Girl in Snow(24)

When Russ told the guys on the force that Ines was staying over—he did not specify the couch—they slow-clapped and whistled. Russ assured them that Ivan had been coerced, paid for menial tasks, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Detective Williams slapped Russ’s back, sarcastic but proud. You finally did it, he said. Finally got yourself a girl. Better lock that one in, quick.

Those first months, Russ cooked for Ines every night. She loved the old carpet, how it squished between her toes. They cooked steak with brussels sprouts, or salmon and potatoes, and Russ bought bottles of Merlot, fourteen dollars each. They sipped from shiny new glasses on the couch and they talked. Ines was so pretty when she spoke, that lilting accent, lingering on the E. Her English was nearly perfect, though she often dropped the word “the” or added extra plurals. Can you please pass the chickens? She was from Guadalajara, a huge city of Gothic cathedrals, gray spindles stretching toward the sky. More than a million people, she said. She and her family had lived in Zapopan, a suburb of the city, six of them in the apartment above their father’s dental practice. She and her sisters cooked every night. Pozole—a stew with hominy and pork. Ines had gone to Universidad Autónoma de Guadalajara, and she had been teaching high-school English when Mamá had convinced her to follow Ivan to the States, because one of her father’s clients—a regular root-canal patient—worked at the consulate. Her sisters would come too, eventually. Russ never asked what she’d studied. How she’d gotten here. What she missed.

Once, Russ found Ines on the kitchen floor, covered in sourdough yeast, crying for her brother. Russ scooped Ines up and carried her to bed. She had gone slack, but not because Russ had comforted her. She was simply exhausted, and Russ was there. Still, he held her. Ines fell asleep, and Russ stroked the soft belly of her earlobe, rolling it across the surface of his thumb, that little patch of peach-fuzz flesh.

Some nights, when they’d gotten tipsy, Ines would ask about Ivan, who was adjusting slowly to life in prison. Is there anything you can do for him? she’d ask, too casual. And Russ wondered if Ines stayed not for him—though they laughed often and spoke kindly to one another—but for her brother.

Yes, he’d say. I’ll keep an eye on Ivan. I’ll make sure they don’t send him back home. A few months later, Ines’s tourist visa would run up, and Russ knew she would not go back to Guadalajara, not with Ivan locked in a cold cement cell.

Despite it all, they got along well.

On those Merlot nights, Ines would fall asleep in Russ’s lap, and he’d stroke her hair like he’d seen people do. So soft. She’d bought a new bottle of shampoo. She didn’t smell like smoke anymore. Now, eucalyptus.



They went to San Diego, because California seemed like the next-best thing to Mexico. Ines leaned against the passenger’s-side window and hummed along to the radio, while Russ adjusted the AC. They drove all sixteen hours in one day, stopping only four times for fast food and the bathroom. Ines listened intently to the radio ads, asking Russ about words she didn’t know. Liquidate? Neoprene? Indigestion?

They stayed in a Marriott Rewards hotel. Ines bought a one-piece swimsuit because she didn’t want to wear a bikini. They drank daiquiris by the hotel pool, and Ines tilted her head up. Sun breathed hot across her cheeks.

Art museums. Public parks. Three-star dinners. At a street fair, Ines made Russ try mango doused in Tajín, and Russ doubled over coughing. Ines doubled over laughing. One night, they went salsa dancing; Ines tried to teach him the steps at a crowded nightclub with overpriced drinks and sweaty, tan bicep men. Russ stepped on her feet, but Ines didn’t care. She spun around in a red skirt and shook her hips at him and Russ felt wanted. Young and desired. When the club closed down they stumbled home, Russ shirtless because of all the sweat, Ines fanning her neck with one hand as she held her hair up with the other.

They took a shower when they got back, and, wrapped in a clean white hotel robe, Ines pulled Russ on top of her.

Tell me about the people you’ve loved, she said.

I haven’t loved anyone before, Russ said, and he was certain, momentarily, that this was the truth.



They drove back to Broomsville, where the air was vacuum-sucked dry. That night, they did a load of laundry, and Ines did not go to the couch. She padded up the stairs, her small hand in Russ’s.

Russ’s sheets were nearly ten years old. He didn’t realize this until he was swollen inside her, Ines lying flat on her stomach, face buried in the pillow.

Can you breathe? Russ asked.

Yes, she said. Muffled. Russ pressed a hand to her ribcage, feeling for oxygen. Afterwards, he mopped the sheets with a Kleenex and said, Will you marry me? California hung between them, like a dream or a fruit. Pulpy and ripe. Ines rolled over. She watched the ceiling, black hair splayed across the rumpled pillow like someone underwater.

Yes, she said. All right.



A man should always keep his word, Russ’s father used to say. Your word is your dignity.

So when Detective Williams pulls Russ aside after the briefing to ask about his brother-in-law—Ivan Santos, ex-con and neighborhood idol—Russ puts on his bravest face. I know he’s family, Detective Williams says, so if anyone asks, you’ve been put on temporary probation. But we need all hands on deck here. And hey, between me and you—could Ivan have done this?