He was really hoping she'd be nice to him. This was a question he wasn't prepared to answer, for he wasn't entirely sure what his intentions were.
"Ma'am, my intentions are to keep your daughter safe for the time being. I intend to bring her back to you when our safety can be assured."
Senora Reyes looked at him without expression. He smiled as best he could.
"I think you are avoiding the question. You know what I mean by that. I am fully aware of Monica's ability to take care of herself. Perhaps it is her intention to keep you safe. Perhaps, Mr. Doggett, you will need her help instead." She paused again for a long time, trying to unnerve him. "I ask, Mr. Doggett, what your intentions are with my daughter, and by that I mean, do you intend to marry her?"
John's brow furrowed unexpectedly for a half second. "I hadn't really thought that far."
"But you love her?"
"Hadn't thought that far either. I mean, sure, as a friend, without a doubt. But I… this is… what has she told you?"
"Monica's been telling me about you for many years. I know about your son, I know about your ex-wife and your divorce, I know about your career. It makes you nervous knowing that I know so much?"
"I just… she only just told me that she… this is all new to me, really. I'm ok with it, it's just odd knowing I was left out of the loop for so long."
"My thought is that you don't particularly want to be in the loop. A mother listens to her daughter talk endlessly about a man and never once does she hear anything that would make her thing the man is interested. It makes a mother think twice about that man when he finally shows up at her doorstep intending to run away with her daughter."
John felt beat down. "I want to have an answer for you. Heck, I'd like to have one for myself. But I don't. Not a good one. Certainly not one that will satisfy you."
"You are not sure how you feel about her?"
"Well, I like her, yes. And if things weren't the way they are, maybe I'd have a better response, maybe not. I'm grateful that she came along and I can see things progressing. But I can't say for sure what the future would bring us."
"I think that you might be a man who doesn't examine his heart very often. I worry about that. Monica needs to be loved. She deserves a man who will be honest with her and with himself, a man who will give her his heart in full, not just a sliver here and there. She tells me that once you are sure of something, you commit to it full-heartedly."
He sat there, trying his best to remain composed and to figure out the correct thing to say. It surprised him when Senora Reyes started to laugh. "You are a serious man, I can see that. I appreciate it. I know you wouldn't purposely hurt her and you wouldn't give her false hope. And when you do get around to listening to your heart, you'll make the right choice." She studied him again, longer and harder, but with the remains of a smile still playing on her lips. She removed the rings from her third finger and handed him the smaller of the two.
"What's this?"
"Monica has been clinging to that cheap ring like it's her security blanket. One day, you need to get her a real ring. This is the ring that her father gave me back when we were young and not as well off."
It was a simple band of gold with a square setting of five tiny diamonds.
"It was his mother's. It should stay in the family. Esteban's nieces and nephews have all asked for it, but I've saved it for Monica." She looked lovingly down at the other ring, which she slipped back onto her finger. It was ornate, with several high quality diamonds arranged in an ornate gold setting. She touched it with the fingers of her right hand. "Esteban gave me this on our 25th wedding anniversary. If you can give Monica just a fraction of the happiness he has given me, I know that she will be happy."
There were tears forming in her eyes, and she took both his hands in hers. "I want you to take good care of my daughter. I want you to love her with every part of your being. Promise her mother that you will do that."
"I promise," he said, no longer able to even think about what he was really promising to, and incapable of taking it the full significance of the ring wrapped tightly in his palm.
She smiled again and patted his hands. "Would you be a dear and escort me upstairs? I need to talk to Monica before she goes to bed."
He offered her an arm. She wasn't tiny, and she wasn't quite dwarfed by him, but she was older and obviously in frail health. Monica never mentioned anything about having an elderly mother and it had been a surprise to meet her. But for what she lacked in physical vitality, she made up for it in personality, chatting to him the whole, slow way up the staircase.
They found Gibson in a chair by the window looking out and Monica sitting on the floor going through old knickknacks from a drawer of her dresser. Senora Reyes was winded, and John made her take a seat to rest.
