“Now we pass inspection,
si?
” Lupe’s anxiety furrowed her brow.
“
Si.
” The doors wouldn’t have been critical enough for the county inspector to hold up their certificate of occupancy any longer, but at this point Gena wasn’t taking chances.
After weeks of setbacks ranging from screwups by a lowlife electrician to theft of construction supplies— including the kitchen appliances—it finally appeared the tides had indeed turned.
The first inkling of change had coincided with a visit by delegates of the Sugar Springs Garden Club, who had wanted to take on the shelter’s landscaping as a group project. When the club’s committee learned of the shelter’s other problems, they’d donated funds to have the structure properly rewired.
Then they went a step further and convinced a local business to donate replacement appliances.
The shelter residents, currently living in a ramshackle building on Eleventh Street, had prepared a thank-you luncheon, which in turn created a bond between the two organizations.
Helen Newton, the shelter’s founder and longtime director, had high hopes for an increased sense of tolerance within the community at large—especially since the Garden Club’s president was married to one of the county politicians who viewed the battered women’s shelter as a necessary evil, something to be hidden in the worst part of town and forgotten.
To Gena it was a familiar sentiment. A fourth-generation Texan, she’d grown up in the lush Rio Grande valley and knew all about the love/hate relationship between the haves and have-nots. For decades the area’s citrus and agriculture barons, including Gena’s late father, relied on the largely Hispanic migrant population to work fields and harvest crops. Though the barons’ wealth depended on the migrants, the barons preferred that the
help
live elsewhere.
Many of the old-school prejudices had faded as the ethnic make-up of power had shifted. But not all. Power had a dark underbelly that superseded race, creed, and religion.
Overall, in the four years since Gena had returned to Sugar Springs, she’d witnessed mostly progress. There was still a divide between rich and poor, but the majority of prominent families and business owners—the new haves—were Hispanic.
Even the plight of the have-nots had brightened.
St. Anne’s Church had opened a day care center for low-income individuals, allowing some migrant workers to seek other lines of work. The farm workers had stronger labor unions.
Unfortunately, while working conditions in the fields had steadily improved, the poverty levels hadn’t, particularly for illegal aliens. Tougher immigration laws made it harder for undocumented workers to earn money but did little to check the flow of people sneaking across the border.
Like Lupe.
Barely eighteen, Lupe looked like a weary forty-year-old. That was ten years older than Gena! Alcohol and physical abuse were only part of the tough life that had prematurely aged Lupe.
Gena watched as the young woman bent to retrieve paint cans before limping toward the staircase. Both of Lupe’s feet had been broken by her husband when she’d tried to run away after a beating. The bones hadn’t healed properly, and as an “illegal” Lupe risked deportation if she sought medical assistance in the U.S.
It was a too common tragedy and eventually prompted Helen’s “Don’t ask, don’t tell” policy at the shelter. Helen was careful not to hire undocumented workers, but her nonprofit shelter turned away no one in need. Unlike the place Gena had once turned to.
Don’t go there.
After loosening the buckle on her tool belt, Gena gathered up the packaging from the door hardware and made her way down the hall. She made a mental note to replace a cracked light switch cover near
the bathroom. Ditto the caulking around one of the sinks.
Though not a licensed contractor herself, Gena had worked with Vianca for over three years and could do anything required on a site. Gena had kind of fallen into the profession by virtue of the fact she had desperately needed a job and her skills as a translator hadn’t been in high demand in Sugar Springs. As it turned out, however, she loved construction.
Vi had insisted Gena learn every aspect, too.
“Noth-ing heals the soul like hard work.”
A stranger to physical labor and completely inept with any tool more complex than a desk stapler, Gena had been surprised to learn that sweat and hard work kept her demons at bay. Her soul had indeed flourished in the process.
Thanks, Vi.
Near the bottom of the staircase, Gena paused to admire the tiled entry. From this viewpoint, the intricate mosaic design appeared upside down. But to anyone crossing the threshold, the scene from the Nativity was a message: there was always room at the inn.
Vi had begun that particular project, but in the end Gena had been the one to finish it. Giving the angel above the manger Vi’s dark hair and brown eyes had been Gena’s private tribute to her friend.
