Elena slept on and off during the last part of their journey. When she was awakened by passengers pushing through the aisle, she was surprised to see that they were stopped and in a large dark garage with empty buses lined up around them. Elena slept on and off during the last part of their journey. When she was awakened by passengers pushing through the aisle, she was surprised to see that they were stopped and in a large dark garage with empty buses lined up around them.
“Come, Carlos,” she said.
After they got their suitcase, they followed the other passengers into a brightly lit waiting room. Inside, she hurried to a booth marked Information.
“Emerald Avenue. Can you tell me how to get there, please?” she asked the woman behind the counter.
The woman stooped over and dragged out a thick book which she laid on the counter between them. She fumbled through the pages. “Emerald… yeah, here it is. It’s out in Venice.” She directed Elena to an intersection nearby where they should wait for a bus that would take them there.
Nearby. Elena shook her head as they walked ten long blocks through the gray dawn, Carlos open-mouthed as he stared at the height of the buildings that lined the streets. He pushed close to her as they walked by doorways where homeless men slept wrapped in newspapers and rags.
“Are they beggars?” he asked. “Will they hurt us?”
“No, no,” Elena said with a reassurance she did not feel. “I think they are just poor people, people with no place to go.”
They found the right intersection and stood by a lamppost to wait. It was almost daylight when the bus appeared in the distance. Carlos and Elena leaned over the curbing, waving eagerly until it came to a stop beside them. They shoved the suitcase in ahead of them and took the two seats behind the driver. Elena sat stiffly on the front half of the seat, wondering how soon they would get there. But the tall buildings and wide streets seemed to go on forever. Finally, the driver looked over his shoulder and said, “This is it.”
They were stopped at a corner by a gasoline station. The driver pointed away from the open bus door. “Emerald’s that way,” he said. “About four blocks.”
Carlos helped Elena with the suitcase and they waited at the corner for the signal to change. Across the street there was a row of small shops. The bright orange door of a restaurant called La Fonda caught Elena’s eye and she felt a surge of gladness. Her father had written that he sometimes ate in a restaurant named La Fonda. That meant that they were almost there.
Ten minutes later she stopped on the sidewalk in front of a house with sagging porch steps. It might once have been blue, but it was more the color of old laundry now, grayish white. The numbers 1123 hung crookedly on a pillar. A wooden rocker with a tattered magazine was on the porch by a window. But where were all the plants her father said Señora Gómez kept on the porch? She looked up and down the block. This was the right address and it was the only two-story house. It had to be the right place. She walked to the door and knocked.
When no one answered, she knocked again. In a moment she heard voices and footsteps and then the creaking of wooden stairs. The door opened, but only a few inches.
A woman’s face framed by dry yellow hair looked out at her. “What the devil d’ya want?” the woman grunted. “It’s not even six o’clock.”
“I’m sorry,” Elena said. “I know it is early, but…”
“Well, go away and come back later.”
“We can’t. No, please don’t close the door! We’re looking for Miguel Vargas. He lives here.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed. She peered intently at Elena and then seemed to discover Carlos and the suitcase. “Think again,” she said. “My old man and me, we’ve lived here for more’n four months.”
Elena caught her breath. Four months. And her father hadn’t written for five. “He lived here with the Gómez family,” she insisted. “Where did they go?”
“How would I know? You’ve come to the wrong place!” The woman stepped back and closed the door firmly.
“Lady, please…please,” Elena called, but the only answer she got was the sound of the bolt as it slipped into place.
She turned away, then stopped and looked back. Somebody here should know something! But what could the walls with their peeling paint, the windows with their ragged shades, or the bolted door tell her? Nothing. Nothing at all.
She sat on the top step and dropped her head onto her knees. In all the gray morning world, there was no sound but the whirr of cars on the distant boulevard and the drip, drip of moisture falling on the sidewalk from a nearby tree. A car drove down the street and muffled music from its radio reached her. The sound was like sighing, she thought, distant, sad. How alone it made her feel.
