Jaime was delighted with his find until he noticed the brownish crust around the hinges. He put the knife carefully down on the ground, wiped his hands on his jeans and went to tell his father.
South of Boca de Rio the road met the main highway that connected San Diego and Tijuana. The two cities, so dissimilar in sight and sound and atmosphere, were bound together by geography and economics, like stepsisters with completely different backgrounds forced to live together under the same roof.
Within a matter of minutes Estivar and the station wagon were lost in the heavy flow of traffic. Leo Bishop drove in the slow lane, both hands so tight on the steering wheel that his knuckle bones seemed ready to force their way out of his skin. He was a tall thin man in his early forties. There was about him an air of defeat and bewilderment, as though all the rules he’d learned in life were, one by one, being reversed.
If Dulzura’s youth was camouflaged by fat, Leo’s age was exaggerated by years of sun and wind. His red hair was bleached to the color of sand, his face was scarred over his cheekbones and across the bridge of his nose by repeated burns. He had light green eyes which he protected from the sun by squinting, so that when he moved into the shade and his facial muscles relaxed, fine white lines appeared below and at the corners of his eyes where the ultraviolet rays hadn’t reached. These lines gave him a curiously intense expression, which made some of the Mexicans whisper about mal ojo, evil eye, and azar, bad luck.
After his wife drowned in the river the whispers increased, he had trouble with his crews, equipment broke down, frost killed the grapefruit and damaged the date palms... mal ojo... demonios del muerte. He suspected Estivar of encouraging the rumors, but he never mentioned his suspicions to Devon. She would have trouble believing that evil eyes and demons were still part of Estivar’s world.
“Devon.”
“Yes?”
“It will soon be over.”
She stirred, unbelieving. “What time is it?”
“Ten after nine.”
“Mr. Ford said nothing would be settled today. Even if he manages to question all the witnesses, there’ll still be a delay while the judge goes over the evidence. He may not announce his decision for a week, it depends on how much other work he has.”
“At least your part will be over.”
She wasn’t sure what her part was going to be. The lawyer had instructed her not only to answer questions but to volunteer information whenever she felt like it, small personal things, homely things, that would help to show Robert as he really was. “We want to make him come alive,” Ford said. He did not apologize for the ill-chosen phrase; he seemed to be testing her composure to see if it would hold up in court.
The road had turned west toward San Diego Bay. Sail boats moved gently in the water like large white butterflies that had dipped down to drink. At the edge of the bay a thin strand of beach, wet from the ebbing tide and silvered by the sun, held back the open sea.
“You’d better let me off half a block or so from the courthouse,” Devon said. “Mrs. Osborne thinks we shouldn’t be seen together.”
“Why?”
“People might talk.”
“Would that matter?”
“It would to her.”
They drove for a while without speaking. In the bay the sailboats gave way to navy vessels, the white butterflies to gray steel waterbugs with ferocious-looking antennae and weird superstructures.
“After this is over,” Leo said, “you won’t have to be quite so concerned about Agnes Osborne’s opinions. She’ll be your ex-mother-in-law. Tomorrow, the day after, next week, you’ll be a free agent.”
She repeated the phrase to herself, liking the sound of it. Widow was a word of loss and sorrow. Free agent suggested the future. “And what do free agents do, Leo?”
“They make choices.”
For Devon it had been a year without choices, a year when all decisions were made by other people. She had paid the bills Estivar told her to, signed the papers the lawyer, Ford, put in front of her, answered the questions asked by Valenzuela, the policeman, eaten what Dulzura cooked, worn what Agnes Osborne suggested.
Soon the year would be officially over and the decisions would be hers. There would be no more brown sharkskin suits, no more chorizo and scrambled eggs hidden by chili powder; Valenzuela wasn’t even on the police force any longer; after the conclusion of probate there would be no reason to see Ford; she might sell the ranch, and then Estivar, too, would become part of the past.
Ysobel leaned forward to stare at the speedometer. “So we are in a race.” Her voice was heavy with irony. “It is news to me that they hold races on the highway.”
“The speed limit is sixty-five,” Estivar said. “I have to keep up with the traffic.”
“You’d think we were going to something nice like a fiesta the way you’re in such a hurry to arrive. Mr. Bishop has more sense. He is miles behind us, and why not? He knows there’s no prize waiting at the other end.”
Estivar, who’d been in a sour mood all morning, suddenly let out a harsh, brief laugh. “You could be wrong about that.”
“Hush. Someone might hear you and start putting two and two together.”
She was not worried about Jaime, who seemed most of the time to be stone-deaf, or about Lum Wing, whose only Spanish, as far as she knew, consisted of some dirty words and a few seldom-used amenities like buenos dias.
“You should be careful to guard your tongue when Dulzura is listening,” Ysobel added. “She is a born gossip.”
Dulzura opened her mouth in exaggerated amazement. It was not true she was a gossip, born or otherwise. She told nobody nothing, mainly because in such a godforsaken place there was nobody to tell except the people who already knew. She wondered what prize could be waiting for Mr. Bishop and how much it was worth and whether she should ask young Mrs. Osborne about it.
“The little Señora,” Ysobel said more softly. “Is that what you mean by prize?”
“What else?”
“She would never marry him. He is too old.”
“There isn’t exactly a line-up at her door.”
“Not yet. She is still by law a married woman and cultivated people are very particular about such things. Just wait, after today there will be men enough, young men, too. But she’ll have none of them. She’ll sell the ranch and go back to the city.”
“How do you know?”
“I dreamt it last night. In color. When I went to the fortune teller in Boca de Rio, she said to pay strict attention to all dreams in color because good or bad they would come true... Have you been dreaming in color, Estivar?”
“No.”
“Oh well, it’s no matter. This is how it will be: the little Señora will sell the ranch and return to her own part of the country.”
“What about me?”
“The new owner will naturally be delighted to get a foreman with nearly twenty-five years of experience.”
“Was that in the dream too, about the new owner?”
“No. But maybe I didn’t watch closely enough. Tonight I will keep a sharp lookout for him standing in some corner.”
“If he looks like Bishop,” Estivar said grimly, “wake up fast.”
“Bishop has no money to buy the ranch.”
“He can marry it.”
“No, no, no. The Señora is sick of the place. She will go back to the city, like in my dream. I saw her walking between tall gray buildings, wearing a purple dress and flowers in her hair.”
Estivar’s bad mood was aggravated by the exchange with his wife. The next time Lum Wing burped, Estivar shouted at him to stop making those damned noises or get out and walk.