She made her way toward the back porch off the kitchen, where they’d moved the excess supplies. Next on Gena’s agenda was painting the family room.
“What are you doing?” Gena asked Lupe when she reached the kitchen.
The young woman was balanced precariously on a three-legged stool in front of the sink. She held out
what looked like a dirty white feather hanging by a piece of black thread.
“My
abuela
did this to keep away evil.” Lupe turned back and proceeded to wrap the thread around the window latch above the sink.
“A chicken feather?”
“A special chicken feather.” Lupe’s tone was reverent. “The bird must watch its own body be severed from its head. The blood sprinkled from its neck ties the chicken’s spirit to the feathers and keeps evil spirits away.”
As superstitions went, this one was mild. Gena had heard of much worse. Still she tread carefully. “And did your
abuela’
s feathers ever protect you?”
Lupe shrugged. “She said not everyone deserves protection. But you do. This place does. Now if those vandals return tonight—”
“They will find me waiting.” Gena carried her tools to the back door and laid them on the floor, not wanting to admit she had her own superstitions. They were literally hours away from opening and she wasn’t about to leave anything else to fate. “I’m spending the night here.”
“There are no beds!”
“I’ll sleep in my car.” Actually, Gena doubted she’d get any sleep. In addition to painting, there was a punch list of odds and ends, like installing the closet shelves in the pantry and towel racks in the bathrooms.
“But—”
“The inspector and contractor are due here at seven.” One of Vianca’s cousins, also a licensed contractor, had stepped in at Vi’s death. Even though
Gena and a two-man crew did all the work, the job required a licensed contractor for permitting.
Luckily, Vi had framed out the entire building before her death. Finishing it hadn’t been easy, but without a doubt, the lioness’s share of the work had already been done.
Gena opened the cooler sitting on the floor and fished out two cans of soda. “The city clerk’s office opens at nine. With luck, we can start moving furniture at ten.” She opened both cans and handed one to Lupe. “I say we take a break and propose a toast to our hard work. To new beginnings.”
Lupe mimicked Gena and clinked her can. “I am supposed to repeat your words,
si?
To new beginnings.”
“You learn fast.” Gena took a swig of the icy cola.
Lupe frowned at the can in her hand. “I am confused. How can you toast without alcohol?”
Realizing her gaffe, Gena started formulating an apology. Lupe had been struggling to remain sober, one of the requirements for staying at the shelter.
Gena recalled her own battle, how in those early days of sobriety it seemed everything was a reminder. A test. Beer commercials on television seemed like personal taunts. What’s one little drink among friends at social gatherings?
“You can do anything without alcohol, Lupe. Still, my proposing a toast was insensitive. I’m sorry.”
“You? Insensitive? Bah!” Lupe pushed her bangs to one side, still frowning. “Can I ask a personal question?”
As a general rule, Gena disliked personal questions. This was penance, however. “Sure. What do you want to know?”
“Do you ever get tempted? It’s so hard sometimes.”
“Yes. I am still tempted. I will always be tempted to drink. But I don’t give in. I know in the early days AA meetings were my lifeline.”
“Oh, um.
Si.
”
Gena sensed the slight withdrawal, and realized her response hadn’t hit the mark. “Is something else wrong?”
Lupe’s eyes watered as she nodded. “I talked to my
abuela
today. Carlos came by to see her.”
“Your husband? He’s returned to Mexico?” Gena knew Lupe’s grandmother still lived south of the border and suffered poor health. “Are you worried he’ll harm her?”
“No! He gave her some money and asked her to give me a message. He said he’s changed. That he really loves me. Even with my shortcomings! I want to believe that and yet …”
A warning signal pinged inside Gena’s skull. Lupe’s current temptation wasn’t with the bottle. Her battle went straight to the heart—after detouring through Lupe’s low self-esteem.
All my shortcomings.
Lupe believed she wasn’t worthy of better treatment. To her, bad love was better than no love.
“How many times in the past has Carlos promised to change?” Gena asked.
