Deadly Games - Cate Noble [6]
Many of the old-school prejudices had faded as the ethnic make-up of power had shifted. But not all. Power had a dark underbelly that superseded race, creed, and religion.
Overall, in the four years since Gena had returned to Sugar Springs, she’d witnessed mostly progress. There was still a divide between rich and poor, but the majority of prominent families and business owners—the new haves—were Hispanic.
Even the plight of the have-nots had brightened. St. Anne’s Church had opened a day care center for low-income individuals, allowing some migrant workers to seek other lines of work. The farm workers had stronger labor unions.
Unfortunately, while working conditions in the fields had steadily improved, the poverty levels hadn’t, particularly for illegal aliens. Tougher immigration laws made it harder for undocumented workers to earn money but did little to check the flow of people sneaking across the border.
Like Lupe.
Barely eighteen, Lupe looked like a weary forty-year-old. That was ten years older than Gena! Alcohol and physical abuse were only part of the tough life that had prematurely aged Lupe.
Gena watched as the young woman bent to retrieve paint cans before limping toward the staircase. Both of Lupe’s feet had been broken by her husband when she’d tried to run away after a beating. The bones hadn’t healed properly, and as an “illegal” Lupe risked deportation if she sought medical assistance in the U.S.
It was a too common tragedy and eventually prompted Helen’s “Don’t ask, don’t tell” policy at the shelter. Helen was careful not to hire undocumented workers, but her nonprofit shelter turned away no one in need. Unlike the place Gena had once turned to.
Don’t go there.
After loosening the buckle on her tool belt, Gena gathered up the packaging from the door hardware and made her way down the hall. She made a mental note to replace a cracked light switch cover near the bathroom. Ditto the caulking around one of the sinks.
Though not a licensed contractor herself, Gena had worked with Vianca for over three years and could do anything required on a site. Gena had kind of fallen into the profession by virtue of the fact she had desperately needed a job and her skills as a translator hadn’t been in high demand in Sugar Springs. As it turned out, however, she loved construction.
Vi had insisted Gena learn every aspect, too.“Noth-ing heals the soul like hard work.”
A stranger to physical labor and completely inept with any tool more complex than a desk stapler, Gena had been surprised to learn that sweat and hard work kept her demons at bay. Her soul had indeed flourished in the process. Thanks, Vi.
Near the bottom of the staircase, Gena paused to admire the tiled entry. From this viewpoint, the intricate mosaic design appeared upside down. But to anyone crossing the threshold, the scene from the Nativity was a message: there was always room at the inn.
Vi had begun that particular project, but in the end Gena had been the one to finish it. Giving the angel above the manger Vi’s dark hair and brown eyes had been Gena’s private tribute to her friend.
She made her way toward the back porch off the kitchen, where they’d moved the excess supplies. Next on Gena’s agenda was painting the family room.
“What are you doing?” Gena asked Lupe when she reached the kitchen.
The young woman was balanced precariously on a three-legged stool in front of the sink. She held out what looked like a dirty white feather hanging by a piece of black thread.
“Myabuela did this to keep away evil.” Lupe turned back and proceeded to wrap the thread around the window latch above the sink.
“A chicken feather?”
“A special chicken feather.” Lupe’s tone was reverent. “The bird must watch its own body be severed from its head. The blood sprinkled from its neck ties the chicken’s spirit to the feathers and keeps evil spirits away.”
As superstitions went, this one was mild. Gena