I should have stayed in Playa Blanca. Maybe I should have gone on working for Doctor Flores, even if he didn’t always keep his hands to himself. Of course, the pay wasn’t enough to support Carlos and me. Still I might have managed something. Or I could have married Alfonso. If I had, I would have a home of my own now. But I would also have five ready-made children.
Elena turned and once more looked wistfully at the closed door. When she was a little girl, her father often said, “Whenever you’re scared, Elenita, look over your shoulder and I will be there.” And she had known what he meant. That even though he was far away, she could count on him. But where was he today? All along she had been afraid that he might not be here, but she had forced that fear into a distant corner of her mind. She had told herself that there would be no problems. She had looked only on the good side. And now? Well, she thought, there’s no one to blame. It was my idea to come here.
“Come on, Carlos,” she called, gathering up her things. “Come on, and don’t ask where we’re going because I don’t know!”
There was no answer.
She took a few more steps. “Hurry up, “she said, turning. But her brother wasn’t there. “Carlos! Carlos, stop hiding!” She was tired and hungry, and she could stand nothing more. “Come here right now!”
Dropping the suitcase, she ran to the side of the house. Two or three dusty shrubs and some scrawny geraniums were growing there, but there was no sign of Carlos. Then she heard his voice.
“Papá,” he was calling, “Papá, where are you?”
At once she felt relieved and then puzzled. Where was he? A creaking, rustling sound came from a jacaranda tree at the rear of the house and Carlos called in a stage whisper, “Here, Elena, up here.”
Above her a window was raised with a slam and the yellow-haired woman pushed her head out and shouted, “Get outta that tree, you pint-size peepin’ Tom!”
Elena yelled, “Carlos, get down! Right now!”
With a splitting sound, a limb of the jacaranda arched toward the ground. Carlos hung draped on his stomach over the branch, his feet thrashing wildly. For an instant she froze, then she raced to him and grabbed his legs. “I have you. Let go!”
“That does it!” the woman at the window yelled. “I’m comin’ down after you!”
Elena steadied Carlos on the ground. “Are you all right?” When he nodded, she said. “See what you did? You broke the branch. Come on, run!”
She lifted the suitcase and, carrying it pressed against her, dashed down the street with her purse dangling on her arm and Carlos at her heels. They turned the corner and kept running. They crossed one street and then another. They kept on running until Elena knew she could not take another step and they stopped. She sat on the suitcase, trying to catch her breath.
Carlos dropped to the ground. “Where’s Papá?” he panted. “You said you knew, but you don’t. I don’t think you know anything!”
“Stop that! You got us into this trouble. And now what are you doing? Making things worse!”
He looked at her for a moment, his black eyes seeming to darken. Tears filled them and spilled over. “I am very hungry, Elena,” he said.
“So am I, but the food is gone, remember? Let me think for a minute.” She looked around her at the unfamiliar houses on the unfamiliar street and fought back her own tears. She didn’t know where she was; she didn’t know where her father was; and she didn’t know what she was going to do. Carlos was right. She didn’t know anything.
No, that wasn’t true. There was one thing she knew. She knew that this was the most disappointing morning of her life—and what was even worse, she knew, too, that it wasn’t over yet.
As if to prove her right, a black and white car drew to a stop at the curb beside her. She groaned. The police! That ugly, yellow-haired woman must have called them! But how could they have gotten here so fast?
A tall man in uniform got out of the passenger side of the black and white car, slamming the door. He looked at his watch. “Say, young lady, what are you doing out here so early?”
She felt her face color. In Playa Blanca no respectable woman would be found sitting idly on the streets at such an hour. She swallowed and started to answer something when from inside the police car another man’s voice said, “Looks to me, Sims, like they’re lost.”
“They?”
“Sure. There’s a kid behind that tree.”
“Carlos!” Elena called, and Carlos, his eyes on his feet, walked over to her.
