Chapter 13 in the R.M. Dolin novel, "What Is to Be Done"
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Jake doesn’t notice Theresa being dropped off on the security cameras, he doesn’t hear her unlock the courtyard gate, or step through the tasting room’s double French doors. Her sudden appearance at the very moment darker possibilities of what might have happened turn irrational, catches him wholly off guard. “Hola Professor,” Theresa happily sings as she glides through the entrance with carefree exuberance. “Today is very good. Many customers.” Jake jumps back startled, stumbling against the bar-back. “I am so sorry,” she exclaims, “I did not mean to scare you.”
A vivacious woman in her early forties who’s managed to retain a girlish figure even after four kids, Theresa came north last fall after Hector established a toehold. Jake hired Hector for Crush, and not only was he his best crew member, he quickly became the most controversial because every day Theresa stopped by with an incredible looking, seductively smelling lunch. Hector sat with his beautiful wife devouring each course with a starving man’s gusto as the rest of the crew watched with envy. After observing the greedy way his crew lusted over every morsel, Jake realized he’d better hire Theresa to cook in order to squelch any talk of mutiny. So, for the first time in the distillery’s history they had a crush crew cook. As is the nature for seasonal work, Jake had to let Hector go after harvest was over but did help him get on with Dario’s cousin’s plaster company. He couldn’t bring himself to let Theresa go, he’d gotten used to her cuisine and with Emelia busy making wine and helping Padre, they needed extra help. Theresa’s gradually increased role and value since Emelia’s tragedy.
Minimum wage is seven dollars an hour, but illegals gladly work for five. Those guidelines, however, don’t much interest Jake; he believes in paying a living wage and appreciates the value of employee loyalty. In addition to paying Theresa ten dollars an hour, she earns a fifty-cent commission for every bottle sold. Payment is of course strictly cash; not so much to save on employer taxes or to screw the IRS, it’s that undocumented workers cannot be on the books. Of course, as Jake likes to remind the PhDs, who doesn’t like saving money and screwing the IRS. On slow days, Theresa cooks, sometimes making a big pot of posole, or a batch of carne adovada. Most of it she takes home, but they have an arrangement; Jake pays for the ingredients, Theresa does the shopping, and they split whatever she prepares.
Jake quickly scans the room regaining his bearings. “I’m looking for Sympatico.”
“Aren’t we all,” Theresa sighs. “Last night, Hector comes home cervasa happy. I’m trying to make supper and all he wants to do is chase me around the kitchen. Eee, I needed muy sympatico then.”
“I have a guest,” Jake coldly interjects, “her name’s Sympatico.”
“Oh, Senor!” Theresa covers her mouth to hide a smile.
“It’s not like that.”
“You are kind and generous,” Theresa replies, knowing nothing untowardly is possible. “I’ll check the garden. She’s probably there.”
Jake stares forlornly through the kitchen toward the bedroom hallway. He grabs the pump off the bar and starts for the distillery when suddenly the sensor at the driveway entrance beeps. He scurries to his laptop. “Shit.” The security camera reveals the previous black Jeep pulling up the driveway. Jake starts for the door figuring it best to intercept whatever’s coming but immediately changes his mind deciding it best to wait where he is. He slides down the bar next to the cash register placing his hand under the counter locating the panic button. He then opens the bar’s logbook and quickly enters,
May 7, 12:05 PM, a black Jeep arrives. Don’t know what they want but it can’t be good – check surveillance files.
He initials the hastily written entry and stashes the journal just as the sound of feet scuffling across courtyard flagstone announce his guest’s arrival. “Well old man,” Miguel bellows loudly as he steps into the tasting room with two henchmen. “You’re difficult to find.”
“Not really.” Jake discreetly positions his hand near the panic button.
“I came yesterday as we agreed, but you were not here.” Miguel sets up directly across the bar from Jake with formidable foreboding. “Perhaps you’re avoiding me?”
“Went to church.”
“With her? That must have shit-shocked God. And this morning?”
“Went to town for a part.” Jake points to the pump part at the end of the bar.
“I see.” Miguel slowly walks down the bar and picks up the part, playing with the machined metal. “You’re just showing her the world aren’t you.” Miguel discards the part and returns to his previous spot, spreading his arms along the bar. “Be careful old man, she’ll run first chance she gets.”
