Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [21]
In the time it takes for oxygen to decide whether my damaged insides are safe enough to revisit, I feel as if I’ve been gasping for an eternity. Blood trickles from my nose and I harbor a passive-aggressive hope that the fluid will stain her carpet so as to leave some lasting proof of her brutality.
“You said one punch,” I manage.
“I lied.”
When I open my eyes, and after I see that there are several dark spots on the tan carpet, I look up to find her sitting on her desk, leaning back on her hands. There are a multitude of bright spots that dance over her, the kind associated with my own sublimated pain.
“Happy now?”
She tosses me a clean white rag and I take it and plug up the sieve that is my nose. I don’t even make a pretense of mustering fictional dignity as I get my legs under me and push myself up. Perhaps Romero was right: a woman spurned is a woman best avoided. Still, I’m not sure what frightens me more—that an equally painful emotional deluge may be coming, or that I’m not prepared to run from one should it arrive.
Instead, she offers a satisfied smile and says, “You hungry?”
I pull the cloth away from my nose to see if the bleeding has stopped. I feel no fresh trickles of blood, but now the clotting fluid plugs my nostrils.
“I’m not sure. I just had a knuckle sandwich.” It hurts to talk, and my voice sounds funny.
I’ve elicited a small chuckle from Esperanza. She hops off the desk and retrieves her purse from behind the chair.
“Let’s go. You can buy.”
And then she’s out the door. After a last dab at my nose, I toss the bloody rag on her desk and follow. It’s strange, but something in me feels happy about the whole physical violence thing. It’s something I can understand, even appreciate. Some sort of cause and effect, yin and yang thing that my male brain can process. I won’t delude myself into thinking that the rest of our reunion will be as amicable—as odd as it may seem to use that term—but, for now, I consider myself blessed.
Llamo’s is a small, quiet restaurant that specializes in the premier dish in any Venezuelan restaurant: steak. I used to frequent this place, and it looks just the same as it did all those years ago. The walls are white, decorated with pictures of the owner’s family. At least five generations smile on us, or cast somber looks our way, according to the prevailing generational mood.
Esperanza is working on a tuna salad sandwich and there’s an untouched glass of white wine near her right hand. I might as well not even be here for the attention she’s giving me. One of Gordon Reese’s notebooks lies open on the table, and she is devouring each word with the same voraciousness with which she’s downing her sandwich. I know her well enough to identify the expression in her eyes. It’s a combination of intrigue and skepticism—the proper professional dyad. She turns a page, the sandwich held in her free hand, chewing a bite slowly. She grunts and turns another page.
“Your friend’s done a lot of research.”
“Yes, he has.” When I was going through the notebooks back in Dallas, with Reese at my side to clarify the more obscure notes and references, I was impressed by the exhaustive nature of his records. If I were to grant him nothing else, I would at the very least have to give him acknowledgment in this area. I can remember digs I’ve conducted that haven’t come close to this level of documentation.
“Have you corroborated any of this?”
I shrug. “I haven’t found any references to Fraternidad de la Tierra, but some of the other names in the record appear to be genuine. It would take me months of Europe hopping just to verify all the players.” What I don’t mention, at least not yet, is the umbrella organization that Reese is certain exists—the one that orchestrates the passing of the bones from caretaker to caretaker.
She flips