Chapter Eleven

January 18, 2017— continued

Carmen heard three faint taps on the bedroom. “Mami, is that you?” she asked.

“Sí, Mija,” came the weary voice on the other side.

“Come in,” Carmen said, sitting against the wall with a copy of her assigned reading, Martin Luther King’s “Our God is Marching On” speech given in Montgomery, Alabama.

Her mother, Consuelo Camacho, aka Joanne Cooper—the fake name they gave her when she crossed the border, came into the room wearing a white Mexican housedress with red embroidery around the neck and gray quilted slippers, one of which had a peek-a-boo hole for a stocking-covered toe. Her cropped hair, a mix of charcoal black and silvery ash, fell just below the ears—a no-fuss style perfect for a woman who never left the confines of the house.

“Why did you arrive so late? Your classes finished five hours ago,” Mami asked.

“I’m tired, Mami, and I have a lot of homework,” Carmen replied, nodding at the papers in her hands. “I’d love to talk with you, but can we do it tomorrow?” Carmen grabbed Mami’s velvety-soft hand and held it against her cheek. A cuff-like black and blue bruise covered Consuelo’s thin wrist. “He’s a monster, and I hate him,” Carmen seethed.

“Never mind that.” Consuelo pulled her hand away. “He said you took a job at the newspaper.” She closed the door. “It made him very angry with me.”

“If I keep the job, I’ll have at least two thousand dollars in my bank account a year from now. That could be enough to hire an attorney—or at least, I think so. I’ve never hired an attorney before.”

Red splotches appeared on Consuelo’s face and neck. “You will do no such thing.”

“You don’t want to live like this forever, do you? I want a job—a real one,” pleaded Carmen. “I want to get married and have a family—and friends. What are we going to do? Wait until he dies? He could live another ten years. I know this could turn out bad, but how else can I get us out of here? I have to take a chance. And so do you.”

Consuelo made the sign of the cross. “Is someone at the college putting ideas into your head? Have you told anyone about our lives here?”

“Aye, Mami. I’m going to get us out of here. Look at your wrist. Don’t you want to fight back? If not for yourself, for me?”

Consuelo held a finger to her lips and glanced at the door. “He could be in Dorthea’s room next door.”

Carmen grabbed two tissues from the nightstand, one for her and the other for her mother. “I’ll tell him I quit the job, okay?”

“You will tell him that you quit, or you will quit? I pray that you make the right decision. Don’t do anything you’re going to regret, Carmen. Where would we go if we left? And what would we live on? We don’t have enough money to be on our own. It’s not that bad here. We’re in America, away from—the narcos that killed your father. Mr. Booth provides us with food and shelter. Isn’t that enough?”

“No.”

Consuelo bent her head and touched her mouth to her clasped hands. “Hail Mary, full of grace…”

****

Carmen opened her diary. She had another reckoning with her past.

Seventh Grade

January 4, 2010

Dear Monica

Its the first day back to school from X-Mas break. Mami croshayed me a hat and scarf same as two years ago. Lizzie got a camera and knee high boots and a phone and Emory got a real electric guitar, headphones and a keyboard and recording equipment. She’s gonna be famous one day. She said I could be her manager. Papa Percy doesn’t get me a present because I’m not his kid. Papi would have gotten me the present I wanted like a flat-screen tv but he died before I was born. Lizzie and Emory had sleepovers over vacation and Papa Percy wouldn’t let me go. I can’t go anywhere not even birthday parties. I wanna play soccer like Emory. I wanna take piano lessons like Kaitlyn. Why are there so many girls named Kaitlyn and Caitlyn and Kate and Katie and Caitee and Katy? I’m the only beaner in my class. The kids call me Beanie. I don’t like it but I keep my mouth shut. I can’t cause any trouble. Mami made me promise. Anyway I never get what I want. Papa Percy has a tv in his room but he locked me in Dortheas room after he caught me watching it. Creepy dead lady. He locks me in there all the time. I wish he were dead. Mami said I should be grateful to him. Why should I be grateful?

Your friend,

Carmen

****

“Carmen! Get down here,” Booth shouted.

Carmen put the diary in its hiding place and walked to the top of the stairs.

“Yes?” she shouted, her voice echoing off the walls of the two-story entryway.

“Come here. Now.”

She walked down the spiral staircase, stopping on the final step. A commanding six feet two inches tall, Booth stood on the white marble floor in his silky black pants and a dark green smoking jacket with black satin lapels. A 1920s Venetian crystal chandelier hung overhead—a useless decoration since it and most of the other lights in the house seldom got turned on.

“Have you quit the job?” he demanded. “I don’t want that fool woman coming over here again.”

“I…”

“I am not finished. If that woman from The Chronicle shows up, I will enact my right to protect myself from a would-be intruder. And you will be responsible. Do you get my meaning?”

“Yes, sir. I already quit the job. She won’t come here again. But can I please have your permission to stay at the library some nights? I need the computers for homework. If I had a laptop, I wouldn’t need to…”

“No laptop. You bring one in here, and the FBI will infiltrate the house—the phones, the TV, even the coffee maker. I’ve said this before. The government keeps tabs on people like me—actors, musicians, all of us. And for good reason. Some of them are spies for governments I don’t care to name. Not me. I love my country, unlike you and your kind, flooding our borders and expecting handouts.” He stood up and closed the blinds. “Never leave these open. We can’t take any chances.”

“Okay. What about the library at school?”

“I’ll permit the library, but you are to come straight home afterward. No job. No visitors. School and home. That’s it. You screw this up, and I’ll lock you away for a week. Without meals.” He smirked. “A person can survive a long time without food.”

“Yes, sir.”

Booth headed toward his recliner in the den, where he listened to cowboy music by Gene Autry, Bing Crosby, and Johnny Cash. “Get me a drink.”

Carmen pretended she didn’t hear him.