At seven, some of the homeboys I’d seen at the apartment began to arrive. They seemed ill at ease in Raymond’s presence, unaccustomed to seeing him in a sport coat and tie. Chago’s buddies had all donned specially made up black T-shirts with “In Loving Memory of Chago – R.I.P.” on the back and their own names on the front.
I sat down beside Bibianna, the two of us saying little. Occasionally someone would make eye contact, but no one talked to me. Most of the conversations taking place around me were in Spanish anyway, so I couldn’t even eavesdrop decently.
The crowd was swelling. There was no sign of either of Raymond’s brothers, but I did see three women I took to be his older sisters. They seemed remarkably similar with their large dark eyes, full mouths, perfect skin. They sat in a cluster, beautiful women in their forties, heavy and dark, looking like nuns with their black mantillas and their rosaries. They would exchange occasional comments, but not a word to Raymond, who was making an elaborate show of not giving a damn. In an unguarded moment, I saw him flick a look in their direction. I understood then that Bibianna was just another version of his sisters, exquisite and rejecting just as his mother must have been. Poor Raymond. No matter how many versions of the story he managed to create, he would never win her love and he’d never make it come out happily.
A cluster of three mourners approached Bibianna, Chicanas in their twenties, one with a baby on her hip. I got up and eased toward the door, wondering if there was any way I could get to a telephone. Before I reached the doorway, Luis appeared at my side and took my arm. I leaned close. “Do you think there’s a ladies’ room upstairs?”
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“Oh. Well, I guess it doesn’t matter then if there’s one upstairs or not.”
I sat back in my chair and glanced at my watch. It was ten after eight. I was hungry. I was bored. I was restless. I was scared. I’d been living for too long with high doses of fight-or-flight anxiety and it was making my head pound and my stomach churn. Luis stuck to me like a burr. For the next fifty minutes, I squirmed on my folding chair, crossing and uncrossing my legs, fiddling with my hair. To amuse myself, I memorized faces, just in case later I’d have to identify someone on the witness stand. Finally, at nine-twenty the dark-suited staff person assigned to our viewing room made an appearance and glanced pointedly at his watch. Raymond got the message and began to circle the room, saying good night to the last of the visitors.
On the way home, we dropped Luis off at his place. As soon as we reached the apartment, Raymond disappeared into the bedroom while Bibianna and I began to tidy up the place. It’s not like either of us cared much, but it was something to do. In the background, without being fully conscious of it, we could hear the rattle of change on the wooden chest of drawers as Raymond emptied his pockets. We tossed empty beer cans in a plastic garbage bag, dumped out laden ashtrays. Raymond emerged from the bedroom and moved into the bathroom usually designated for my use. Moments later, I heard the squeak of the faucets. Pipes began to thunder and water splashed against the shower tiles like a sudden autumn rain.
I glanced over at Bibianna. “How come he’s showering in my bathroom?”
“It’ll give him a chance to …” She made a gesture toward the crook of her left arm.
“He’s shooting up?”
It dawned on me first, the significance of the rattle of metal in the bedroom. I felt my head come up. Luis wasn’t here. There was no dog at the threshold. She caught my sharp intake of breath and looked over at me.
I said, “Jesus, what’s wrong with us?” I moved swiftly into the bedroom and grabbed the car keys off the top of the dresser where he’d dumped them. I hesitated and then jerked open the drawer with the handguns in it. The box was where I remembered it, miscellaneous ID’s under it. I lifted the lid. The SIG-Sauer was still there, along with the Mauser and the cartridges. I tucked the SIG-Sauer in my waistband. To hell with being unarmed. I’d just as soon walk naked through an airport terminal. I was back seconds later with the keys, which I tossed to her. The shower had been turned off. Deftly, I transferred the gun to my handbag. We heard the bathroom door open. “Bibianna?”
She was struggling to separate out the keys to the Caddy, attached to the ring on a circle of wire. Her hands were shaking badly, keys jingling between her fingers like castanets.
“Take the whole friggin’ thing!” I hissed. “Go!”
The telephone rang and we both jumped, in part because the sound was so unexpected. The instrument sat on the floor under the kitchen table, plugged into the wall jack. I gave her a push toward the door and snatched up the receiver. “Hello?”
On the other end of the line, a woman with a tremulous voice said, “Bibianna, thank God. Lupe told me you were back. I tried to reach you up in Santa Teresa. I’ve been at the hospital … I’ve been – ” She broke down.
“Excuse me. I’m sorry. I’m Hannah, Bibianna’s friend. Hold on a sec. She’s right here.” There was something in the woman’s tone that went beyond distress.
Bibianna had stopped midway across the room and was staring at me. I held out the receiver.
She approached like a sleepwalker. I wanted to hurry her, anxiously aware that Raymond must have heard the phone ring, too. She took the phone from me. “Hello?”
I stared at her, mesmerized.
She said, “Mom? Yes …”
Raymond appeared in the doorway, his hair still tousled where he’d toweled it in haste. “Bibianna?” He’d pulled on a pair of chinos, hands still busy with his belt buckle. I found myself checking his bare arms for the injection site. He said, “What’s going on? Who’s on the phone?”
Bibianna turned away and pressed a hand to her ear so she could hear over Raymond’s questions. A frown formed and she said, “What?” with disbelief.
The remainder of her mother’s message to her was played out on Bibianna’s face. Her eyes strayed to the wall of broken mirror tiles, plaster showing through in irregular patches where the glass had been shattered. Her lips parted and a sound escaped. She put a hand up to her cheek. Something in her expression made my stomach churn with dread.
No more than fifteen seconds had passed when Raymond strode across the room, snatched the receiver, and slammed it into the cradle. He ripped the phone cord from the jack and flung the instrument at the wall. The plastic housing cracked, splitting open to expose the internal mechanism. Bibianna’s horrified gaze jumped from the telephone to his face. “I know what you did to her. …”
“To who?”
“My mother’s in the hospital.”
Raymond hesitated, sensing from the break in her voice that he was losing control. “What I did? What’d I do?”
Bibianna’s lips moved. She was repeating a phrase … a mere murmur at first, gradually raising her voice. “You cut her face, you son of a bitch. You cut her face! You cut my mother’s face right here in this apartment! You cut her beautiful face, you son of a bitch. You bastard. …”
She flew at Raymond, her fingers curved as claws digging into his face. She plowed into him, the force of her fury driving him back against the table. One of the kitchen chairs tipped over backward with a clatter. Bibianna reached the kitchenette in two steps, caught a kitchen drawer by the handle, and gave it a yank. Raymond lunged and grabbed her from behind. He half lifted her off her feet and dragged her back, Bibianna clinging to the drawer by the handle. The whole drawer was jerked free, a jumble of utensils flying everywhere. Raymond dropped, pulling her down on top of him. She struggled, half turning, kicking at Raymond with her spike-heeled shoes, long legs flashing. He tried to punch her and missed. She caught him in the chest with a kick and I heard the “oof” as the air was knocked out of him. She torqued around to her hands and knees, scrambling back into the kitchenette, where she snatched up a butcher knife that had skittered across the kitchen floor. She swung around, bringing the knife down. Raymond’s hand shot out. He locked her wrist in an iron grip, squeezing so hard I thought he’d crush the bone. She cried out. The knife dropped. For a moment, they lay together. His body half covered hers and both were panting hard.