Woman of Light (66)
Natalya told them she’d get to work on modifying a simple lace dress, fitting it with netted sleeves. Of course, Lizette didn’t take into consideration that Luz would nearly die of heatstroke in the middle of summer wearing such a concealing dress. There were certain battles Luz knew not to pick, and which dress she wore to her cousin’s wedding didn’t seem like a place to wage war.
“What’s wrong with you?” Lizette asked. They had left the dressmaker’s and were on their way to the streetcar. The city was ripe with heat, pulsating with the stench of grease and rotten fruit. “Do you hate the dress? I mean, you don’t need to be completely covered, but the church demands it and you know how strict those old priests can be. And don’t get me started on the nuns. I won’t even look their way.”
“No,” Luz said, “I’m just nervous.”
“About what?” said Lizette, yanking gently on Luz’s hair.
In the shadow of a shoemaker’s shop, they walked past a group of children who were hunched together in a circle blasting marbles. One of the boys, a pudgy kid with dark skin and freckles, flicked his ball bearing and howled like a little coyote. At their streetcar stop, Luz positioned herself against a brick wall, facing traffic.
Lizette stood before her, both hands on her hips. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“I know I’m supposed to feel happy,” said Luz, “being engaged now, but I don’t feel any way. I haven’t even told anyone else.”
Lizette shook her head. “Luz, you got to tell Maria Josie.”
Luz looked away, ashamed. “How did you know? How could you tell Alfonso was the right one?”
“He’s good to me. He’s kind. He makes me laugh. He has a job.” Lizette stepped beside Luz in the shadows and reached for her left hand. “That’s all you need, really.”
“But what about true love?” asked Luz.
Lizette scanned the crowded summer streets. “True love isn’t real, not for girls like us at least. You know who the world treats worse than girls like us? Girls who are alone.”
* * *
—
After getting off alone at her streetcar stop, Luz strolled the city, taking note of the red geraniums hanging in clay pots from balcony windows. There were the chorus sounds of patio parties, a dog’s distant bark. Luz eyed those on evening walks, young couples holding hands, a little boy with a yo-yo, an old woman pushing a cart filled with rusted cans. Luz crossed Eighteenth and headed for Hornet Moon, but she took a long way home, running her fingers through yellow wheat growing in a neighborhood lot. A moment of rest, time with the quiet of the world.
As she continued walking, Luz remembered one morning when her father had woken her up before his shift in the mines. Normally, she had to share his affection with her mother and Diego, but on this morning no one else was awake. Good morning, beautiful girl, her father had said in English and then changed into a song in French. Luz didn’t know his language. He didn’t share it enough for his children to learn. He took her hands and held them to his chest. Luz could feel the way his body trembled with each note, the long tenor in his lungs, the sonorous tremor of his ribs. What does it mean, Papa? she had asked. It means, you are my light, my world, he said. And in that moment of early morning, their household asleep, Luz felt like the most important girl in the world, and she wondered if someday when she found her one true love, would he make her feel that way, too. But the feeling was fleeting, and soon her father was gone.
Luz blinked into the fading sunlight of Denver’s evening. She glimpsed David’s Chevy slowly parking in front of Hornet Moon. He did not see her and ran from the car after slamming his door. She approached him from behind, studied the way he sprinted toward the front entrance.
“David,” she said, as he was searching the ground, presumably for pebbles to toss at her window.
He turned around at once, and stood there, silent and looming, their eyes locked in some kind of embrace. He snapped into motion, held the newspaper high. Luz didn’t need to search the page very long because there, as the evening headline in bold, was the news: DENVER TO OPEN GRAND JURY INVESTIGATION INTO ESTEVAN RUIZ’S DEATH.
“Put on something nice,” David said. “I’m taking you to dinner.”
* * *
—
The Brown Palace’s grandeur was a shock. The triangular stone building was nine stories high, ending in a ceiling that dazzled in shards of glass. Black onyx filigree railings lined center balconies. Lilies rested in waterfall vases. A white man played a grand piano before a massive fireplace. Wealthy Anglo guests carried on in expensive suits and elegant summer dresses. In red velvet uniforms, bellhops bowed and thanked and bowed some more.
“Where the World Registers,” David said, pointing to the lobby’s sign. He then motioned for Luz to follow him as a young Filipino waiter showed them to their seats in the dining room—a far corner, as requested.
After they were seated and had ordered their meal, Luz was embarrassed that she was sweating with nervousness. She sniffed the air, making sure she couldn’t detect her own odor. Roses, she thought, and found flowers behind her on a mantel. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” she said.
“I figured you hadn’t been inside before,” David said. “It’s the most magnificent hotel in the West. Every president since Teddy has stayed here. Actresses. Politicians.” David leaned across the table, lowering his voice. “They say there are tunnels beneath it.”