The Book of Unknown Americans(56)

“With me? I’m fine. Thank you for asking.” She fidgeted while Arturo and I waited.

“Well,” she began again, “I was on my way out to the hospital one afternoon. Did you know that I volunteer there? It’s nothing, really. I change bedpans and prop up pillows and deliver lunches. Sometimes the patients mistake me for a nurse, but I tell them, please! Nurses do important work. I simply come and do chores. It’s nothing. Of course, we are all doing God’s work. That’s what I think. Even if we contribute in only small ways.” She stopped and looked at us.

“What you do is important,” I offered, even though I didn’t know where this was headed.

“Yes,” Quisqueya agreed. She reached for the water glass again, but thought better of it and drew her hand back to her lap.

“I was on my way out a few weeks ago. And you know that the Toros bought a car? I haven’t had a chance yet to ride in it myself but … oh, of course you know. They took you for a drive, didn’t they? Last week? Did you see me? On the balcony? Rafael can be so rude sometimes. And do you know that Celia never called me after that? I hardly see her anymore. It seems she always has plans with other people”—and here, Quisqueya looked pointedly at me—“so there’s never really a good time to catch her anymore. It’s such a shame. She and I used to be very close.”

Arturo looked at me, confused.

“I saw them sitting in the car together,” Quisqueya said suddenly.

“Who?” Arturo asked.

“Mayor Toro. And your daughter. They were together in the car.”

Quisqueya cast a quick glance down the hallway, then leaned toward us. “They were kissing,” she said.

“When?” I asked.

“It was a few weeks ago.”

“Kissing?” Arturo said.

“Yes, they were kissing. Mayor Toro and your daughter, Maribel.”

“You’re sure it was them?” Arturo asked.

“I’m positive. In Rafael’s car.”

When had they been in Rafael’s car? They knew the rule. They had to be here or at the Toros’ apartment.

“They spend a lot of time together,” Quisqueya said.

“They’re friends,” Arturo said. I could tell he was upset, but he didn’t want to give Quisqueya the satisfaction of knowing it.

“I think they’re more than friends.”

“Okay,” Arturo said. “Is that what you came here to tell us?”

Quisqueya looked momentarily defeated. I could see it in her face. She had been eager to deliver this news. She had been looking forward to see what impact it would make, and now that she saw that it hardly left a dent, she was disappointed.

“No,” she said slowly. “There’s more.”

When she didn’t offer anything else, sitting there with her mouth pinched, Arturo said, “And? What is it?”

“It only started with a kiss,” Quisqueya said. “But then Mayor put his hand on her leg. I could see them through the windshield. They were kissing and then Mayor leaned toward her. And he put his hand on her leg, and … it was hard to see everything they were doing, but a few minutes later when Mayor stepped out of the car, his pants were … wet.”

Arturo pushed himself back from the table and stood.

Quisqueya stopped talking, her eyes wide, her face nearly as red as her hair.

I didn’t know what to think. It was too much.

“You’re making this up,” Arturo said.

“I’m sorry,” Quisqueya said, “but I thought you should know. Especially considering …”

“Arturo, sit down,” I said.

He was pacing in small circles.

“I know how boys can be,” Quisqueya said. “Boys Mayor’s age—you can’t be too careful. Of course Celia always tells me he’s so good, but I was over there recently and you should have heard how he talked to me. Very disrespectful. If that’s how he treats me, I started to think … Well, I was worried about Maribel.”

Arturo looked at me as if to ask, Do you believe her?

I don’t know, I told him with my eyes. Maybe. I wasn’t sure, but I wasn’t ready to take any chances, either. If there was even a possibility …

“I should go now,” Quisqueya said. “Thank you for the water.” She waited, as if she expected one of us to escort her to the door. When neither Arturo nor I moved, Quisqueya walked out herself, the click of her shoes echoing down the hall.





Mayor


Late in February, my dad came home from work one night and said, “It’s over.”

I was on my way to the kitchen, but I knew enough to tell when I should stay out of his way. A few years ago Enrique and I had devised an alert system where we’d hold up a certain number of fingers to each other to indicate how far up the scale of volatility my dad was. If Enrique had been there that day, I would have rated this a level four, the second-highest possible, which meant “Radioactive. Steer clear.” The day he’d grounded me had probably been a level six, off the charts.

From the hallway, I listened as my mom scurried out to meet him. I heard muffled voices. And then, for a long minute, I heard nothing.

“Mayor, come to dinner!” my mom called. She sounded angry.