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Her paper-thin skin brushed against my arm as she reached for the salt. It was soft and limp. When does skin become like that? I looked into her watery blue eyes. I knew no one was in there, really. But I looked hard for her. She smiled as she would smile at the grocery store teller. I smiled back, not as I used to smile at her. But she wouldn't have known that. How do you like the sandwich? I asked. She nodded. It's good. She gets that sandwich every time we come here. I knew it was good. I guess I was hoping she'd say something like, Good, as always. She had mustard on the side of her lips. I had gotten used to wiping her mouth with a napkin, but waited to see if this time she would notice it herself. She saw me staring at her and smiled again. Not hungry? She asked. The next day I took her to CVS. She enjoyed walking through the beauty section, looking at all the colors, and barking on how much of a selection there was. She always insisted on bringing her fold-up shopping cart, even though the most she ever bought was a lipstick or a candy bar. We always walked there, she pushing her shopping cart, me, hands in my pockets. Every time I picked her up to go, she said, I can go by myself, you know, with a little chuckle. Can't a girl spend time with her mother? I countered. A little bit of recognition came into her eyes this time, and out we went. Her crimson lipstick dressed up her face. You look nice. Thank you, I found this dress in the back of my closet. It was always the same dress.
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It was a chill, foggy night. My clothing and hair were damp, and I shook with cold. In my dressing gown and slippers before a blazing grate of coals, I was even more uncomfortable. I no longer shivered, but shuddered. There's a difference. The dread of some impending calamity was so strong and dispiriting that I tried to drive it away by inviting a real sorrow. Tried to dispel the conception of a terrible future by substituting the memory of a painful past. I recalled the death of my parents and endeavored to fix my mind upon the last sad scenes at their bedsides and their graves. It all seemed vague and unreal, as having occurred ages ago and to another person. Suddenly, striking through my thought and parting it as a tense cord is parted by the stroke of steel. I heard a sharp cry as of one in mortal agony. The voice was that of my brother and seemed to come from the street outside my window. I sprang to the window and threw it open. A street lamp directly opposite threw a wan and ghastly light upon the wet pavement and the fronts of the houses. A single policeman with upturned collar was leaning against a gate post, quietly smoking a cigar. No one else was in sight. I closed the window and pulled down the shade, seated myself before the fire and tried to fix my mind upon my surroundings. By way of assisting, by performance of some familiar act, I looked at my watch. It marked half past 11. Again, I heard that awful cry. It seemed in the room at my side. I was frightened and for some moments had not the power to move. A few minutes later, I have no recollection of the intermediate time. I found myself hurrying along an unfamiliar street as fast as I could walk. I did not know where I was, nor where I was going. But presently sprang up the steps of a house before which were two or three cars and in which were moving lights and a subdued confusion of voices. It was the house of Mr. Margovin. You know, good friend, what had occurred there. In one chamber lay Julia Margovin, hours dead by poison. In another, John Stevens, bleeding from a pistol wound in the chest inflicted by his own hand. As I burst into the room, pushed aside the physicians and laid my hand upon his forehead. He unclosed his eyes, stared blankly, closed them slowly, and died without a sign.
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I expected you. Myrna tapped her thick fingers on a high counter. I hear you've been asking many questions about Rosa's missing baby. You should just let things be. Is that what you do? I asked. She rolled her eyes and relaxed her large form into the stuffed chair behind a little table and a cash register. I handed her the bracelet. Humph, she said. What's this? I stole it last year. Sorry. Her eyes snapped at me, sharp and beady. Well, she said, tossing it on the floor. I'm glad you won't be trying for any more freebies. Now what do you want? I followed a boy and want to know who he is. Myrna's thick eyebrows shot up to her black hairline. Why do you think I know? He comes in here to buy desserts. He, lots of boys buy treats, Emma. You're wasting my time. I stomped a foot. A blonde foreigner wears nice clothes. She put down the bowl of pudding, its caramel crust untouched. Have you asked Pablo about the murder yet? A child shoved open the store door. She glared, so he left. If Pablo is a murderer, why did you pay him to be my friend? I quickly covered my mouth with my hand. Pablo told you, Myrna growled. I was protecting you, you little brat. Always running around like a wild creature. Your Dari is an oblivious, stupid woman. I had to warn them all to protect you. Why? The gang almost killed you. Neighbors stepped in to help raise you.
