Day of the Dead - J. A. Jance [81]
For a moment, the sound of the voice stunned Delia to silence. “Hello?” the woman repeated. “Is anyone there?”
“Ms. Cachora…” Delia began hesitantly.
“Yes. Who is this?”
Delia’s voice trembled. So did her hand. She almost dropped the phone. “My name is Delia,” she said finally. “I wondered if you happened to know someone named Philip Cachora.”
“If we’re talking about the same person,” the other woman answered, “then he used to be my husband, the creep. What about him?”
“I married him, too,” Delia managed. “I was wondering…” She stopped, unable to continue.
The woman on the other end of the line didn’t make it any easier. “Wondering what?” she asked.
“If you’d tell me why…”
It was such a stupid thing to ask. Delia could barely believe she’d done it.
“Why what?” the woman demanded. “You mean why I divorced him? I’ll tell you why—because he liked other people better than he liked me. Philip needs a home base, you see—a place to leave his paint and his easels and all that shit, but when he’s out on the road, honey, he’s also on the make. And he’ll screw anything that walks. Male or female, it doesn’t matter.”
By the time the woman stopped speaking, Delia was sobbing uncontrollably into the phone.
“Oh, my God!” the woman exclaimed. “You just found out, didn’t you!”
Still unable to speak, Delia nodded.
“I’m sorry,” the woman continued. “I know how I felt the day I found out. I wanted to kill him. I should have killed him! If I had, this wouldn’t be happening to somebody else, to you. Are you all right, honey? Do you have any friends there with you, someone you can talk to?”
“I’m all right,” Delia managed. “I’ll be okay.”
“Yes, you will, but it’ll take time. Years, probably. Where are you?”
“Washington,” Delia answered. “Washington, D.C.”
“I wish I knew somebody there I could have come talk to you. That son of a bitch! I’d tell you to sue his ass and take him for everything he’s worth, but I already did that, so there’s not much to take. When he left me, he was dead broke. I got the house and a garageful of paintings, which I’ve been selling, by the way. If you have a chance, at least try to pick up some of the art.”
“He’s not painting much anymore,” Delia admitted.
“Drugs?”
It was as if the woman, this stranger halfway across the country, knew every sordid detail of Delia’s life. “Yes,” she whispered.
“Get out then,” M. A. Cachora advised. “Get out and stay out. And go by the health department and have yourself tested. That stupid bastard is playing Russian roulette, and he isn’t smart enough to figure it out.”
“I already have,” Delia said. “Been tested, that is. I get the results on Monday.”
“Keep my number in case you need someone to talk to in the meantime. My name’s Marcella, by the way. Call me anytime you need to talk.”
“Thanks,” Delia said. “I will.”
But she didn’t call Marcella back, and she didn’t call any other numbers in Santa Fe, either. Delia had found out everything she needed to know.
She stayed on in the hotel all through the weekend. Somewhere along the way she finally realized she was hungry and ordered food from room service. Time moved in incredibly tiny increments. Occasionally she thought about calling her mother and Ruth, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. Ruth really liked Philip, and Delia didn’t want to break the spell with a harsh dose of reality. With Ellie, it meant history repeating itself in a new generation.
When Delia returned to the doctor’s office on Monday afternoon, her anxiety level was off the charts. When Dr. Hanley told her she was HIV-negative, the words hardly registered. She left the doctor’s office in a daze and made her way to the nearest pay phone. It took a while to get the tribal chairman’s number, but finally Fat Crack Ortiz came on the line.
“Yes?” he said.
“It’s Delia,” she said quickly. “Delia Cachora. Remember me?”
“Of course.”
“I’m calling about your offer,” she said. “Is the tribal attorney job still available?”
“Yes,” Fat Crack answered. “As a matter