Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [53]
I put the money on the coffee table and asked, “Do you speak English?”
She nodded.
“Are you okay? You don’t look well.”
“I will be okay soon.” Her eyes strayed to the money.
“Will you be able to get an appointment at the clinic right away?”
She didn’t reply, and for a moment I thought she hadn’t understood. Then she fumbled alongside the chair’s cushion for a tissue, and I saw she was crying.
“Ms. Orozco … Ana,” I said.
She held up her hand. “No, I am okay. It is … I know that what I will do is wrong. Are you católica?”
“Yes.” At least, I’d been raised Catholic.
“Then you must know how I feel,” she said. “I did not believe in … this thing before I knew I was to have the child. I am not married. The boy went away when I told him. In September I am to go to the university in Mexico City, but …” She broke off, staring bleakly at me, then added, “I know I will feel bad about this for all my life. But I want to have children someday and give them more than what I have had. I do not want them to suffer for my mistake.”
“I understand.”
She went on, though—trying to convince herself she’d chosen the right course of action, I supposed. “My sister, years ago she went to a doctor in Santa Rosalía, where we are from. He did something that is not illegal in Mexico, with a … you call it an IUD. It brought on the bleeding, but nothing else. Tres meses after, she had the malparto—the miscarriage—and almost died from the infección. Now she cannot have children. I do not want that for myself.”
“You were right to come here for a safe procedure. I’m glad I can help you.”
“You say that, and you are católica?”
“You’ve obviously given this serious thought. And we can only live according to our own conscience.”
“Yes. And then we must answer a Dios. I hope he will forgive me.” Then she seemed to remind herself of the purpose of my visit. “Now, what is it you wish to ask me?”
I handed her Hy’s picture. She looked at it, nodded. “This man I remember. My friend who lets me stay here, he took me from the border to the store. He said the man there will tell me where is a good clinic. He”—her finger tapped the photo—“came to me before I could go inside and asked me if I am named Ann. I said yes. Ann, Ana.” She shrugged.
“Go on.”
“Then he asked me, ‘Where am I to meet …’ I think the name was Brockowitz. Could that be?”
“It could.”
“I did not answer. He took my arm.” She demonstrated, grabbing her left forearm with her right hand and yanking at it. “ ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘I am tired of waiting.’ He hurt me.”
Not like Hy to be rough with a woman—unless he thought he was dealing with an enemy, a kidnapper’s contact woman. “What happened then?”
“I became afraid. He looked at my face. He said, ‘You are not Ann Navarro?’ I said no. He let go and said he was sorry to frighten me. I ran into the store.”
“He didn’t try to follow you?”
“No. He called after me, again saying he was sorry.”
“Was he there when you went back outside?”
“No.”
“And how long were you in the store?”
“Ten minutes? Maybe longer. There were people, and the man there could not talk at first.” She paused, fingers pleating the tattered blanket. “This man—he is your enemy?”
“No, a friend.”
“A good friend?”
“Very.”
“Then I will tell you. If you said enemy, I would not tell you this, because I know there is goodness, la dulzura—gentleness—in him. I saw it in his eyes when he let go my arm. The friend who lives here? He saw the man also. And that night he saw him again.”
“Where?”
She shook her head. “I do not remember. But if you like, I will ask him.”
“I’d like to talk with him myself. When will he be coming home?”
“I think not until very late. He is working, and then he will go to a bar not far from here, called the Tradewinds. I will call him there and then he will call you.”
I hesitated. Ana seemed sincere, but I had to protect myself. “No, I’ll just go there. What’s your friend’s name?