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The Chicago Bulls training facility was filled with the steady hum of treadmills and the rhythmic clang of weights. Rome finished a set of bench presses, wiping the sweat from his brow. Sean, his best friend and teammate, was standing close by, holding a water bottle in one hand and crossing his arms. "'Good job,' Sean said, smirking as Rome sat up and grabbed a towel. "'Just good?' Rome scoffed, tossing the towel at him. "'Let me remind you that I'm still leading in rebounds this season.'" After a moment, Sean said in a casual but inquisitive tone, "'By the way, you seem distracted these days. What have you been up to?' Rome frowned, reaching for his water bottle. "'Distracted? I don't think so. Been busy with the brand launch, practice, games, you know the drill.'" With a stern look at Rome, Sean put down the dumbbells and wiped his hands on his shorts. "'Sure, whatever. I'm guessing that this new friend you've been hanging out with has nothing to do with this? What's her name again?' "'Aaliyah. She's just a friend. We just meet for coffee and casual conversations. Nothing more.'" Rome shrugged casually. Sean stared at Rome, crossing his arms. "'Cut the crap, man. How long have I known you? Don't try to bullshit me. From what you've told me, you two spend a lot of time together, more than just grabbing coffee. And I see the way you talk about her. Your demeanor changes, dude. I know it's not just a friendly feeling. Get a grip.'" Rome ran a hand through his short hair. "'It's not what it seems. Aaliyah, she's different. Smart, funny, easy to talk to. But it's nothing more than friendship.'" Sean tilted back against the weight rack, his expression skeptical. "'Rome, let me tell you something. You're testing the limits here. You've gotta be careful. Everyone knows you're with Mia. People talk. The media talks. The last thing that you want is bad publicity.'"
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Be My Valentine Jane Smith was still new at applying makeup. Her mother, Linda, was a devout Catholic woman with traditional values who had only recently allowed her only daughter to experiment with mascara, but no lipstick, blush, or eyeliner until high school. Thirteen years old was far too young for that, even if some of the other girls' mothers were allowing it. Also, Jane stood in front of the bathroom mirror, concentrating hard as she lifted her shaky right hand up to her face. She was determined to master the art of mascara application during her last year at Lanigan Elementary School, grade 8. This was enough of a challenge. She had no interest in trying eyeliner or anything else until she could do this with ease. She blinked repeatedly from the fear of stabbing herself in the eyeball with the tiny black brush again. Once she had completed the top lashes of her right eye successfully, she felt some confidence about doing the left eye, a confidence that was short-lived when the brush dropped a small goop of mascara on her lid just below the lash line, right above her eyeball. It tickled and caused her eyes to blink uncontrollably. She felt like she might sneeze. Before she could wipe it away with the Kleenex tissue, black tears tinged her left eye and began flowing down her left cheek. Darn it, she cursed. It was already 7.45am and she had to be at Trisha's house by 8am to pick her up for school. Jane wet the tissue with cold water from the tap in front of her and dabbed her teary eye until it stopped stinging. She focused, once again, on the task at hand. The mascara on her right eye had already dried perfectly. She could do it! She can make her left eye perfect, too. Determined, she dipped the mascara brush back into its container, then took a deep breath and focused on her left eye. Jane lifted her hand up slowly, trying her best to control the shaking as she slowly brushed the top lashes with a fresh coat of mascara. Success! It had only taken 7 minutes total this time. Jane! Her mother called from the kitchen. It's time for school! Coming! Jane answered back, spraying her permed hair with one last coat of Final Net to keep it in place. Here, Jane's mother said, handing her a paper bag lunch to place in her backpack. Your Valentine's Day cards are in the front pocket. Linda still had her nursing uniform on and she looked tired from the last of her three 12-hour night shifts in a row. Have fun! She said, pouring herself a cup of coffee and sitting down at the kitchen table to enjoy it at long last. Thanks! Jane smiled, stuffing the bag lunch into her backpack and closing the zipper. Then she was out the door to greet Tricia, who stood waiting for her at the end of her driveway directly across the street. Tricia started each school day walk in the same manner, with an overview of the latest gossip she had learned from her telephone marathon sessions, trips about town, or parents' visitors the night before. So, like, it's true, the Archibalds are moving to Saskatoon soon, Tricia started. My mom and I ran into Alan and Elaine at the hockey rink last night, and like, Alan got a position at the Royal Bank in the city, so he's leaving this weekend to start his job on Tuesday. Unlike Jane, Tricia was surprisingly confident around everyone, no matter what their age or status, and she had no problem asking people about their lives to keep up with the town's news. Tricia continued with more gossip. And like, last night at suppertime, like, my dad said there are more whispers of a strike at the Potash Mine. Yeah, I heard about that too, Jane replied. From whom? Tricia inquired, with a raised eyebrow. Mom and dad mentioned it over supper last night, like, I think they're pretty worried about it. That's for sure.