"How did it go?" Monica asked John.
"We had a nice chat," he answered, painfully aware of the ring in his pocket and hoping that she didn't notice it.
"I only wanted to talk to your friend John and get to know him a little better."
John seemed antsy and she narrowed her eyes. She figured she would talk to him later, when her mother wasn't around.
"Why are you upstairs? I thought the stairs were too much for you?"
"Oh, John was a gentleman and graciously offered me his arm. I wanted to talk to you, Monicita. In your father's office."
Behind the closed door of the office, Monica studied her mother. "Are you alright?" she asked, concerned.
"It's just late for me, that is all. I will rest later. Now though, we need to get your affairs in order."
"My affairs?"
"For your little trip. Do you have money? Do you have a plan? How will you survive?"
"We do have money. John has been prepared for a long time, I managed to get several thousand dollars out of the band, and even Gibson seems to have something substantial to live on.
"Coming to Mexico was my plan. I just felt that our place was here. But I'm not sure where we are going."
"You will need more money," said her mother. "The Federales can usually be bought off, but if you're in as much trouble as it seems, you will need lots of money." She motioned for Monica to follow her and reached her hand into one of the bookcases. It jumped slightly. "Pull it from the wall."
Behind it lay a little door and behind that, a medium-sized safe. Monica gave a curious smile to her mother. "Your father has a penchant for silly movies. I think he wanted to be a spy when he was younger, but instead, he talks corn and hides a safe behind a bookcase."
Her mother swung the dial around a few times and opened the door. Inside were various papers, a gun that had once belonged to a great-uncle, and many bundles of cash. "Your father is also a practical man, like your John. In case anything were to happen, he wants to be prepared. I believe that there are a half a million pesos there," she said, handing it all to her wide-eyed daughter.
"Mama, that's about a fifty thousand dollars. I can't take all that."
"If you think your father wouldn't do the same thing, then you do not know him very well. We have plenty of money in the bank, and he can withdraw more later and hide it away in his safe. You need this now." Monica made no effort to take the money. "M'ija, your mother would not be able to sleep at night without knowing that she had helped as much as she could."
She began to cry and wrapped her arms around her daughter. "You will need to leave soon. It is only a matter of time. If it's ever safe again, you come home. Promise me you'll come home."
"I promise."
They held on to one another for a while longer before separating and wiping away their tears. Monica helped her mother downstairs and told her she'd see her in the morning.
When she returned upstairs, she found Gibson still staring out the window. "Anything?" she asked.
He shook his head.
"Then you should get some sleep."
The boy crawled under the covers, his head still facing the window. She sat on the edge of the bed beside him and took of his glasses. You did good today, she thought to him, for it seemed silly and strangely loud at bedtime to speak. You learned how to swim today. We're going to be ok. You'll see. You need to stop worrying and just try to get what enjoyment you can from life. But for now, you really need to get some sleep. We'll leave tomorrow, ok?
He nodded and closed his eyes, though he did not turn off his brain.
John sat on the other bed, still clad in jeans and a t-shirt, pouring over maps. He wanted to head southwest toward the water, if he could ever convince Monica to leave. She sat at the foot of his bed, and looked at what he had laid out before him. "We need to leave soon."
"I know," she said. "Tomorrow morning, we'll go."
"Good." He showed her where he wanted to go and she agreed with him, knowing the area to be pretty rural with more places for them to hide out.
"You should get some rest too tonight," she said, starting to fold up the maps for him.
John looked over at Gibson whose eyes were open again. "Let's go to your room," he said, and her stomach fluttered with excitement.
She started pulling her sleeping clothes out of her bag, but John reached out and stopped her hands. "Humor me tonight and sleep in what you've got on. I have a bad feeling. And Gibson does too, I think, judging by the quiet. I think we should be ready to go soon. You have everything packed? Good. I think that's gotta be a strict rule from now on. Keep your back packed. Don't ever, even for a minute, leave it unready. I think we should always be ready to run."
