The Witches of El Paso

Chapter 11

11

When Marta arrives home from the office the next day, she’s surprised to find the house buzzing with activity. Jane, the UTEP student who sometimes babysits in the evenings, is sitting at the counter with the boys, who are eating cheese pizza. Alejandro’s in a suit and wearing the kind of tie that makes him look like a Wall Street dude, a style that repels and fascinates Marta. In another life, the New York corporate law life, she could have ended up with someone who dressed like that all the time.

“Where have you been?” Alejandro asks.

“At work,” Marta says.

“You forgot about the fundraiser, didn’t you?”

“No,” Marta says.

“Don’t you know this is important to me? You always do this, Marta.”

“This?” What exactly is she being accused of? Alejandro’s anger is way out of proportion, especially since it was only this morning that he asked her the same question, nuzzling her neck as they lay on the cold stone floor of the bathroom together, “where have you been” meaning something completely different, his longing matching Marta’s for how they’d once been with each other.

“Just give me a sec, OK?” she says.

In her closet, Marta slips on the dress she wears to these things, a black silk shift that’s a little tired-looking, gone baggy in the middle. It’s due to be replaced, but Marta hates to shop. “It’s just that you’re so athletic, cari?a,” Alejandro’s mother said one terrible day when Marta and Alejandro were visiting Alejandro’s parents in Miami. The boys were little, two and four. Marta and Dr. Kika Torres were shopping in Bal Harbour, but trying to find clothes that fit Marta at the stores that her mother-in-law favored was impossible. Marta’s body, which had been ideal for swimming, strong and long, had softened. No, Marta didn’t want to special order anything, she had to say to a mortified shopgirl. The day had ended at a jewelry store, a famous one Marta has since forgotten the name of, where Kika bought her a necklace, a heavy silver panther’s head on a chain, diamonds wedged into the cat’s squinted eyes. “Goes with everything,” Kika said, which had mystified Marta, who was not able to think of a single thing she could wear the necklace with. When she got back to Alejandro’s parents’ place and closed the door of the guest room behind her, she’d cried in anger, telling Alejandro about her day. “I know what that necklace goes with,” he said, kissing her all over her face, down her neck, taking off her clothes.

Now Marta digs through her bra drawer to retrieve the necklace. She pulls out a shawl, a pretty embroidered Mexican one, since the venue—wherever it is—is bound to be overly air-conditioned.

In the mirror above the dresser, Marta examines herself, surprised. Her color has returned, and in the pleasant light of the evening, her skin looks smooth, not like her lines have vanished, but like she’s just come in from a swim, glowing. Marta applies a bright red lipstick, bold for her.

“You look nice,” Alejandro says when she comes out from the bathroom. He walks over and kisses her on the lips, quick, dry. He cups her butt, giving it a squeeze, and Marta’s glad his snippiness has gone. It’ll be nice to have an adult evening out with Alejandro. The sex has been fun, but it’s not the same as talking.

On the short drive over, Alejandro explains that the host of the evening is the new CEO of one of the big El Paso oil refining companies. The CEO’s house is built up against the Franklin Mountains, much like Marta and Alejandro’s, except that it’s huge, the size of a hotel, each wing a block clad in a shiny white material. From inside, enormous glass windows frame a dizzying view of El Paso and Juárez. In the double-height living room hangs a chandelier of colored glass that looks like it was stolen from an airport. Towering vases hold waxy tropical flowers, violently red and orange. Marta understands that Alejandro has to do this for his job—fundraising is a new part of his appointment as associate dean of the medical school—but she doesn’t like to hang out in places like this, owned by people like the CEO. This is who she sues.

Marta is introduced to the CEO, her cheeks are kissed, and then the hospital’s fundraising director, Jacqui Silva, marches over. Jacqui’s a very good-looking woman, but she’s too skinny, and her boobs are obviously fake. She has dramatically long hair, extensions Marta guesses. Jacqui’s encased in a taupe dress, the same shade as her nails.

Jacqui’s hovering her hand over Alejandro’s elbow. She coos, “I’m going to borrow these two for a minute,” herding Alejandro and the CEO across the room and into a hallway, leaving Marta alone. She’s disappointed that he’s already been called to work. In the old days, they would have perched in the corner, and Alejandro would have told her the hospital gossip, pointing out the cardiologist having an affair with the pathologist, the hospital vice president who everyone knew stole Xanax from the ER.