“So what’s up?” the officer called Sims said. “Are you lost?”
Elena shook her head. “No…not lost, not really.”
“What’s with the suitcase? What’ve you got in it?”
“My clothes and his,” she said quickly, annoyed at the shakiness of her voice. She raised her chin. She would not be afraid. “My name is María Elena Vargas, señor, and this is my brother Carlos.” She gave Carlos a little push and he stepped forward and extended his hand to Sims.
“Carlos Lorenzo Vargas,” he said, “su servidor.”
Sims nodded somberly and shook Carlos’ hand. “Well, Miss Vargas, tell me, where do you two live?”
Again, Elena brought out the letters and the birth certificates. She ended up telling him the whole story, even the part about the woman on Emerald Avenue. “But he did not break the branch, señor, not all the way. He only climbed the tree.”
“Oh, I believe you,” Sims said with a smile. Then, more seriously, “That’s rough, your father’s not being there. Could be he’s following the crops. Up north, maybe.”
“Picking the harvest?” she asked. “No, I don’t think so. My father is a carpenter, a very good one. There must be another reason why he is not here.”
“Well, until he shows up, do you have a place to stay?”
When she said no, he asked, “Any money?”
What did he mean, money? Mordida? Like the Playa Blanca police always expected? Were there bribes here, too? “Yes, I have money.” She dug in her purse and held out her hand. “Eight dollars and fifty-two cents. Is that enough?”
“For a couple of hamburgers,” Sims said, frowning. “But, anyway, it’s something. Put it away.” He swung around. “Bellini, come here. We have a problem.”
Slowly, she put the money back. He had not taken it. Perhaps it was not enough. Well, she would wonder about that later. Right now she had to wonder what he meant by “problem.”
The officer named Bellini, a stocky, curly-haired man, got out of the car and Sims and he talked briefly. Bellini turned toward them and nodded, frowning.
What would they do? Elena wondered. Take them to jail? Of course, that’s what would happen. She knew that her thoughts were getting the better of her, but even so she shuddered. And at the end of the shudder came a sigh. She would have to use the letter Sylvia had given her.
“If anything goes wrong and you need help,” Sylvia had told her, “don’t hesitate to call on my friends, the Montalvos.” And she had answered blithely that nothing would go wrong. Now, she pulled the letter from her purse and handed it to Officer Sims.
He looked at the envelope, then gave it to his partner. “Gray Ridge Drive,” Bellini said. “Not a bad address, not bad at all.” He fumbled for a pair of glasses in his shirt pocket and with Sims looking over his shoulder, opened the envelope and read the letter. She knew exactly what it said:
“Dear Ana and Salvador: This note is to introduce María Elena Vargas. I have known Elena since she was nine. For the past ten years I have tutored her, and in that time we have become close friends. In a remote little village like Playa Blanca, a village that looks suspiciously on “gringas” who do nothing but paint and refuse to go to church, friends are not easy to come by, so Elena’s companionship has been very precious to me. (Precious also is the memory of that long-ago summer when you, Ana, and David spent two weeks with me in Playa Blanca.)
“Elena is resourceful and self-reliant, so if this letter reaches you it will be because she is truly in need of help. Please do whatever you can for her, and I will be grateful to you. Affectionately, Sylvia.”
There was a rustling of paper as Bellini returned the letter to its envelope. Sims rubbed his chin. “Doctor Salvador Reyes Montalvo. Seems to me I know that name. A geologist, isn’t he? Teaches at Eastmount? No? Well, anyway, I’ve read something about him somewhere.”
Bellini said, “Maybe you have,” and they walked a few steps away, where they talked again in lowered tones.
“Elena,” Carlos whined, “Elena, I am hungry.”
Carlos. For the moment she had forgotten him. When Sylvia had written that letter for her, they hadn’t known that Carlos would follow her across Playa Blanca to the bus stop, begging to go with her. There was no mention of Carlos in Sylvia’s letter. Would the Montalvos welcome him, too?