Lupe wiped her tears against her sleeve. “Too many. That’s when I get tempted to drink. When I get … lonely. I’m just not strong, like you.”
“I wasn’t always strong, Lupe. I had to learn to be.”
“But you said you really loved him.”
Him.
The warning ping inside Gena’s head grew louder. In addition to her construction job, Gena volunteered one day a week at the shelter.
At Helen’s behest, all shelter volunteers took turns
participating in group counseling meetings to encourage the residents. While Gena had grown comfortable discussing her personal battle with alcoholism, her own experience with “bad love”wasverboten and she’d shared very few details about her own miserable marriage.
“You don’t ever think of going back to him?” Lupe pressed. “Or wish it was different?”
By him,
Lupe referred to Gena’s ex-husband. If only bad love were that simple.
“I suppose it’s human nature to wish some things were different,” Gena began. But not with Harry.
Never with Harry.
Even if he were alive.
Now, Rocco … A vision of him popped into her mind. The forbidden one. Tall, tanned, rising up naked from an ocean wave like a mythical god. And how many other women shared that same vision of Rocco? Scores? Or just a few dozen? Gena shook her head. She
so
wasn’t going there.
“We can’t change history. It’s better to face forward.” Another thing Gena usually avoided was platitudes. Right now she grabbed for them, eager to change the subject. “The future lies ahead, not behind.”
Lupe’s gaze drifted to the digital clock on the microwave. “
¡Ay caramba!”
She shoved her soda can aside, suddenly panicked. “I’m late!”
“Don’t ask” meant Gena couldn’t acknowledge that she knew Lupe worked graveyard shift with a cleaning crew at the fertilizer plant in the next county. Like many undocumented workers, Lupe worked filthy, dangerous jobs for a pittance under the table. A pittance that was largely split between overpriced telephone calls to her grandmother in Mexico and
wire transfers that were the old woman’s only source of income.
“You’ll be okay?” Gena asked. “With your temptation?”
“For today. Tomorrow?” Lupe shrugged and waved farewell.
“That is enough.” Gena bit back another platitude.
One day at a time.
The house seemed abnormally quiet with Lupe gone. The quartet of uninvited crickets that had infiltrated the back porch started to chirp.
Great! Bugs for company. Gena crossed the room and plugged in the ancient radio sitting on the far counter. The only good thing about the analog monstrosity was that thieves ignored it.
She twisted the tuning dial but heard nothing until she smacked the case. Then static came over the speakers. She spun the dial until she found an AM Spanish-language station. Having grown up bilingual, thanks to a Mexican nanny, Gena understood the lyrics even if she didn’t like the fifties music genre.
Right now she just wanted to drown out the crickets. Turning, Gena paused midstep. From this angle, she saw the entire kitchen and realized how hard Lupe had worked earlier to clean it. The grimy layer of construction dirt was gone. The floors gleamed, the appliances sparkled. Even the windows had been polished.
For the first time, Gena could envision the room decorated. Curtains—no, plantation blinds—at the windows. Maybe some potted herbs on the sill. Women and children would gather at the table sharing food. Sharing hope.
Her eyes watered. God, she wished Vianca were
there to see it all finished. She’d be so proud. With ten bedrooms and dorms, it doubled the existing shelter’s capacity.
And Vi wouldn’t have rested on her laurels for long. “After this project wraps, I want to look into re-habbing the old shelter,” Vianca had said with her usual verve. “I’ll need your help with that, too. Just to get started. Then you can leave.”
Vi knew Gena had never intended to stay in Sugar Springs. It had been a place for her to hide and heal after hitting rock bottom. Already Gena had remained longer than planned. Over three years longer. Finishing this project was a huge turning point in her life.
Wandering around the kitchen, Gena ran a hand along the smooth Formica countertop, enjoying her sense of accomplishment. Who would have guessed that the spoiled, multititled beauty-queen daughter of the once powerful Jefferson Armstrong—the same girl who couldn’t wait to flee the citrus belt of southern Texas—would have returned to champion the same poor people her father had once exploited?
Darn it, she was pretty proud of herself.
“We did it, Vi,” Gena whispered.
You did it. You kept your word. You saw it through for both of us.