Looking across the room, Marta is grateful to see Roger, the husband of Beth, one of Alejandro’s colleagues in the hospital administration, another doctor. Roger’s talking to a short, older man with a severely rounded back and iron-gray hair. Unlike every other man at the party, this guy’s wearing a cardigan instead of a blazer or suit jacket.

Roger waves Marta over.

“Meet Marta, Dr. Torres’s wife,” Roger says, as the man turns around to face her, and Marta takes a step back, startled at who is standing in front of her. “You know Mincho? We were just talking about horses. Mincho keeps a string of them at Sunland Park. Races them.”

“No, no, wrong. I sold off most of ’em. I’m left with three useless animals who like to give up right near the finish line. Quarter horses, not Arabian if you’re thinking that.”

Marta wasn’t. What Marta’s thinking is that Benjamin Soto is talking to her.

“You like horses? I can get you a good price.”

“We shouldn’t be having a conversation,” Marta says.

“Why not?” Roger asks.

“I’m suing Mr. Soto,” Marta says to Roger.

“Oh. I didn’t recognize you,” Soto says, but he’s lying. He flits his eyes from her face down her body. Marta feels a surge of anger at his nerve.

“Mincho gives a nice amount of money to the hospital, from what I understand,” Roger says.

Soto nods, like he’s being modest. He’s still looking at her like she’s a piece of meat, but he’s so little and hunched, she could squash him. She might do just that. “Roger, mind if I talk to Mincho alone?”

“I’ll go get a refill,” Roger says ambling over to the bar.

“Listen. Stop sending private investigators after my clients.”

“What’s it called when you talk outside of court, ex parte communication?”

“We’re at a social event. No one can hear what I’m saying to you. Settle now, or you’ll regret it.”

“I’m not settling. Not ever.”

“Shame on you. What would your mother say?”

“What?”

“Silvia. That was her name, right? Your mother, Silvia? Her maiden name was Colón?”

Soto takes a step back.

“I remember her working the cash register. She and my grandma Olga were friends from Bowie High School. You must have known Olga. Olga wouldn’t have been friends with Silvia if she didn’t think Silvia was an honorable person.”

“Don’t talk about my mother.”

“Mincho!” Marta hears Jacqui say, returning to the room with Alejandro in tow.

“Sorry we had to rush away. It’s been forever since you and I have caught up!” Jacqui says, though Marta and Jacqui have never spent a second alone together. Jacqui inches closer. Her perfume smells like cotton candy and tobacco. She leans in, looking at Marta’s necklace. “Ooh, Cartier.”

Soto laughs, nastily, like he’s learned something important, which he hasn’t. Marta wishes he’d get the hell away. She clutches the panther’s head, hiding it in her fist, and she moves closer to Alejandro, pressing her body up against his. He smells of wine.

During dinner, Alejandro and Marta are seated at a table with Jacqui and the CEO and his wife. Soto is at another table. Marta still can’t believe he’s here. It shouldn’t be possible that he can be at a place like this, free and rich and praised for his generosity. Soto’s donations clean him up, make him seem legit, even if he’s a cruel pervert. It’s at parties like this where things get done in El Paso, where people meet and understand that they are of the same tribe. Marta’s clients don’t have access to this kind of power. All they can do is stick together, stay united in the face of indifference and worse. The law is designed to wear down the powerless until they give up.

“How was your tour of Los Pi?ones?” Jacqui asks.

“Fine. We joined a line dancing class,” Marta says, curious how Jacqui knows about it. “Alejandro told you about us going?”

“Oh, he didn’t mention it? That I set it up for you?” Jacqui says, her voice rising at the end of the sentence.

“Thank you for doing that,” Marta says, puzzled.

“I’d do anything to make Alejandro’s life easier. He has so much on his plate. He’s so good at raising money, maybe I should be afraid that he’ll take my job! Kidding! We’re on a panel together at the hospital fundraising conference next month in San Diego.”

“Yes, I’ll be going to the conference with him,” Marta says, feeling a stab of jealousy. She hadn’t planned on going to San Diego until just this moment, but she doesn’t like how Jacqui seems to be insinuating there’s something between her and Alejandro. Anyhow, it’s not a bad idea to go away with Alejandro. They could get up to all sorts of things in a hotel room.

“We’ll have to get a drink together when we’re there, just us girlies,” Jacqui says.

