorted. She abruptly stood up again and went to the window to adjust the blinds, turning away from her brother so he couldn’t see her frustrated expression.
“Aside from whatever feelings you have about Diego, I don’t want you to put yourself in situations that are dangerous for you. I suspect you have been going into bad areas of town. You don’t know what you’re dealing with. These Mexican and Central American gangs are all over the news. They are ruthless killers. I don’t want you to lose your life searching for someone it is unlikely Diego will find. Pilar disappeared more than four years ago. Odds are she is in a physical or psychological situation where she is beyond saving.”
Mary started to say something, but John raised his hand.
“Don’t say anything now, Mary. Just please think about what I have said. Somewhere in that big brain is a reason you can accept to stop this senseless and dangerous quest.”
Mary’s lips were tight and her shoulders back. She was trying to control her anger.
Then John’s voice became almost plaintive: “Look, Mary, stop thinking about Diego and consider me. I love you, Mary. I need my sister to be here for me—to listen to my stupid problems, be the fun aunt to my children, and be my best friend. I don’t know what I would do if anything happened to you.”
Mary knew John was sincere. They had always been each other’s best friends. She thought about what it would be like for her if she lost John, and softened.
“Okay, John. I hear you. And I’ll consider your concerns.” She hugged him a long time, trying to make sense of her own feelings about Diego. She was rational enough to know they were an unlikely pair, but she admired his devotion to his family—and the physical attraction was strong.
A week later, Mary dialed Sara Beth.
“Hey, Mary!” Sara Beth drawled. “You caught me on my way home from tennis at the club.”
“Hey, Sara Beth. John and I have both been so busy lately, it’s been a while since we’ve gotten together for dinner. Would Sunday night work for you all? I’m going to invite Diego, too. John told me you all have reservations about him, since he appeared out of nowhere. Dinner would give us a chance to get to know each other better and for John and you to ask Diego any questions you have.” Mary knew it was a long shot, but she felt that Sara Beth was the key to John’s acceptance of her helping Diego.
Sara Beth hesitated but said, “That would be delightful, Mary. What time would you like us to come?”
“Let’s make it a casual family dinner with the kids around seven. I’ll cook King Ranch casserole and make margaritas. What do you think?”
“Great. I’ll bring dessert,” Sara Beth replied.
That Sunday, Diego arrived at Mary’s bungalow at 6:45, carrying a bouquet of red roses for the hostess.
“They’re beautiful, Diego. Thank you,” Mary said, taking the roses to put them in a vase. As she did so, their hands touched, and Mary felt herself blushing. She turned quickly to the kitchen, hoping he hadn’t noticed.
“I have to admit, Mary, that I’m a little nervous about seeing John again and meeting his wife. I have learned that he is a very important lawyer in a prestigious law firm. I am only an uneducated boy from a little town in Mexico who is good at kicking balls around a field.”
“Not to mention an international soccer star!” Mary laughed. “Don’t worry about John. He’s the nicest guy in the world. A little sheltered and narrow in his worldview maybe. He has spent his whole life in Texas—school, corporate law, and making money for his wife to spend.”
“Mmmmm, that might be reason to be nervous,” Mary replied.
“Why?” Diego looked concerned.
“Sara Beth is a good woman and a great mother. But she has led a certain life—best prep schools, best hill country summer camp, best sorority at UT, debutante, and on and on. She is like many of my good friends from school here.” Mary sighed, placing the roses on the table. “She works hard, raising a lot of money for charitable causes in the city. Most of all she is a fierce protector of her husband and children’s privileged place in Houston. You can’t criticize her for wanting the best for them. But anyone who didn’t grow up in Texas is suspect.”
Diego smiled. “Like me?”
“Sí, mi amigo.” Mary smiled. “If you want to charm anyone, it’s Sara Beth.”
“I see,” Diego said. “Charm is not my strongest skill, but I’ll do my best.”
Just then the doorbell rang, but before Mary could get to the door, two blond toddlers threw it open, rushing in and hugging her around the legs.
“Aunt Mary!” they screamed. Then, “Where’s your TV? Can you put the Disney Channel on?”
Mary laughed. “Only if you give me a kiss first,” she said, kneeling to collect kisses from her twin three-year-old niece and nephew.
“Where do I put the dessert?” John asked, juggling a pecan pie and a carton of Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla ice cream as he walked in. “Hey, Diego. It’s good to see you again.”
