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He’d come like he couldn’t stop himself, like he was being drawn to that sickeningly warm sensation that poured from that open wound in his heart, that festering fissure in his soul. The horror of those memories still burned like fire in those wounds, but what Diego had felt in the presence of Mercy and Cari that afternoon was like healing waters over those flames.
And Diego couldn’t stay away.
“Get your hands away so I can put another tamale in your plate.” Mercy’s pretty brown eyes danced as she approached him with a fresh batch. “Come on. Do not insult my cooking.”
Diego relented with a sigh, a broad smile washing over his face as he watched Mercy serve them each one more tamale. They were sitting in the back room at a square metal folding table placed where Mercy could keep watch on the store. A few customers had strolled in as the three of them—man, woman, and child—ate together like a fairy-tale family.
Mercy had gotten up to serve the first few customers, ringing them up at the register, bagging their stuff, making change, and wishing them well. But then she’d taken Cari to the bathroom, getting her five-year-old ready for bed. A woman had come in to buy a quart of milk and several Three Musketeers candy bars. Diego had almost panicked when she came to the counter and glanced at him expectantly. He’d conducted daring night-raids on Cartel compounds. He’d planted explosives powerful enough to blow him to bits if he crossed the wrong wire. He’d tortured men just to show young Zeta recruits how it was done, his heartrate barely rising as men screamed for death just to make it stop.
But somehow the prospect of ringing up a quart of milk and making change for a couple of candy bars scared the shit out him.
Because of what it meant.
Because of how it felt.
Because of that sudden desperate yearning for a simple life, running an honest business, loving a brown-eyed wife, raising a doe-eyed daughter.
A life of unicorns and rainbows, magic and music, dancing and dreaming.
Dreaming the American dream.
With trembling fingers Diego rang the register and made change and bagged that creamy white milk and smooth dark chocolate. With quivering lips he’d thanked his customer and wished her good night.
And with a lump in his throat he’d turned back to that metal dinner table that was built of cold steel but glowed with a warmth that Diego felt in his heart, the kind of fire that didn’t burn, just lit him up from inside, casting light upon what had only been shadow, illuminating some part of Diego that the shadow had not darkened all the way, something eternal and unchanging, a shining silver thread hanging down from heaven, just within Diego’s reach, all he had to do was grasp it and it would pull him up from the hell he’d committed himself to, a hell that he’d embraced like it was all he wanted, all he needed, all he deserved.
“Dessert?” Mercy’s voice cut through what felt like a cloud around Diego’s consciousness. “Just ice-cream sandwiches, nothing fancy.”
“I want an ice-cream sandwich too!” Cari’s voice came calling from that sofa near the now-silent TV.
“You hadtwobefore dinner!” Mercy rolled her eyes and sighed as Cari came bouncing over in a blue-and-yellow unicorn-themed pajama suit. “All right, you can have a bite from mine.”
Cari shook her head firmly, then looked at Diego, who’d just unwrapped his ice-cream sandwich. “I want a bite fromhis.”
Mercy was about to protest, but Diego nodded and offered her his untouched ice-cream bar. His heart thrummed with that unnervingly overwhelming warmth as the little girl came around to his side of the table, placed her hand on his arm to steady herself, took a big bite from his ice-cream sandwich.
Then, her mouth still sticky with sweetness, Cari planted a big slobbery kiss on Diego’s cheek.
Diego was shellshocked, startled like he’d been ambushed by guerillas, bushwhacked by banditos. He watched with a stunned smile as Cari ran over and kissed her Mama goodnight, stole a bite of her ice-cream too, then scampered back to the sofa-bed and was out of sight before Diego could recover from the shock of memories that he’d buried so deep he thought they were lost, that perhaps they’d happened to someone else, to a different man.
“Well, I think she likes you.” Mercy looked at him with a curious hopefulness in her eyes, It lasted only a flash before she hurriedly blinked it away. “Your ice-cream is melting.”
Diego blinked himself back to this strange new reality where he’d just been kissed goodnight by a unicorn-princess and was eating an ice-cream sandwich with a woman who was looking at him like he wasn’t a murdering thieving torturing twisted deranged psycho killer who’d done things that would make Satan himself lock the gates of hell so Diego couldn’t get in.
“Why is her father in hell?” he asked without thinking—even though he’d been thinking about it all afternoon. Diego had walked the dark path long enough that he could see the shadow in another, read it clear as a billboard. It was there behind Mercy’s eyes, shifty and secret, but not buried so deep that she was unaware of its existence. “I mean heaven, of course,” he added hurriedly, just in case Cari’s little ears were pricked up behind that sofa.
Mercy shot a glance towards the sofa, cocked her head like she could tell whether Cari was awake or dreaming. She stayed silent for a long moment, then popped the last bit of her ice-cream sandwich past her lips, pushed her chair back from the table, began clearing the plates and ice-cream wrappers and crumpled napkins.
Diego reached out and placed his rough palm over her hand, gently tightened his grip until she stopped clearing the table. The sensation of that simple touch felt like a hundred explosions inside Diego, and his heart raced like he was running for his life when Mercy turned those big brown eyes in his direction, blinked those long lashes, then silently sat back down, keeping her hand in his.
“He died in prison, just a few months after Cari was born.” Mercy slowly drew her hand back, crossed her arms over her chest, her shoulders hunching involuntarily, like she wanted to retreat into herself, was accustomed to doing just that.
Diego studied her for a long moment. “Diedin prison or waskilledin prison?”
Dark panic streaked across Mercy’s face. She blinked rapidly, frowning just long enough that Diego saw the wheels turning behind those brown eyes, like she sensed something in Diego, heard something in his question, understood that perhaps this man knew a thing or two about death.
And about killing.
Diego waited for a response which did not come. He watched Mercy fidget with her fingers, bite her lower lip, mutter something under her breath like she was used to talking to herself, scolding herself.
