It was a woman, as white as death, hair wild and wrapped in rags. A cold hand brushed up his spine as he jerked the auto sideways. Was itLa Llorona—the ghost woman who roamed the earth, wailing for her lost children? The auto sputtered as he braked. She wrenched open the passenger door and fell inside.
“Please, please,” she panted.
No. NotLa Llorona, but a living woman. Max’s woman.
She scooted into the truck and pulled the door shut behind her. She bent over, as if in pain or trying to hide, pulling her dress—the wrinkled and torn wisp of silk—tight around herself. She clutched a pair of ridiculous shoes in her hand.
Oscar stared. He couldn’t form words in English.
“Help me, please.” Her breath came in short gasps. Her eyes, a startling blue-green, were shot with red.
Miércoles!What to do? He looked back at the house. Would Señor Lester come running out after her? But the house was silent, the windows blank like sleeping eyes. He should tell her to get out, but what could he do—push her out the door, leave her by the side of the road?
“Please—” she turned desperate eyes on him—“please just go.”
The auto sputtered and threatened to stall. Then he’d have to crank it all over again. He eyed the girl. She looked like she was running from something. Or someone. She had shrunk down, her lips moving soundlessly, as if she were praying. Last night he thought she looked fragile, but this morning she was like a crushed bloom. He put the automobile into gear and gave it gas, picking up speed. This was a bad idea.
He downshifted as they went around a curve, already cursing himself. He knew seeing Max last night was a sign. Trouble followed Max, and then he dumped his trouble on others. Well, Oscar wasn’t going to get fired over Max’s floozy. The truck whined as he pulled onto Coldwater Canyon Road. He’d get her away from Lester, but that was all. There was a filling station not far ahead, on Santa Monica. He’d drop her there.
The dress slipped from her shoulder, exposing a pink strap. She swayed, clutching her stomach and closing her eyes. She glanced at him as if she’d just noticed he was still there. “Do you... speak English?” she asked in a small voice.
It was a legitimate question, but it rankled. Did everygringothink since he had brown skin, he was as ignorant as someone who’d just swum the Rio Grande? Still, he didn’t answer. If he said yes, she’d talk to him, and he didn’t want that. Theseamericanas, they couldn’t be trusted.
He tried to concentrate on the curves. This was a treacherous road, even in the light of day. One distracted moment and you could end up tumbling down the steep sides into the gullies or ravines gaping on either side.
“Can you bring me home? Please.” She hitched the sorry excuse for a dress up her shoulder. “It’s not far, 4242 Western Avenue. You understand? 4242 Western?” Her voice cracked.
He understood all right. And the answer was no.Absolutamenteno.
Roman and Angel were waiting for him. He wasn’t going out of his way for some paramour filled with regret for whatever she’d done the night before. Before he could answer, she took a sharp breath. Her hand covered her mouth. She fumbled with the window crank. “Stop, please.” Her voice was muffled.
Now what was theidiotadoing? He slowed the car. She lurched, coming halfway to her knees on the bench to put her head out the window, and retched. They hit a curve and he jerked the automobile back onto the road.
The dress slipped down her back. He could see a long rip in the fabric, which was why she was clutching it around herself like that. He pulled his eyes away, disgust rising within him. With what he knew about Roy Lester, it shouldn’t have surprised him. With one hand on the wheel, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. It was clean and smelled like the lye soap Mamá used, ironed smooth. He jabbed it at her bare shoulder. She took it, wiped her mouth, and slumped down into the seat.
“Thank you...gracias.” She pronounced his language in a ridiculous way. She wiped her eyes and clutched the handkerchief. He’d seen hangovers before. Had a few himself. But this bit of a girl had it so bad he almost felt sorry for her. Almost.
On a straight stretch of road, he fished his canteen out from under the bench, the one he’d filled with cold water before he left the estate, and passed it to her. Someamericanoswould hesitate to drink out of his canteen, but she unscrewed the top and took a long drink, gulping the water as if she’d been in a desert. She wiped her hand over her mouth. The truck sputtered and jerked. She put a hand over her belly as if she were going to be sick again.
The filling station was ahead, and he slowed. A greasy-looking kid sat on a stool by the pump, reading a newspaper. He’d drop her there. Oscar looked over at the girl. Her eyes were closed, and she was the color of curdled milk.
She wasn’t one of his people. He wasn’t obliged to help her.
But neither had he been brought up to abandon a sick woman. If Lupita was in trouble, he wouldn’t want someone to dump herby the side of the road. Of course, Lupita was a good girl. She’d never be in this kind of state.
Yet, if he left this girl with a stranger, he’d probably worry all day, not that she deserved it.
He pressed on the gas, picking up speed as he passed the station. He’d get her home, but he’d have to stop for Angel and Roman first. He groaned out loud. What about Mamá? She couldn’t know he’d picked up a half-naked woman and let his brothers sit beside her. Angel, he could count on to keep quiet, but Roman... he’d need to find a way to make Roman keep his mouth shut.
MINA
Sunlight flashed through my closed lids and my mouth watered. I couldn’t be sick again; it was too awful. I swallowed hard. I felt like I’d been hit by a train, then by a bus, then by another train.
You get what you deserve, Minnie Zimmerman,Penny would say right now. She always did like to say that.
I pulled my knees up to my chin and leaned against the rattling door, not sure if the swaying truck or Roy Lester’s dead body imprinted on the backs of my eyelids was making my stomach heave.
Should I have stayed? Called the police? Maybe I should have at least said a prayer. But all I could think of was his wife, the press, a scandal. No, I’d been right to get out. It bothered me, though, that I didn’t even take a moment to grieve for him. I knew him well enough to go to bed with him, but not to be sad he was dead? I guess that shows how far gone I really was.
