Woman of Light (39)

“Have you ever had any schooling? I mean, besides the Opportunity School.” David moved on to another filing cabinet. He stepped with ease, but his face pulled with a look of agitation, as if he wasn’t finding what he was looking for.

Luz said, “Just to grade four at the schoolhouse in the Lost Territory.”

“It’s a shame there isn’t a greater drive for smart girls like you to go on in school.”

Luz moved her index finger along her forehead, as if to scratch an itch. She didn’t agree with David. Luz knew she had spent her life learning. All the women she knew had. Lizette could sew an entire dress from a pattern she’d glimpsed only once. Teresita could heal someone as good as any doctor. And Maria Josie’s physical strength mirrored her abundant and steady mind. David had no idea what Luz had taught herself in the time since she and Diego had arrived in Denver. A whole new city, a map in her mind. Luz could speak two languages, and sometimes, without knowing how or why, she dreamed and understood another language, too, something older. When she first learned to read tea leaves, Luz’s mother told her that there was one every generation, a seer who keeps the stories. She had learned that, too, and still was.

Luz only said, “Maybe I’ll go back someday. To school.”

David repeated this word maybe, like his voice was a dinner bell. He had turned around and grinned at her over a stack of papers in his arms. He had pulled documents from a bottom drawer, which he plopped onto Luz’s desk, the stack shifting into a wayward tower. “This statement in Spanish,” David said, tapping the top slip of paper, “can you please transcribe it into English? It’s not very long. I understand some of it, but not all.” He then explained that he needed to leave early for a community meeting. “Don’t work too hard,” he said, swinging his coat over his shoulders.

Luz spent the afternoon typing documents on client meetings, billing notifications, and other scraps of casework. As she worked her way through the ledger, she saw Eleanor Anne’s name, and she made a note to ask him about it later. She then studied the slip of paper she was to translate. It was written in fine cursive, a steady hand, delicate black ink with the letters CR at the signature. Luz was used to moving words into words. She had been doing it since she was a little girl, but there was something about the way the writing made her feel, as if the letters themselves were weeping. As she typed, Luz found herself crying. Quiet at first, then building into staccato sobs. At one point, Luz dripped tears onto the page and had to blow it dry. It was a letter written by Celia Ruiz, the older sister of Estevan Ruiz, the young man found dead in the freight car.

Since my brother’s life was so viciously taken, Mama does nothing but sleep. Our father is gone and has been for many years—killed in a mining explosion where they only recovered his left hand, the simple wedding ring intact. It goes without saying that Estevan provided for our family. I am not yet married, and I fear the things I will be forced to do in order to feed myself and Mama. And if they ever read this, the men who murdered my brother, officers of the law, those who claim to protect us, I have a message for you. My brother Estevan was not a worthless body to discard as trash. He was a man, a big brother, a son. His heart was gentle and good. He made coffee every morning, a little extra for Mama and me. He learned to bake cakes for our birthdays, and he was a beautiful artist, a real talent with his pictures of mountains and faces. This pain, the absence of his life, it is unnatural, it goes against God’s will. I am embarrassed that I have prayed for the dead to come back to life. Please God, I have begged, give me back my brother, let me visit my father, give me a moment of their joy. But my prayers are never answered and I am so angry with God that I am ashamed of myself. And you, the men who murdered my brother? You face nothing, no judgment, no consequences for killing. I wonder if you even can feel the sickness in your souls?



When she finished, Luz read the statement aloud and squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to see the pool of blood spreading from the pictures in her mind into the room before her.



* * *



—

That night after work, Luz met Avel at the Emerald Room for Tuesday Night Open Mic. Avel hoped some of the local musicians might hear him play and invite him into their bands. Luz liked the idea because she could read leaves there. The owner was a flighty older woman from the Midwest named Lady Red who encouraged audience participation and, during late-night shows, varying levels of public nudity. Of course, the Emerald Room was often cited by police, and several times a month, without warning, was closed until Lady Red paid the bribe.

The club’s ceiling was a vast atrium, a sky of glass. Luz had been offered a corner booth where Avel sat beside her, shining his trumpet with his red handkerchief. He looked handsome in a yellow shirt. He smelled good, too, a scent like autumn when some of the leaves are scattered around the streets.

“Are you nervous?” she asked, and Avel shook his head, moved close.

“I only get nervous when I have to speak. But play music? I can do that all night.”

A young woman approached the booth then, a nickel between her forefinger and thumb.

“A customer,” Avel shouted and sprang from his seat, kissing Luz on the forehead. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

Luz smiled at the young woman and began fixing her tea. Avel’s name was called, and Luz watched as he confidently walked to the stage, next in line, his trumpet glinting with bluish light. They had been on several dates since their time at Teatro Oso—a picnic in the mountains, a picture at the Santa Fe, walks alongside the river at sunset. The first time Avel had kissed Luz, a rainbow trout leapt from the water and smacked against a boulder before flopping into the foam line. Luz gasped and Avel figured the breathlessness was for him, or at least that’s what she let him believe.