Diego walked over and took the pie from John, freeing John’s hand for a serious handshake.
Then Sara Beth made her entrance. Diego thought she was striking. She was relatively tall for a woman but wore four-inch-high Christian Louboutin heels with a pair of stylish dark blue tapered jeans. Her hair appeared naturally blonde and hung down past her shoulders. She wore a white cashmere sweater over her Pilates-tuned trim body with a large silver necklace and substantial diamond stud earrings. Her engagement ring was an impressive knuckle-sized diamond, and she carried a red shopper bag on her arm that said “Prada.” Her face was naturally beautiful, so she wore only pink lipstick and black mascara over her light green eyes. Her posture was straight, and she looked like someone who was accustomed to being admired and obeyed.
She gave Mary a light hug and an air kiss before turning to Diego.
Looking him over for just long enough not to be rude, she gave a tepid smile and said, “Hello, Diego. I’m John’s better half. It’s nice to finally get to meet you. I suppose we should have invited you over before this, but we’ve been terribly busy with family and social obligations. I’m sure you understand.” She extended a limp French-manicured hand.
Diego took her hand in his, kissed it lightly, and looked directly into her eyes with his deep, dark brown ones. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Señora Chavez. Mary has told me many wonderful things about you.”
“You can call me Sara Beth,” she said, charmed despite herself.
Behind her, Mary smiled at Diego and gave him a thumbs-up.
Mary had set out placemats, silverware, and napkins on the antique oak dining room table that had been her mother’s. Despite Sara Beth’s initial objection, the children ate cheese pizza in front of the TV in the study, so the adults could talk freely.
Mary had already mixed the margaritas with a kicker of Cointreau. She poured a glass for Sara Beth, John, and herself. Then she gave Diego a glass of Perrier with lime. They stood in the kitchen and caught up on local gossip for a half hour while the casserole baked. When the buzzer on the oven signaled that dinner was ready, Mary asked everyone to have a seat wherever they wanted to sit. Chips, salsa, and guacamole were already on the table.
When everyone was seated and the casserole served, Mary started the conversation. “Diego has been telling me a lot about our heritage. I’ve learned about the town Dad grew up in in Mexico and the people there. Is there anything you all would like to ask him?”
“Well, I was wondering about Victor’s family,” John said after a pause. “You said he had a brother. Did he have any other siblings? Who were their parents?”
“Victor had two brothers, Julio and Miguel, and three sisters. The girls married local boys from San José, most of whom worked in the pottery factories. They produced ten children among them.
“Miguel, the youngest, has four children, the oldest of which is Alejandro. Alejandro is married to Pilar. Miguel’s other children are much younger. There are many relatives, most of them still living in San José,” Diego explained. “A few moved to bigger cities after the pottery industry declined.”
“That boggles my mind,” John said. “Mary and I grew up in Houston without any relatives, except a few who live in San Antonio. Our parents were so busy working, we never saw much of them. I can’t even imagine what it would be like to live among so many cousins in one little town.”
“There are no secrets among families in San José,” Diego said. “There are good and bad aspects to that. Before you ask a girl on a date, you must first ask your mother if she is a close relative.”
Everybody chuckled.
“I think it sounds wonderful,” Mary said. “I always envied the kids who came from big families. They seemed to have more confidence, maybe because they knew someone always had their back.”
“I tried to always be there for you, Mary,” John said.
“Of course you did. That’s not what I meant. But children in large families have a whole network of support.” Mary reached across the table and took John’s hand. They smiled at each other—quarrel forgotten.
“But you were four years older than me. Once you went to college and law school, I was on my own,” Mary said, rising to refill everyone’s water glasses and to sneak a quick look at her niece and nephew, who had been quiet for a long time. Satisfied that they were still mesmerized by Mickey and Minnie, she returned to the table.
“What were Dad’s parents like, Diego?” Mary asked, trying to change the subject.
“I didn’t know them, but my mother told me they were wonderful people—always laughing and very loving toward their children. His father especially doted on Victor, who was exceptionally bright and personable. But everything changed after Victor disappeared. Victor’s mother was distraught. She didn’t believe he would do anything wrong. She suspected something terrible must have happened to cause him and Isabel to run away. Her instinct was correct, but Julio never told anyone what had happened.”