Jake is instantly relieved; Miguel thinks Sympatico’s with him, but since Miguel stayed for twenty-seven minutes earlier, he probably gave the place a thorough once over, which means she’s not here either. Armed with this new information he wants to dispatch Miguel as quickly as possible. “What can I do for you?”
“Have you forgotten the grand you owe me?”
“I remember,” as soon as Miguel mentions it that is.
Miguel studies Jake’s many wines, ports, and spirits displayed along the back wall. “I’ve been thinking, I got this place on the other side of the Wind River that’s for, well let’s just say entertaining and warehousing – you know, the inventory you didn’t win.” Miguel walks down the bar. “You sell your shit to distributors, right, who then sell to retailers? You get what, sixty, sixty-five percent of retail? Since we’re on the same team, I’m wondering why I pay retail for my booze when I can trade directly with you? Take your bourbon.” Miguel stops in front of a shelf containing red bottle bourbon. “You sell a bottle here for forty-five dollars, but wholesale only get thirty-four, que no?”
“Okay,” Jake oddly answers. In reality, his wholesale price point is fifty percent of retail, which means he sells his bourbon for twenty-two fifty. If he sold at sixty percent, as Miguel suggests, that would be twenty-seven dollars. The thirty-four dollars Miguel’s calculated is seventy-five-point-six percent of retail, which can mean only one thing, el hefe sucks at math.
“Here’s my proposal,” Miguel offers, “you trade me bourbon at thirty-four dollars to cover your debt.”
“So, two cases.”
Miguel pulls out his phone to run the numbers. “Senor, this is not a thousand dollars.”
“I rounded up.”
“There’s no rounding in my business. It’s twenty-six bottles.”
Jake quickly calculates; twenty-six bottles at thirty-four dollars each, is eight-hundred and eighty-four dollars. “You drive a hard bargain.”
“This is why I’m successful.”
“Tell you what, I’ll throw in an extra bottle on account of you having to come multiple times.” Jake disappears into the storeroom, quickly returning with two cases of red bottle bourbon. He then reaches below the bar and pulls out three additional bottles.
“Take these,” Miguel instructs his men. As they leave, he gets to the secondary reason for his visit. “I wish to speak to the woman.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.”
“Senor, why be like that? We finish a mutually agreeable transaction, and you get uppity?”
“It’s not that.” Jake decides to tell Miguel that Sympatico’s gone with Dario to look at his colt but-.
“She’s nowhere to be found,” Theresa loudly reports before seeing Miguel at the bar.
Jake marvels at how such a crucial decision gets decided while deciding. “She ran!” Miguel growls deliberately placing both hands on the bar to marshal his resolve to remain civil.
“Theresa,” Jake slowly instructs. “Can you get some radishes from the garden?”
Illegals don’t get this far north without learning firsthand the reality of many things. Recognizing men like Miguel is an early lesson. What surprises Theresa is that Jake has dealings with someone like him, but since Jake made a point of telling her when she planted the garden how much he hates radishes, she gets he wants her gone.
Miguel turns his attention to Theresa, pleasantly surprised to find someone of her beauty here. It makes Jake’s willingness to wager twenty-grand for his whore more comprehensible.
Theresa cautiously retrieves pruning shears and a paper bag from below the bar, careful not to get close to Miguel or reveal fear.
Miguel watches, his sinister grin exposing crooked tobacco-stained teeth. “Twenty years ago, Senora, you could have worked for me. You’d be employee of the month many times.”
A cold chill spears down Theresa’s spine. She’s known many men, women, even children who have endured much hardship at the hands of men like Miguel. Gathering her things, she quickly exits through the kitchen not stopping until reaching the safety of the pinon forest behind Jake’s house. Once there, she activates the hidden transmitter, just as Jake taught her.
Miguel watches her leave, “it’s a shame they grow old, is it not?” He returns to the topic at hand. “I warned you she was a runner.”
“I don’t know that she ran.”
“You think she went to get her nails done?”
“No.”
“She could be anywhere by now, Santa Fe, Albuquerque.” Miguel barely contains his rage. “Runners are bad for business, gives others hope. There’s not many places she can go, and they don’t take long to check.” Miguel nods to his henchmen who have just returned. One immediately walks into the courtyard and pulls out a cell phone. “Know this,” Miguel continues. “When I find her, I keep her.”
“But I won?”