“I’d like that,” Marta says. Marta isn’t a girlie. She’s an adult who hates small talk and empty social arrangements, and she’s annoyed that she’s barely been able to exchange two words with Alejandro all night. “I don’t know what all you know about Benjamin Soto, but I have a bit of advice for you. Don’t take any money from him. He’s a bad guy. Like really shitty. Harasses women. It’s a bad look for the hospital to be involved with him.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Jacqui says, shaking her head. “You don’t get to tell me how to do my job.”

“Helpful hint is all,” Marta says. “You don’t want the bad publicity.”

“No, we definitely don’t want that,” Jacqui says, her eyes narrowed.

At home, when they’re in the bedroom undressing, Alejandro is gentle as he reaches behind her neck, unhooking her necklace.

“You hardly ever wear this.”

“I don’t really go to places fancy enough that it makes sense.”

“I should take you out more.”

“Yes, that would be nice,” Marta says, turning around. “Can I talk to you about work for a second?”

“Now?” Alejandro asks. He leans in and kisses her with more force than usual. Marta pulls away, keeping hold of his arms.

“I think I annoyed Jacqui by telling her that you shouldn’t accept any donations from Benjamin Soto.”

“How do you know him?”

“I’m suing him. Soto Pecans.”

“Right, right. Jacqui seems to think she can land him.”

“What I’m saying is don’t take the money. It’s dirty. He’s dirty.”

“Any dirtier than oil money?”

“Different dirty,” Marta says. “Just tell me you won’t take it.”

“Look, it’s not up to me. I’m a fundraiser in training, but if I want to run the hospital, that’ll be a big part of my job. There are numbers I’ll have to hit every year, and if the money coming in isn’t completely clean, who cares? It’ll be doing more good with us than where it is. You know the population the hospital serves.”

“What you’re saying is you’ll do what you need to do to move up the ranks.”

“That’s not fair.”

“I just don’t want him to clean himself up with donations. This is going to turn into a fight in the press, and it won’t be helpful for him to look like an upstanding guy. This case is going badly as it is. The firm is in terrible shape, and we really need some wins. I know you care about your job, but so do I. It’s my life.”

“Look, if it means that much to you—”

“It does.”

“—I’ll talk to the fundraising committee about it, OK?”

“OK.”

“Is the firm in that much trouble?”

“It is.”

“Can I help?”

“Jacqui seemed to think that you’re some kind of fundraising savant. You have any ideas how we can quickly bring in a couple million dollars?” Up until now, the fundraising has been Jerome’s thing. But that’s not where most of their money comes from. Their supporters buy $50 tickets for the tardeada, a few give five hundred bucks each. Marta lies down on the bed, and Alejandro drops down next to her, tucking his face into her neck.

“So, you want me to ask Benjamin Soto for money for you? Jacqui says he has bags of it.”

“Not funny,” Marta says, but she’s glad that she’s convinced Alejandro to tell the hospital to say no to Soto’s donation. “I feel like there’s so much for us to catch up on. I haven’t even told you about my plan to get Jerome to retire.”

“Does it involve poison? That guy is a workaholic if I’ve ever seen one.”

“Pot and kettle.”

“Guilty as charged,” Alejandro says. “But you, too, you know? Being the boss wouldn’t make you less busy.”

“It’s time for me to be the director. I don’t have to explain to you why. You understand.”

“You want to keep moving. It’s boring if the job doesn’t become bigger.”

“Right.”

“We’ll hire Jane for more hours if you need help with the boys,” Alejandro says, and then, done with the conversation, he folds himself into a tight Z against Marta’s body. Within seconds, he’s asleep, breathing evenly, a little whistling sound coming out of his nose as he exhales.

Marta’s awake, disturbed by Alejandro’s attitude. He’s supportive to a point, but not in a way that he’s going to change his life to help her. This isn’t a new thought, that he’s self-centered when it has to do with his career. He’s always known exactly what he wanted to do, and he hasn’t really changed, except that his running has gotten a lot more extreme, his hours longer. Marta sometimes wishes she could feel even a sliver of the certainty Alejandro does.

Marta met Alejandro when he was in his first year of med school, she in her second year of law school, and they’ve been together ever since, half her life. Her entire adult life. At this point, Alejandro is like a part of her. They’ve always been people who studied hard. They weren’t out partying. Marta liked cramming stuff into her brain, getting good grades. If she could have, she’d have stayed in school for the rest of her life, taking tests until old age, but that wasn’t possible, so she applied for jobs, the same positions her classmates applied for, and with the same kind of ambition, to land the shiniest thing.

