When Tito Loved Clara (27 page)

“Yes,” she said, her eyes coming into focus and her face coming to life. She accepted it from him, apparently unconcerned about how it had been transported back to her. “I can't believe you found this. It is a special object for me, especially in light of recent events.” She held it against her bony chest and smiled wryly at him. “I need a drink,” she said. “Would you care to join me? It has been a long day.”

“Sure.”

“I have Scotch or rum. Which would you prefer?”

It seemed like a loaded question. “Scotch,” he said, still hoping to make a good impression.

“Ice?”

“Yes.”

“Sit, sit,” she said. They were in the living room, and outside, it was already dark—the dark seeming to come fifteen minutes earlier every night, as if they were accelerating into the colder months of the year. He heard her snapping open metal ice trays in the kitchen and thought what an old-fashioned sound it was. Everyone had ice makers these days. When she returned, she carried two glasses and a fancy-looking bottle with a castle on its label and a long name in Gothic script. Glen something. She had slipped the bangle on her wrist. It looked like a bangle should—loose and mobile. On the girl, it had been tight as a handcuff.

Ms. Almonte sat down opposite him and filled each of the glasses with a good slug. The little piles of ice popped and collapsed. “My husband introduced me to this whiskey. He took me to the place where it is distilled. It tastes like the earth—in a good way, peaty. Like the earth distilled into a nectar.” She handed him a glass and then chimed the top of hers against the base of his. “
Santé,
” she said.

“
Salud,
” he said, and took a sip. Well, it was strong, anyway.

“So, tell me how you found it. My bangle. I must admit, I had written it off. Consigned it to the abyss. I didn't think you'd be able to track it down. Certainly not so fast, anyway.”

“A little bit of detective work,” he said, hoping to keep it at that. “But something weird happened. While I was looking for this bangle, I found Clara.”

“Clara Lugo?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“In New Jersey.”

“So close. All this time. Where in New Jersey? Don't tell me Oradell.”

“No. A town called Millwood.”

“Where's that?”

“Near Newark. Essex County.”

“Oh, we never went down there much. Have you spoken to her?”

“No, not yet.”

“You know for sure it's her?”

“Yes. It's definitely Clara. I hope later this week I can talk to her. I haven't figured it out yet, but there's some kind of connection between Clara and Raúl—the mover who stole the bracelet.”

“They're not—”

“No,” said Tito. “Nothing like that. She's married to a white guy as far as I can tell.”

Ms. Almonte nodded, as if this was to be expected. “Children?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“I'm not sure yet. I think two—a boy about six and a teenage girl.”

“Really?” said Ms. Almonte. “A teenager?”

“Yes. Why?”

Ms. Almonte appeared to think for a minute. “So she must have kept it.”

“Uh—yes,” Tito said, not knowing what she meant.

“It all makes sense now.”

“What makes sense?” said Tito. “The last time I saw Clara—right before she went off to college—she was pregnant. It was you, wasn't it? All this time I wondered who it was. Mr. Moreno, that girl is your daughter, isn't she?”

Tito said nothing. The witch was fucking with him. Had to be.

“She said she was going to put it up for adoption. That can't have been an easy decision for the two of you. But Clara must
have changed her mind. She must have kept it. How old would she be now? Sixteen?” Ms. Almonte was nodding, thinking to herself, not really paying attention to Tito, who was struggling to keep his composure. He swirled the shrinking ice around his glass and took a long sip.

“Yes,” he said. “Sixteen.”

“I'm sorry,” she said, looking at him again. “I see that I'm upsetting you. I didn't mean to do that. It must be difficult to keep a relationship going when a thing like that happens. My husband and I never had children, but I can imagine how trying it must have been for two young people. I hope that you and Clara can reconnect. I'd very much like to know how she is doing now.”

Tito nodded. His head was throbbing.

Ms. Almonte continued. “If that girl is your daughter, you should get to know her. You could bring Clara to my mother's wake on Saturday. A number of my former colleagues from Kennedy will be there.”

“I don't know” was all Tito could manage to say.

“Tell her I'd love to see her again. And even if she doesn't come, I hope you will. It's going to be held here. Two o'clock.”