"I know. I just… I hate having to live our lives always in a panic. I think Gibson needs a break from that kind of fear."
"Yes, he does. But unfortunately that is not a possibility for him. Not yet. I don't know if he'll ever know what it's like to live without fear, without being hunted. The kid's been through hell and back and the only way he's going to survive is by staying on his guard."
She felt downhearted at that, but she understood perfectly. She put her pajamas back in her bag and looked around the room making sure she hadn't left anything behind. Then it was just her and John, standing there alone.
"I'm suddenly not very tired."
"Well we should both try to sleep regardless." He allowed himself to touch her, to brush the hair from her cheek and tuck it behind her ear. The room seemed thick with quiet again and he knew he needed to kiss her or he would never be able to breath again. Their lips met, soft and delicate, and she parted his lips with her tongue. Heads tilted for a better angle. His hands landed on her neck and he pulled her in closer, desperate to have his body touching hers.
A cough. The both turned. Gibson stood in the door. "We need to go now," he said.
Bags were grabbed, they ran down the stairs. "We have to tell my mother goodbye." John nodded.
Monica ran to her mother's bedside and dropped to her knees. She pushed her hair back and kissed her forehead. "Mama, we need to go. I'm sorry we can't stay longer." She looked back at Gibson. "Are they coming here? Should she get up?" He shrugged.
"We're not sure. Just… be careful. And if they pressure you for anything, do what you need to to protect yourself. We'll be fine. Tell them you don't know where we're going. Tell them you never saw us. And if they figure out that we were here, tell them that we were."
Senora Reyes touched her daughter's cheek. "Do not worry, m'ija. I know how to handle them. I will keep your secrets safe. Go, fast. And John," she called out. "You take care of her."
"I will, ma'am."
Chapter 8: Love and Loss
With that they were out the door, into the truck, out the garage and the gate, which took an eternity to slide open. Down the streets of Mexico City they drove, into the darkness, through neighborhoods, following Monica's directions. They made it to a highway and were soon zipping along at 60 miles an hour, heading southwest as planned.
Gibson sat in between them. Monica took his hand now, feeling that he might be scared and upset at their sudden departure. "Do you think they're following us?"
He closed his eyes and focused. "No, maybe. I don't know. We should just keep driving."
And so they did. It was nearly midnight when they left. Around 2 a.m., Gibson's head began to droop and Monica told him in her head to just rest his head against her. He was still snoring lightly when the sun began to rise the next morning. They were just driving through the town of Chilpancingo de Los Bravo, high in the mountains of Guerrero.
"John, let's stop here."
He agreed, more from the desire to stop than the desire to stay. It was still early enough that few people were out and about. There seemed to be no restaurants or food purchasing stops of any kind in the vicinity. They pulled over on the side of the road.
"Are you sure it's safe here?"
"No. But that's what Gibson is for," she said, referring to the boy who was slumped against her, sleeping away, despite the treacherous journey on less than perfect roads. "I wouldn't mind shutting my eyes for a bit," she said, obviously struggling to stay awake. He was every bit as tired as her, probably more so, but he could hardly let her keep watch. They stopped in the street and waited.
John watched people walk by, and they watched him, with distrust. A few donkeys and carts walked past, and John wished that Monica was awake to see it. In an hour, he shook their shoulders. "What do we do now?"
"We should find a place to stay. Let's get out."
They shuffled through the small town, and Monica approached a street vendor asking for a good place to stay for a while, and he directed them to a Senora Guerrero who owned a small apartment building with a few vacancies.
She was just waking up for the morning when they knocked at her door. "Yes?" she answered.
"We were told you had an apartment available," Monica responded. The woman looked her up and down, and took note of her very white companions. But Monica's speech was impeccable, with no trace of a non-Mexican accent.
"I might have something available. What are you looking for?"
"Two bedroom, if possible."
