Cecelia Grijalva nodded, her eyes wide open like those of a frightened horse, her knees knocking together under her skirt. Joanna closed her own eyes. How could the people from MAVEN justify exploiting a child that way, using her personal tragedy to make what was ultimately a political statement? On the other hand, Joanna had to admit no one seemed to be forcing the frightened little girl to appear on the stage.
“I have a little brother,” Cecelia whispered, while people in the audience held their breath in an effort to hear her. “Pablo’s only six—a baby really. Pepe keeps asking me how come our mom went away to wash clothes and didn’t come back. At night sometimes, when it’s time for him to go to to sleep, he cries because he’s afraid I’ll go away, too. I tell him I won’t, that I’ll be there in the morning when he wakes up, but he cries anyway, and I can’t him make stop. That’s all.”
Ceci’s simple eloquence, her careful concentration as she lit her candle, wrung Joanna’s heart right along with everyone else’s. When will this be over? she wondered. How much more can the people in this audience take?
While Joe Duffy and his granddaughter limped slowly across the stage to two of the last three unoccupied seats in the row of chairs reserved for family members, Matilda Hirales-Steinowitz stepped to the microphone once again. “The latest victim, number sixteen, is Rhonda Weaver Norton, thirty, who died sometime last week.”
Matilda moved away from the mike. Yet another mourner—a tall, silver-haired woman in an elegant black dress—glided to the podium. “My name is Lael Weaver Gastone,” she said. “The man who was my son-in-law murdered my daughter, Rhonda. I’m tired of killers having all the rights. I’ve been told that Rhonda’s killer is innocent until proven guilty. Everyone is all concerned about protecting his rights—the right of the accused. Who will stand up for the rights of my daughter?
The man who was here a moment ago, Mr. Duffy, is lucky. At least he has two grandchildren to remember his daughter by. I have nothing—nothing but hurt. I’ve never had a grandchild, and now I never will.
This afternoon, I went to my former son-in-law’s arraignment. Before I was allowed into the courtroom, I had to go through a metal detector. Do you believe it? They checked me for weapons! But now that I think about it, maybe it’s a good thing they did.”
With the implied threat still lingering in the air, Lael Gastone lit her candle and placed it on the table. Shaking her head, she strode across the stage to the last unoccupied chair. Meanwhile, the mistress of ceremonies returned to the microphone.
“Thank you all for joining us here tonight,” she said. “Many of us will be here until morning, until the sun comes up on what we hope will be the dawn of a new day of nonviolence for women in this state and in this country. Some, but not all, of the people who have spoken here tonight will be with us throughout the vigil. I’m sure it means a great deal to all of them that so many of you ca me here for this observance. Please stay if you can and visit with some of them. It’s important. As you have heard tonight, it truly is a matter of life death.”
“Shall we go?” Leann whispered to Joanna.
Joanna shook her head. “Just a minute,” she said. “Ceci Grijalva is a friend of my daughter’s. I shouldn’t leave without at least saying hello.”
They made their way through the surging crowd to the makeshift stage where little knots of well-wishers were gathering around each of the speakers. While Leann went to pay her respects to Rhonda Norton’s mother, Joanna headed for spot where she had last seen Joe Duffy and Cecilia Grijalva. Ceci’s grandfather was deep in conversation with Renata Sanchez, one of the other speakers. Meanwhile, unobserved by most of the adults, Ceci had slipped off by herself. In isolated dejection, she sat on the edge of the stage, dangling her legs over the side and kicking at the empty air.
“Ceci?” Joanna asked. “Are you all right?”
Without looking up, the child nodded her head but said nothing.
Joanna tried again. “I know you from Bisbee,” she explained. “I’m Joanna Brady, Jenny’s mother.”
This time Ceci did look up. “Oh,” she said,
Joanna winced at the pain in that one-word answer. Ceci Grijalva’s voice was weighted down with the same hurt and despair that had taken the laughter out of Jenny’s voice, too.
“I’m so sorry about your mother,” Joanna said.
“It’s okay,” Ceci mumbled, staring down at her feet once more.
It is not okay, Joanna wanted to scream. It’s awful! It’s a tragedy! It’s horrible. Instead, she hoisted herself up on the stage until she was sitting next to Cecelia.
“Jenny wanted me to come see you,” Joanna began. “She wanted me to tell you that she knows how you feel.”
Cecelia Grijalva nodded. Joanna continued. “You know Ceci, Jenny didn’t lose her mom the way you did, because I’m still here. But she did lose her daddy. He died down in Bisbee, a few days before your mother died.”
Ceci’s chin came up slowly. Her dark eyes drilled into Joanna’s. “Jenny’s daddy is dead, too?”
Joanna nodded. “That’s right. Somebody shot him. Jenny thought you’d like to know that you’re not the only one going through this and if—”
“Ceci, come on!” a woman’s voice ordered from somewhere on the stage behind them. “We’ve got a long drive home.”
Ceci started to scramble to her feet. “But, Grandma,” she objected, “this is my friend Jenny’s mother. Jenny Brady’s mother. From Bisbee.”
“I don’t care who it is or where she’s from. We have to go,” Ernestina Duffy said stiffly, not even bothering to nod in Joanna’s direction. “It’s getting late. You have school tomorrow.”
Standing up at the same time Ceci did, Joanna turned to face Ernestina Duffy. She was a middle-aged Hispanic woman whose striking good looks were still partially visible behind an angry, bitter facade
Ignoring the woman’s brusque manner, Joanna held out her hand. “I’m Joanna Brady,” she explained. “Ceci and Jenny, my daughter, were in second grade and Brownies together back in Bisbee. I wanted to stop by, to check on Ceci, and to see if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“You can’t bring my daughter back,” Ernestina said coldly.
“No. I can’t do that. And I do know what you’re going through, Mrs. Duffy. My husband’s dead, too. Jenny’s father is dead. He was killed down in Bisbee the same week your daughter died.”
“I’m sorry,” Ernestina said, “but we’ve go to drive all the way home. Come on, Ceci.”
Joanna wasn’t willing to give up. “Jenny’s coming up for Thanksgiving tomorrow,” Joanna said hurriedly. “I was wondering if maybe the girls could get together on Friday for a visit.”
Ernestina shook her head. “I don’t think so. We live clear out in Wittmann. It’s too far.”
“What’s this?” Joe Duffy asked, breaking away from the people around him and dragging his oxygen cart over to where Joanna was standing with Ernestina and Cecelia.
“This is the mother of a friend of Ceci’s from Bisbee,” Ernestina explained. “Her daughter is coming up for a visit on Friday. They wanted us to bring Ceci into town to see her, but I told them—”
“My name’s Joanna Brady,” Joanna said, stepping forward and taking Jefferson Davis Duffy’s bony hand in hers. By then Leann had joined the little group. “And this is my friend Leann Jessup. We’ll be happy to drive up to Wittmann to get her,” Joanna offered. “And we’ll bring her back home that evening.”
The offer of a ride made no difference as far as Ceci Grijalva’s grandmother was concerned. Ernestina Duffy remained adamant. “I still say it’s too far and too much trouble.”
“Now wait a minute here,” her husband interjected. “It might be good for Ceci to be away for a while, to go off on her own and have some fun with someone her age. What time would it be?” he asked, turning to Joanna.