W
HAT WAS GOING
on? Tito had the sense that he'd been caught in some kind of dimensional current or temporal field, towed away from the real into some strange netherworld of past and present, desires and failures, dreams and disappointments. These happenings were exceeding the imaginary life in which he had taken refuge all these years. They were inconsistent with his expectations, which had shrunk in inverse proportion to his hopes. That, maybe, was the one way to know that these things were actually happening—the certainty that, even in his trippiest daydreams, he could not have made this shit up. A daughter? Clara pregnant? His child alive in the world? Is that why Clara had disappeared?
Because of the pregnancy? It was all clicking together. Instead of fighting it, he was starting to think that he should just surrender to it, go for broke, accept that these things were happening to him. Yet a certain caution prevailed. He needed a little more information, a little more
Clarafication,
he thought, chuckling to himself, on the verge of losing his mind.

He went back to the school the next day to wait for the girl—he didn't quite want to call her “my daughter” just yet—but she did not show up. Probably avoiding him, he thought. And who could blame her? Again he had the déjà vu feeling of looking for Clara and not for this girl who might be his daughter. The following day he waited at the back entrance to the school, which gave out onto the ball fields and parking lots. Again, the bell rang at two-forty-five and, after a long moment, the doors opened and the building emptied. Half-hidden behind a tree, he watched her: the same slow pace, same hooded sweatshirt. He could pick her out anywhere now, he thought.

“Hi,” he said.

“You again? I'm going to scream.” She pulled the hood down and removed the earphones. Her skin looked as if it had been brushed with a thin coat of whitewash.

“Are you OK?” Tito asked.

“No, I feel like shit,” said the girl. Her hand went to her abdomen, which even in the loose-fitting sweatshirt appeared engorged.

“I've got something to ask you,” Tito said.

“What?”

“How old are you?”

“I'm sixteen,” she said.

He nodded. “I think I am your father,” he said.

“What?”

“Yes.”

“You're crazy. My father lives in Florida.”

“Are you sure that's your father?”

“Of course I'm sure.”

“Your mother's name is Clara Lugo, isn't it?”

“No. That's my
tía.
”

“Your
tía
? Are you Efran Lugo's daughter?”

“Efran Lugo? I never heard of him. No. My mother's name is Yunis Martínez.”

They were standing in the middle of a soccer field with the girl's peers going past, nobody giving them much notice. He felt every-thing crumbling. What a fool he'd been. The sister. Of course. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm very sorry. I must have made a mistake.”

“What kind of crazy shit are you on?”

“It was a mistake. I'm sorry. But I really need to speak to Clara. She can explain everything. Will you ask her if she'll meet me?”

“Tía Clara? Weren't you looking for Raúl the last time? You're really starting to confuse me, mister.”

“I know. I guess I'm confused, too. I
was
looking for Raúl. I was. But now I'm looking for Clara.”

“Why do you need to talk to my
tía
?” Her tone had changed. Now that she was no longer the subject of his questioning, she seemed more assertive. Assertive and a little amused.

“It's complicated, but—” He stopped and took a breath.

“You should know, I talked to Raúl last night.”

“You did?”

“But you're not looking for him anymore, right?”

“Right.”

“I ain't telling you where he is, anyway. You know what he told me?”

“No.”

“He said you were OK. But you're too nice. He said he knew you wouldn't do shit to him. Or to me. He told me you still live with your parents.”

“Not anymore.”

“So, come on, Mr. Nice. How do you know my
tía
?”

“She and I went to Kennedy High School together and, for a little while, anyway, she was my girlfriend.”

“She's married, you know.”

“I know, I know.”

The girl clutched at her midsection and winced. “Ow. Shit. You got a car?”

“Yes.”

“You give me ride?
Coño,
I'm going to throw up.”

“Sure. Are you OK?”

“Please, if you give me a ride, I'll talk to my
tía
.”

“My car's parked over there,” he said, indicating a side street at the end of the ball field. “Are you OK to walk?” He didn't want to leave her now.

“Yes.”

“What's the matter?”

“Stomach,” she said. “I barfed this morning and I feel like I'm going to do it again.”

“You eat something bad?” he asked.

“Yeah, maybe,” she said.