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Aaliyah sat at a corner table near the window with a steaming cup of tea cradled in her hands. Her phone vibrated on the table, plunging her out of her thoughts. It was a message from Deanna. How's your networking meeting? Or rather, networking. Winky face emoji. Aaliyah smirked, rolling her eyes at her friend's jest. She typed a quick reply. It's just a meeting. Keep your smirks to yourself. It took Deanna nearly half a beat to respond. Sure, sure, just don't forget to breathe. Aaliyah thought about her conversation with Deanna a few hours back. She had looked at Rome's Instagram message and pondered what to say. Deanna had been scrolling through her phone on their couch when Aaliyah asked. He wants to meet about some investments, Aaliyah said, her tone neutral. Deanna almost dropped her phone. Are you kidding? Investment is the most obvious excuse in history. There's definitely more to him than just investments, Aaliyah. Aaliyah shrugged, stifling her own complicated feelings. It doesn't matter. I'll give him advice if he needs advice, professionally. Deanna gave her a look that was knowing, uh-huh. Do promise me you won't overthink this. It sounds cliche, but sometimes things don't need to be overanalyzed to death. Sitting in the cafe now, Deanna's words replayed in her mind. Aaliyah swallowed her tea, steadying herself. The bell above the cafe door jingled, bringing her back to herself. She looked up, heart fluttering at the sight of Rome striding in. Aaliyah's breath caught as he walked to her table. She sat up, though her facade remained unruffled. Rome stopped at her table, his smile as real as she remembered. Hey, he said, his voice smooth and warm. Hi, she said, returning his smile as he sat down. This was it, the beginning of whatever this could be. Rome adjusted his chair, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, and gave Aaliyah a friendly smile. So, he said, his voice calm and curious. You work in finance. That's impressive. Honestly, I don't know much about that world. Aaliyah took another sip of her tea, keeping her professional demeanor intact. It has its challenges, but I enjoy it. Numbers have always made more sense to me than people. Rome chuckled softly, his laugh deep and sincere. That sounds like something my mom used to say. She worked as an accountant in Memphis before she retired. She had a calculator on her bedside table, said it helped her fall asleep.
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Senor Gonzalez was sitting in his chair. When I walked in, he immediately sat on a stool, freeing the chair for me. The coffin took the bed. It was shiny, black, and waiting. I wanted to ask him about it, but the words seemed to hold my mouth shut from the inside. I thought asking Rosa was easier, but it wasn't, and I knew that sometimes you didn't ask things. There's my Amma, I was wondering when you would be coming, he said. You always know it's me, I whispered. I shut the door tightly and welcomed myself to a sofa chair, full of biting bugs. How are you? He rubbed his hands. I scooted the heater closer to him. Rosa hasn't been talking to you, has she? I asked when I only wanted to know about the coffin. It was a strange-looking coffin, with an unusual oblong shape. I wondered who put it in there for him, and why on his bed? An old man couldn't move it to sleep. She doesn't talk to anyone anymore, he sighed. I looked around his room. The dishes were done, and everything was in good order. At least I didn't have to remind him again that he might eat a cockroach. Either he was cleaning, or Rosa helped him. I should have found her baby, but I didn't know how to look, I said. You've never seen the baby, so your eyes would probably deceive you. He stood up and rummaged through the contents of a shelf. It was always interesting watching a blind man trying to find something. If that baby came back now, well, sometimes going back hurts more than going forward. Rosa would be better, I said. I touched the shiny coffin and felt a chill up my spine. Would she? He asked, expecting me to guess the answer. He handed me a glass of water and went back to his bookshelf. Something was floating in the water, so I just held it. Everything on the shelf was perfectly organized. Papers, books, glasses, and a plate. He knew exactly what he sought, but it didn't seem there. She isn't your mother, Senor Gonzalez said dully, staring at me with his blind eyes, which had no color but were like opaque marbles. He usually wore black glasses to hide them, but I was visiting him in his darkened room. I wish she were. I wondered why I had said it. How could I wish Rosa was my mother? She was beautiful and strong, but she couldn't erase the burdens in my life. Jari was like my mother, but I knew that even my basic needs exhausted her. Yet, how could I even think that Rosa could be a mother to me? I would be helping her. Why? His voice grew hard. I didn't know why. Perhaps I needed someone to call mother. I fidgeted with a fingernail. She needs me, and maybe... You don't need her. You just want her. He eased himself back into his stool. There was nothing wrong with wanting Rosa for a mother. Why are you saying this? Don't you love Rosa? You told me to learn from her. Oh, Emma, I love Rosa more than you know, but you are a child who shouldn't allow her worries to be yours. You'll have your worries if you don't already. You can't worry about adults. Don't you want me to have a mother? He smiled at me. Yes, of course, but Rosa is complicated. She must find what she seeks, and so must you. You can be friends, but her problems might bury you, and you can't be buried.