Marta had called Olga excited and proud to tell her she’d been offered a position at Skadden, Arps in New York. Instead of congratulating her, Olga stayed silent. Finally, she asked, “Is that the best way for you to help other people?” No, clearly it wasn’t, but Olga had approved of Marta’s other option, and the one she took, clerking for a judge of the First Circuit. “You could end up on the Supreme Court,” Olga had said to Marta, pride evident in her voice, and Olga wasn’t being completely delusional. Only last month, one of Marta’s friends from the Harvard Law Review , Kendra Cooper, was nominated for DC Circuit Court of Appeals, one rung below the Supremes.

But Marta’s path was disrupted when Alejandro needed to move to El Paso for his residency. The University Medical Center was the only US teaching hospital where the doctors were required to speak Spanish, and it was the only decent hospital on either side of the border for hundreds of miles, many of the patients indigent. Olga was thrilled when Marta moved to El Paso, had approved of Marta’s choice to work for legal aid, but over the years she told Marta that she should aim for more, should try to be a federal judge in El Paso. Even when she was in her eighties, Olga could have helped with this. She had spent decades volunteering for the Democratic Party in El Paso. She knew all the people who decided who should run for what office, who should be appointed to what commission or judgeship. Marta put Olga off.

At first, Marta was too young, just learning how to be a real lawyer, learning that though she liked being on the side of the little guy, what she really loved was working her ass off on cases and then winning. That was fun in its way, and not scary in the way that politics seemed. The path to a federal judgeship was not made for women, especially not for Latinas, and as fierce as Marta could be for her clients, she didn’t have the same kind of competitiveness for herself. She wasn’t that kind of chingona. Anyway, in her late thirties, she was too busy to think about a judgeship, as she tried to balance work and starting a family, going through rounds of IVF for both boys, then being a working mother with a toddler and a baby. By the time she emerged from that dark tunnel only a few years ago, Olga had withdrawn from her political work, and Marta didn’t have the energy to pursue a nomination for a federal judgeship. Not that it’s too late to try. Marta might be just the right age now.

What an idea, Marta being at the right place, at the right time, not too old, not too young. If she started now, it would take a few years to make this happen, enough time to put the firm on solid ground. Federal judgeship by fifty.

Excited, Marta slips out of bed, pulling on sweatpants and a soft, threadbare shirt. The air-conditioning hisses from the vents as she walks into the kitchen, the floor cold against her feet. Marta pours herself a glass of water. The kitchen is spotless, and she knows it’s Nena’s doing. Jane never even tidies when she babysits. On the stove sits a pot, still warm to the touch. Marta lifts the lid. Red sauce, made with roasted chiles, ready to use for the chilaquiles Nena said she’d make for Alejandro. Marta dips a spoon in the sauce and slips it into her mouth, the flavor taking her back to the kitchen of Luna’s restaurant, La Sirena.

Luna was never interested in the natural, except when it came to the food at the restaurant. Everything had to be made from scratch, originally out of economy, but also because she believed that doing anything else would bring ruin, dishonoring her mother’s memory. The recipes Mommie had used when she was a cook were written in the pin-narrow hand of the Victorian era, in a faded blue ink on grayish-yellowed paper. Copies of these recipes were used to teach each new cook. At her house, Luna had the originals framed, hanging in the hall between the altar and the powder room. These are the only family heirlooms to speak of.

Luna was much younger than Marta is now when she had to reinvent herself after her first husband, Beto, was killed in the war. Luna had used the death benefit from the army to open La Sirena. Right after the war, it was hard to find space to rent, but it had been especially hard for Luna, not only because she was a woman, but because she was also a woman who’d never owned a business before. Olga arranged for Luna to meet with an elderly man who lived in the Hotel Cortez. This man owned a significant part of downtown, including a vacant storefront right around the corner from the courthouse and San Jacinto Square, narrow and long, boarded up, and needing a lot of work.

Marta imagines Luna showing up at their meeting wearing a black suit with white gloves, a hat with a veil, surprising the landlord, who hadn’t thought that a widow could crack jokes and look so elegant, be so young. Luna paints a picture for him, showing him a busy place where deals would be made at lunchtime over big plates of stewed beef in a rich red sauce, sopped up with soft flour tortillas. Luna hates to cook, but she tells the landlord that she’ll make chiles rellenos with the lightest batter, flautas so crisp you could hear them crunch across the room. At the end of their meeting, this older man gives her a lease.