They made their way slowly across the grass and into the neigh-boring streets. Tito took her backpack, which felt like it held a couple of encyclopedias, and, with a free hand, cupped her elbow. She didn't seem to mind and made it all the way without vomiting.

At the car, she appeared to reconsider, looking at him and then at the passenger-side door, which he was holding open.

“You ain't gonna try nothing, right?”

He raised an eyebrow to indicate that the question was not worth answering.

She winced. “All right. We better hurry. God, why do I feel so shitty?”

He let her give him the directions back to Clara's house, did his best not to anticipate her next command.

“Stop here,” she said, and he brought the car to a halt right in front of the house. Before the girl could open her door, a silver minivan swung around them and pulled into the driveway.

“There they are,” she said. “Tía Clara and Tío Thomas. You want to talk to them now?”

“No, you talk to Clara first.”

“Oh, I get it, you don't want her husband around.” She smiled at him.

“Something like that,” he admitted.

“Thanks for the ride. I don't think I could have walked.”

“
De nada,
” Tito said. “There's just one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“What's your name?”

“Deysei,” she said.

“Deysei what?”

“Deysei Reyes,” she said, and got out of the car.

Tito watched her walk up the drive toward Clara, who was being helped out of the minivan by her cheating husband.
Thomas.
Before Deysei reached them, Tito released the emergency brake and pulled away, accelerating down the street like the driver of a getaway car deserting his partner inside the bank.

Clara was out in the backyard. The previous owner of their house had constructed a stone gazebo in the stretch of grass beyond the patio, and Clara, whenever she got the chance, liked to retreat there, especially at the end of the day, with a drink, for a few minutes, and enjoy the fact that she owned a gazebo. It was a sultry Thursday evening in early September and in a few minutes she would have to go into the kitchen and prepare dinner. Guillermo was downstairs watching cartoons; Deysei was upstairs in her room; Thomas had left before she got home, heading to D.C. for his interview the next day. Clara had the cordless with her and a glass of wine. She slipped Tito's business card out of her pocket: Cruz Brothers, with the
Z
enlarged and made into a lightning bolt. She had been haunted by the logo for years. Whenever she saw one of the Cruz Brothers' trucks, she would feel a constriction in her chest. On the first and last days of the month, especially in the summer, nearly every building in Inwood had a van, pickup, or U-Haul parked out front and a string of put-upon-looking youths standing amid an assortment of boxes and furniture on the sidewalk and discussing the order in which things should be packed. The neighborhood looked like a giant stoop sale, or a mass eviction. Mixed in among the do-it-yourselfers, in their rented Ryders and U-Hauls, there were always a couple of professional units, or semi-professional—Moishe's, Student Movers, Schleppers, and Cruz Brothers. This was during the period after college, before Clara had
met Thomas, the period when she was living in the studio in Morningside Heights but spending many evenings on Cooper Street, helping Yunis raise Deysei, often babysitting for Deysei so that Yunis could go out on dates. Friday nights after work, she would buy Chinese on Broadway and pick up a bottle of white zinfandel at PJ's Liquor Warehouse and then make her way over to the apartment, threading a path through all the furniture and boxes. Another week gone. If she saw a Cruz Brothers truck, she would cross the street just in case Tito was still working for them, just in case he might be coming down one of those stainless steel ramps carrying a television set. By then, she was more worried about running into him than she was about running into her father.

A few years later, when she moved to Queens with Thomas, she sometimes saw the trucks in traffic on the Triboro Bridge or Astoria Boulevard. The brothers had expanded their business out of upper Manhattan and the Bronx. Now they served all five boroughs, Yonkers, and northern New Jersey. They'd started advertising in the subway and on the sides of buses.
Put your move on Cruz control
. By then, almost a decade had passed since the summer of Tito. He must have moved on, too, no pun intended. She imagined him taking over his father's building or working for the MTA, married, children of his own. She'd seen the trucks less often since the move to Millwood, but every now and then, one would cross her path on the turnpike or the George Washington Bridge, an emissary from her past. The trucks and their lightning-bolt logo no longer elicited the jolt of anxiety that they once had, for she was convinced that by now, there was no way Tito would still be working for them. How blissful had been her ignorance! All this time, Tito could have been in any one of those trucks, sitting in the driver's seat, looking down on her in her little Honda, honking, driving her off the road.