In a flowered kimono, feeling more female, more physical, than she had in a long while, Kate wrung out her shirts at the sink near the bodega. Posh squawked and darted from fern to clothesline. Victoria and Juanita giggled in the bodega beside the ironing board, standing up to eat their lunches and poring over a comic book, a soap opera. It was a nice day. Sunny. Fragrant with hibiscus and laundry detergent.
She looked forward to writing another letter to her mother. She had written her twice, paving the way to go back, making less work of their reunion by writing letters, asking her forgiveness. Kate was finding strength in asking forgiveness and that seemed oddly a gift. She would go down to Doña Luisa’s and try to find a traveler returning to the States to mail the letter. Dixie had gone to the market and they would cook together later in the day. They had made a plan: meatless lasagna, salad, crusty bread, and a walk to the ice-cream stand later in the evening. She might even make a quick trip to Lloyd’s before it closed to check on her bank draft.
She had four shirts, all mens’ made of oxford cloth with button-down tab collars except one, a pale yellow sleeveless tank top printed in fleurs-de-lis. She might even dry the tank top by hand with a hair dryer if she had to. She wanted to wear it with a skirt and thought about shaving her legs and under her arms. She hadn’t done that in a long time—and only for a man.
Some things she could not change: the money and waiting for Maggie and Paul’s meanness and Vidalúz. And her thoughts were moving away from what had gone wrong to what might work. Ben’s offer meant much; she kept turning his words over, piecing together what helping them get settled might mean to him. She felt a shift taking place almost physically, as though her sight had improved. As though windows had been opened.
Sometimes the girls giggling in the bodega irritated her and sometimes she felt lenient, almost pleased, with what they brought into the house, the adolescent fervor and secrets and hope. She wished she could feel that again.
Regret split her embryonic sense of well-being at least once an hour. She harbored much that she did not want Dixie to know, especially the shabby things she had done with Deaver. She wanted to tell him she’d snooped in his room and she was afraid that if she did confess—that’s what it felt like—he would no longer want to be close to her.
Soapsuds ran twinkling in the sunlight down her wrists and forearms. A rooster crowed.
Dixie came in the front door, and for just a moment street noise crammed into the foyer with him. Wheeze of a diesel truck. A man shouting, greeting someone. He shut the door deliberately. Quietly.
The girls stopped giggling. They scampered out of the bodega, mops in hand.
He was not carrying groceries. “Kate, come here,” he said.
“What is it?”
He went into the kitchen and she followed him, wiping her damp hands on her kimono. He slapped a folded newspaper on the counter. He poured a glass of water from the agua puro bottle, drank it down, took off his glasses, and laid them on the table. His face sweaty and pink and contorted.
“What’s wrong?” Kate said, sitting down at the table. He pulled out another chair and it scraped peevishly. He took the seat next to her.
“This is very bad news,” he said, reaching for her hands.
“What?” Kate said, frowning. She thought first of Lino, then Sunny.
“Something’s happened to Maggie.”
Kate reared back. “No!”
“It’s the worst thing.”
“What are you telling me?”
“She’s gone, Kate.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“She died in Ruinas.”
She whimpered and a furious quaking began inside her.
“Not Maggie, please—not Maggie—”
“Kate—it’s in the papers.”
He opened the paper and she cried out. She scanned the article in the Miami Herald. North Americans Killed by Contras on June 14. Robert G. Elliott and Margaret A. Byrne. Found with shovels in their hands. Near a creek. A State Department investigation is pending. The remains were returned on June 16 to their families in the United States. Over a week, a week, a week had gone by.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” She flew up and pounded the counter, bruising her hand. She swept a pile of grocery sacks to the floor. She bawled, “Jesus fuck.”
The two girls had come to the kitchen door. They stared inside.
Dixie said, “They were doing the work they were called to do.”
Kate fumed at him, “What? What—do you—fucking—know about it? What do you know about her? You—”
She beat her chest with her fist. “Listen to me. They were out there strictly because, because they were hot for each other. That’s all.” She crumpled to the floor. “That’s all … that’s all—”
She tore the newspaper in two, with great effort. Her hands blackened with newsprint ink. She pounded the floor with her fist.
“Dix oh Dix oh oh oh. I can’t do it, I can’t … I just can’t….” Kate sat up, weeping. She trembled from within. “God, I can’t lose Maggie. I can’t lose Maggie. I just can’t….”
“Kate, Kate,” Dixie comforted. He knelt and tried to put his arms around her.
Kate yanked away. “They were only putting in a water system.” Then, “Leave me alone. Just leave me alone….” She wiped her face; she wiped her tears. Ink smeared her cheeks.
He crouched beside her. He hung his head, relenting. “If that’s what you want.” Then he rose as far as a chair and sat down.
“Oh my god my god my god oh my god.” She fisted up her hands and hit her temples.
“Let me make you a drink.”
“I have to call Paul.”
“The phones are down.” Then, to Victoria and Juanita, “Maybe you’d better go home, girls.”
The two girls stood there, mouths agape. Finally Victoria said, “Ahora mismo?”
“Sí, ahora mismo. Por favor,” Dixie said. “La señorita está muy triste.”
Kate dragged herself up and tore out to the courtyard, her kimono flying. She jerked a clean wet towel from the clothesline. Swatted at plants and Posh. She thrashed. She screamed. She clutched up a potted red geranium and flung it at the wall; it broke and the pot shards fell neatly into four sections.
“There! There,” she yelled.
Over and over.