The Battle of Jericho by Walter Marks

Author:Walter Marks [Marks, Walter]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Top Tier Lit
Published: 2015-07-01T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 41

Soledad brought Maria into the house. There was a foyer lined with soda and snack vending machines.

Maria grimaced. Terrific. Dispensing obesity and heart disease at $1.25 a pop.

Behind the foyer Maria could see a communal kitchen, where women bustled back and forth. The scent of Central American cooking filled the air: chili, cilantro, garlic, onion, cumin, and the traditional cooking oil — lard.

On Maria’s right was a room with a flat-screen TV. A few children and older family members were watching Spanish language programming.

On the left was a large dining room, set up with bridge tables and folding chairs. It appeared most of the residents were already there, waiting for dinner.

Everything about the house was shabby and depressing; the harsh fluorescent lighting, the people in threadbare clothing, the cacophonic chatter and the din of crying babies, echoing off the dingy, graffiti-covered walls.

Soledad led Maria upstairs into the sleeping quarters. The interior walls had been torn down to create a large dormitory. Its ceiling was crisscrossed with thick wire cables, from which hung opaque plastic shower curtains. The curtains divided the dorm into small individual living spaces, providing the only privacy.

Some of the spaces were bigger and had several mattresses on the floor. “For families,” Soledad explained. “For singles — one mattress.”

They passed a small living space. An overweight, white-haired woman sat in a rickety rocking chair, knitting.

“Hola, Carmela,” Soledad said, waving at her. The woman waved back.

“Carmela good friend,” Soledad said to Maria. “She come from Guatemala long time ago. Speak good English — sometimes she teach me.”

The next space was Soledad’s. It contained a small dresser, a clothes rack, a battered easy chair, and a leather hassock with the stuffing sticking out. The mattress and pillow on the floor had a polyester quilt neatly spread over it. Soledad sat down on the hassock and offered Maria the chair.

After a few moments of silence, Maria swallowed hard and spoke. “Soledad, I have something to tell you.”

“My daughter? You have news of my Teresa?”

“Yes.”

“What…you found her?” Soledad could read the bad news in Maria’s face. “She…she’s gone?” she asked.

“Yes.”

The woman’s face went slack. “Teresa…gone…” She made the sign of the cross. “Ay, mi niña que descansa en paz.”

She looked at Maria for a long moment. “Digame,” Soledad whispered. “Tell me.”

“We…we found her remains in the ocean, in a plastic bag.”

“Remains?”

Maria nodded.

“¿Qué es esto, ‘remains’?”

“It’s…what’s left when someone dies,” Maria said. “She was…shot.”

“Shot?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

“¡Ay, mi Dios!…You sure, you sure it is my Teresa?”

Maria took out the evidence bag containing the victim’s Lady of Guadalupe pendant necklace. “You recognize this?”

Soledad let out a scream of gut-wrenching agony. Then she began to shout. “¡Ay, mi dios! Sí, sí…es de mi hija.”

“Querida, estoy tan triste,” Maria said, trying to console her.

The woman from next door rushed in. “Soledad…¿que pasa?”

“Teresa — ella está muerta,” Soledad said, sniffling. “Está muerta!”

Carmela knelt beside her friend and hugged her. Then she pointed at Maria. “¿Ella le dijo?”

“Sí,” Maria said.

“¿Policia?”

“…Sí,” Maria answered. “Pero…”

“She’s okay,” Soledad whispered to Carmela. “She’s Chicana — you can trust her.

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