The name, La Sirena, The Mermaid, had to do with one of Luna’s favorite jokes—that in El Paso there’s plenty of beach, but no ocean. The mural on the back wall was sketched and painted by Luna herself, a mermaid lounging on a rock, a conquistador in a helmet standing at the bow of a longboat, staring at her like he had been enchanted. Marta loved this picture, loved that the mermaid looked like Luna herself, though when Marta asked her if it was her, she said no, no, she painted someone who visited her dreams.

You could talk to Luna in the restaurant, but she was never giving you her whole attention. It made everyone want to be near her, Marta included. One summer during college, Marta worked for a tutoring program during the day and as a waitress at La Sirena at night.

Luna kept one eye on the waitstaff, on the level of beverages in glasses. She noticed if picked-over food sat on a table too long. She didn’t like paid checks to linger. Change or the credit card receipt had to be returned as quickly as possible, a few Chiclets placed on the little plastic tray.

La Sirena was never a fancy restaurant, but the waitresses wore black skirts and white shirts, and the waiters wore bow ties. On weekend nights, Fridays and Saturdays, mariachis played. As a waitress, Marta served tables of first dates, often overhearing the couples ask each other where they went to high school, a question often asked in El Paso, the answer communicating information about class and social status in ways that Marta still doesn’t understand. She’s heard Cristina say that Linda piensa mucho of herself because she went to El Paso High, though they both come from humble backgrounds, and if anything, it’s Cristina who looks down on Linda, who until recently was a farmworker.

At La Sirena, Marta remembers serving young moms out with their kids, drinking wine out of thick, old-fashioned short-stemmed glasses, not really paying attention to the baby gnawing on a tortilla, the toddler picking gum off the bottom of the table, making a pile of it on a chair. Luna seated politicians and lawyers in the back room, a cave lined with leather booths. This group tended to tip well, but the good tips barely outweighed the lewd looks, the times men beckoned Marta close. “Hey, little se?orita, want to come back to my place?” Or worse, “I bet you like to be in charge, nice strong girl like you.” The junkyard dog came in handy with men like this, Marta growling, letting the men know that Luna was her great-aunt. That shut them up.

At the end of Marta’s shift, Luna would sometimes pour her a tequila, light a cigarette, and tell stories that Marta was hungry for, stories about the Montoya sisters’ childhood, about the chickens, about the Spanish Speaking Club versus the Speak English Only Club, or about the time in high school when Luna wanted to go to a dance even though she had a broken leg. She’d been asked by a guapo boy from a conocido family, and not wanting a broken leg to get in her way, she sawed off her cast. The boy drove her to the country club in Juárez, the dance starting at ten and lasting until dawn, when breakfast was served—coffee, chocolate, scrambled eggs, and pan dulce—eaten quickly before everyone went to five a.m. mass at the cathedral. The next day, Luna went to the hospital and had a new cast put on, having convinced the doctor that the thing had fallen off on its own. Marta suspects the doctor didn’t buy Luna’s story for a second. He just wanted to be around her for as long as he could.

Men loved Luna, and this was in part why La Sirena became popular. Luna flirted, she cajoled, she spun away when she felt someone getting too close. Luna told Marta cautionary tales, like how when she’d first opened the restaurant, she’d had to be extra careful. There were plenty of nights when she’d had a hand on her bottom, and one time a man had slipped his hand up under her skirt, leaving a note in her panties, his name and telephone number. Luna had made sure that she was never the last one to lock up, that there was always a trustworthy man from the kitchen to walk her to the streetcar. Luna told all of this to Marta laughing, always laughing, like danger could be banished if you only had enough fun.

It isn’t more fun that Marta wants, but more hunger satisfied. More of the power she feels from taking what she wants.

“Hoo hoo hoo,” Marta says out loud.

She fits the top back on the pot, carries it to the refrigerator, and then moves things around on the second shelf to make room.

A sound comes from the yard, the soft call of an animal.

Marta makes her way toward the sliding glass doors, and she’s startled by her own reflection. She hears the sound again, a whine.

She squints, looking through the glass beyond her reflection, her eyes focusing on a figure in the backyard.

A coyote is staring at her, holding something in its mouth. The coyote drops the object, a white bundle, then lopes around the pool and clears the fence in one leap.

Marta slides open the door and steps onto the patio, looking down to see a balled-up sock. She picks it up. It’s warm, still wet from the coyote’s mouth. Inside the fabric is something hard. Marta pulls it out into the light, and the thing shines white. A tooth.