"I have a few options. Would you like to see?"
She took them inside the building, which was stucco with iron bars over all the street level windows, and was painted bright pink. The second floor had the only available options. One was further from an exit than the other, and John preferred to be able to run as quickly as possible. The apartment they inspected had two bedrooms indeed, but one was tiny. A monk's cell, said Monica, for it had nothing more than a narrow bed and a chair. The master bedroom had a large sagging brass bed. In the living room, there was an old couch that had seen far better days, and an open kitchen area with a metal table and four mismatched chairs. It would do.
They paid in cash and were given the keys, along with directions to the nearest market and a store that sold basic supplies. The apartment however, came fully stocked with pots and pans and all kinds of cookware. Monica left them to settle in and went to buy food – tortillas and chilies, fruits and vegetables, eggs and pork, bottled water. They were both asleep when she came home and she didn't have the heart to wake them. Gibson was sprawled out on the small bed and John was being absorbed into the couch. There really wasn't much more for her to do than indulge in a few hours of sleep as well.
It was nearly 2 before they started moving again. She grilled up some food and warned them both that she wasn't going to be doing all the cooking. "You may regret that, Monica," laughed John.
"So," she asked as they ate, "What exactly are we supposed to do to occupy ourselves?"
"Just keep a low profile. We should stay indoors as much as we can for a while, and then slowly start to integrate ourselves into the community."
"But what do we do?"
"There's a TV," said Gibson, referring to the tiny box set with rabbit ear antennas.
"You realize that's only going to get local Mexican stations."
He shrugged and ** switched it on, finding indeed that there were only Mexican stations. But eventually he came across Mexican wrestling, which seemed good enough to appease him and he sat on the couch.
She and John could do little more than join him on the couch and watch. It was a painfully dull afternoon though they took turns choosing shows. John found a soccer game and Monica made them all watch the news. She was gracious enough to translate for them and made a mental note to try to pick up supplies to start teaching them Spanish, though she did make them parrot back words from time to time. After a dinner of strip steak and chilies in tortillas, and after the sun started to set, they realized that across the street was a bar. "We have to go out," said Monica. "No better way to integrate into the community than to show up at their local pub."
"I'm not so sure about that," answered John. "We don't know who will be there, or who will notice us, or who they will feel like they need to notify. We shouldn't draw attention to ourselves."
"John, it's ok. They will be more curious about us if we stayed holed up inside for a week. It's just across the street. We can slip in and go unnoticed. Come on!"
He relented, as he always did. He didn't understand why he could not stand up to her.
The three of them sidled across the street and opened the doors to a medium sized bar. Chairs lined the poured concrete walls and a well used pool table stood to the side, being used by some men that John did not want to tangle with. Monica directed them to the chairs and walked up to the bar to order drinks. The bartender eyed her suspiciously, as did the other patrons who had shushed their talking down to whispers. She ordered two beers and a Coke in her Guadalajaran accent, which earned her the quiet approval of the bartender, who passed along an almost imperceptible nod of approval for the rest of the bar to see.
She brought the drinks over and handed them off, taking a long swig of her beer. Traditional Mexican music piped out of the jukebox and a few couples were dancing in the middle of the floor. Her own body began to rock in beat to the music and she laughed with glee, making John eye her suspiciously as he drained half his beer at once.
"We went dancing once, do you remember that?"
"God, that was ages ago."
"1997," she answered. "It was my birthday. You were miserable, I think, at the club with all my friends."
"Miserable's not the right word. I was just uncomfortable. You were the only one there that I knew."
"And you were the only one there I cared about at all. I only threw that party on the off chance that you would come."
He thought she was strange, but in a good way. She tugged at his sleeve and bobbed to the music some more. "Care to dance with me again?" she asked. His smile was all she needed for confirmation.
They danced with beer bottles in hand, Monica laughing gleefully, John throwing back glances at Gibson and not letting Monica drag him more than five feet away from the boy.