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You're going back to the pastry boy's house? Pablo sat down, out of breath. He wore cut-offs and his usual tank top. A pungent, sweet smell came from his armpits. It was your idea to follow him in the first place, I pouted, tempted to smell my armpits. Did they smell sour too? Yeah, I thought we should follow him once. It seems ridiculous to assume that he has the baby. Mateo is strange, anyhow. Mateo is pretty smart, Pablo. But you're right. No one ever lets us in those big houses. I want to see inside the pastry boy's house. Maybe he'll be our friend. Oh, you want to be friends with him, Pablo stated, his eyebrows raised. I'm just curious, I said, sitting next to him. Is your father back? You haven't been around. Ignoring my question, Pablo leaned against the carton full of pineapple he had been carrying. The wind kicked dirt around our humid legs, so I sat with my skirt pulled over my knees. My eyes burned from the dust, and I felt it glide up my shirt with each gush of wind. He pulled out his notebook to write. Is that a new notebook? I asked. He nodded but didn't stop writing. I fill one a week and then bury it with the others. Really? You bury them? I couldn't believe that I didn't know that. I always choose a blue one, so my mother doesn't guess it's a different notebook. I guess you didn't know that either. He looked at me with a hurt look, a tinge of sharpness. I felt the guilt tug at my heart. It seemed like there was always something I wasn't doing right. I should have known about the notebooks. I should have known everything about Pablo. But I didn't.
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Rosa wove lace on a loom in the shade of a blooming la pacho tree that framed her like a maid in a Spanish painting I once saw in a school book. The tree was a huge pink umbrella. Do you know the legend of the lace? She kept her eyes on her weaving. I know about the boy who was competing for a girl. He went to the woods to find the perfect gift and saw a spiderweb. It disintegrated when he touched it. He was so sad because the pattern was perfect. So his mother watched the spiders at night and learned how to weave. Then she used her hair to make the perfect lace so he would have a gift. Her eyes looked so distant and lost. I haven't heard that one. Rosa finally said, I know about the Guarani girl who worked for a rich Spanish woman. The girl tore a tablecloth and was imprisoned in the house until she made another tablecloth. A spider shared its design with her. What is it? I moved to her side and put my hand on her shoulder. I don't make enough money from selling my lace. At least my baby girl will have more. She said.
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When we reached São Paulo, Annie gave me all the bags to carry. I tried not to think of Jari's words. When you finally call a person friend, they might turn on you. Annie, I said finally, don't speak unless spoken to. Annie snapped when my questions overwhelmed her. But, the orange juice burned my throat. What girl? Are you still my friend? That's a stupid question. Can you find your way home from here? She was right. I was trapped. Can we get Spider back? I said in a soft voice, afraid to anger Annie more. Why do you care? A baby is a burden to a girl like you. I saw a glint in Annie's eyes. She didn't trust me, but I guess she didn't trust anyone because of what she had done. I can climb walls. I would never tell her I had followed Adam and climbed her courtyard wall. If Annie thought I could help get the baby back, I might have a chance to get us both back to Paraguay. I didn't know how, and it would be hard.