“What were Victor’s parents’ names?” John asked.
“His mother’s name was Maria Elena, and his father’s name was Juan Pablo.”
John held the fork he was using to eat his pecan pie in midair.
“Is something wrong?” Diego asked when everyone stopped eating.
“My name is Mary Ellen,” Mary said. “And it seems Dad named his son after his own father; Juan Pablo means John Paul in English, of course.”
“But Juan is a very common name in Mexico, isn’t it?” Sara Beth asked, her tone harsh. “John is the most common name in English. That could just be a coincidence.”
She still doesn’t want to believe Pilar is related to them, Mary thought.
“Of course, señora,” Diego replied after a few seconds of silence.
“You use John Paul Chavez professionally, John. Anyone could know that,” Sara Beth said too quickly.
Mary and John both looked at her, embarrassed.
“Of course, señora,” Diego replied. He kept his eyes on Sara Beth and John. “I wouldn’t blame you if you were skeptical about the information I have given you. I am a stranger, after all.”
“Diego, could you help me clear the table for dessert?” Mary asked. When they reached the kitchen, Mary said, “Please don’t be offended, Diego. Sara Beth is not a mean person. It just takes her a while to get accustomed to new things. Some people have a self-identity and a routine life in which they are most comfortable. But she’ll come around.”
When Mary and Diego returned with plates of pecan pie and ice cream, Sara Beth had regained her composure and complimented Mary on the dinner.
Diego thought quietly about where the conversation had ended and asked, “Mary and John, did your father keep anything personal from his childhood? Did he have anything that could connect him to San José?”
John and Mary looked at each other and thought for a few minutes. Then John said, “We found a jewelry box in the back of Dad’s closet after he died. There was a small silver crucifix inside. It looked as if it had belonged to a girl. We assumed it had belonged to our mother, who’d died two years earlier than Dad, but she didn’t wear a lot of jewelry, never religious jewelry, and it seemed odd that it was hidden away. It was a cheap box, and the silver was severely tarnished, as though it was old. I suppose it could have been from Mexico. I don’t know what happened to it. Do you, Mary?”
“I know exactly where it is,” Mary said, getting up from the table. “I kept it and put it with the rest of Mom’s keepsakes. I’ll get it.”
No one spoke while Mary walked to her bedroom. A few minutes later she was back, holding a small, tattered paper box. She placed it in the middle of the table, and everyone stared at it, as if it were a bomb that might explode.
“Well, for God’s sake, open it,” Sara Beth said. She waved her arm over the box as if to mimic a sleight-of-hand trick. As she did so, the scent of Chanel N° 5 wafted through the air.
Mary lifted the top off the box. Inside was a small, almost black crucifix on a delicate silver chain. She picked it up and dangled it from her fingers.
“I have seen that type of crucifix before,” Diego said. “In San José, parents give their daughters similar ones for their Confirmation when they accept the church and become a young woman. Pilar almost never took hers off.”
“Another coincidence,” Sara Beth whispered under her breath.
“Sara Beth!” John admonished her this time.
Annoyed at being admonished, Sara Beth got up and found her purse. She applied a thick coat of pink lipstick before returning to the table.
“Our parents inscribed Pilar’s initials on the back of her crucifix,” Diego said. “Mary, do you have any silver polish?”
“Sure,” Mary said, getting up to go to the kitchen.
She returned with some Hagerty silver polish and a clean, soft tea towel. Slowly, she began to rub away years of tarnish. When the silver shone again, she turned the cross over. On the back were the initials ILTG.
“Isabel Lourdes Torres Gomez,” Diego said. “That’s the young girl who drowned in the river.”
Sara Beth was silent, but her facial expression was sour. It was obvious that Sara Beth didn’t want to be related to family in Mexico, especially not a woman she considered an illegal alien and prostitute. John and Mary were fair complexioned and attractive, had been educated in all the best schools, were completely assimilated, and had been left relatively well-off financially when their parents passed away and the children sold the grocery stores so they could focus on their law practices. Sara Beth had managed to ignore their Hispanic heritage up until now.
Sara Beth turned to Diego and smiled. “I read in the Chronicle that you’ve been dating Marisa Escobar. She’s certainly a beautiful young woman, and I hear her father is very wealthy. How serious is it? Will we be going to a Mexican wedding soon? How delightful that would be!”