“If you catch a fish, senor, but let it go, and later I catch the same fish, is the fish not mine?” Miguel spins away from the bar and steps into the courtyard grabbing his henchman’s phone. Jake watches them disappear into the parking area. As soon as the buzzer at the end of the driveway signals their final departure his phone buzzes. “Dario, hey” Jake listens. “Yeah, pretty sure Theresa activated it. -Well, Sympatico’s gone. -Yes, it’s what I call her. Look, Miguel was just here, says if he finds her, she’s his.” Jake pushes the phone away from his ear to mute Dario’s shouting. “I don’t know, something to do with fishing. Don’t you have a cousin who can help?” Jake doesn’t mean to insult Dario but does. “Okay, sorry.”
As Dario lays out a military-like search strategy, Jake frantically takes notes. “Good idea.” Jake nods in agreement while Dario elaborates. “I know,” he adds in frustration. “I’m the one who scheduled the test, but this takes precedent. The grids not going anywhere.” Dario continues to object. “Just call Preston and tell him we’re on hold.”
“It is a good thing you do, Senor.” Theresa comments as Jake sets the phone on the bar. “When a man like you, says a woman he’s helping is not here when he expects her to be, and a man like him shows up interested in the same woman, well a woman like me knows enough about men like you and monsters like him to know what’s what.”
“I suppose.” Jake quietly responds, relived she knows. Keeping secrets wears on him, which is odd since he spent his career protecting the nation’s most carefully guarded secrets.
“I called Hector, he and his friends will help.” Theresa puts her phone back into her patch leather bag. “They’re good men who know the underground better than even the evil one.”
“Thanks,” Jake says with relief. If anyone can find Sympatico, it’s the men of the Mexican underground. “Tell him to bring his crew over later for beers.”
“You won’t have to ask him twice,” Theresa laughs.
Jake smiles sardonically at the irony of planning a celebration when the search is just getting started. “I’m going to Padre’s.” Almost to the door, he stops, conflicted by the persuasive logic of staying since leaving is how he got in this mess. “I’ll be back by four,” he concludes already realizing that’s the same line he gave Sympatico. “If Miguel comes back, you do like we practiced.”
“Si.” Theresa now appreciates the ’emergency maneuvers,’ Jake constantly runs, which she always thought was in case immigration shows up.
“Don’t worry about closing, just get to the rendezvous spot and wait for Hector.”
Theresa nods, Jake’s a man of reserved emotion and to see him so discombobulated proves things are pretty troubled. Yielding to subconscious compulsion, Jake picks up his pump but immediately sets it down. “Seriously dude,” he castigates while compulsively staring at the pump. He starts for the door but stops to look back. “Pumps should be put away,” he grumbles forcing himself through the door.
“Senor, Jake,” Theresa calls. He quickly spins around hoping she’ll insist he not leave the pump on the bar. She looks at Jake with worry, many times she’s witnessed honorable men battle monsters only to meet with tragedy. “Be safe.”
Unable to mask his disappointment, Jake looks way. “I will.” He’s sure something more needs to be said but is completely lost as to what. He’s almost to the truck when his cell phone rings. “Preston. -Yes, I know.” “-Of course, a pause is a delay.” He starts his truck. “-I know we put a lot into this test but look, a short step back lets us re-evaluate.” He starts down the driveway. “Oh please, this is not Chernobyl all over again.” Jake turns his beat-up old truck onto the asphalt highway. “I’ve been the most vocal about starting phase II. You’re the one who keeps saying we should slow down. Revenge has no value, isn’t that what you always say?”
The anxious drive to Our Lady of Sympatico takes longer than it should, not because the road is slow, but because the need is high. Confounding that, the closer he gets without signs of Sympatico, the more uneasy he becomes. In the end, the trip yields nothing. Padre’s not around and there’s no sign Sympatico was ever here. “I shoulda freaking called. Would of driven anyway.” Needing to stay optimistic, Jake convinced himself she’d be here. When she’s not, the direness of the situation doubles his determination. He doesn’t have to think about where to go next, even though he’d rather not.
Isolated along the western foothills of the Sangre de Cristos, the Santuario de Chimayo is a must-see destination for religious pilgrims, which is somewhat ironic given the tiny village of Chimayo is the nation’s undisputed heroin distribution capital. Unfamiliar visitors wandering where they shouldn’t, are known to be shot at from undisclosed locations with repeated frequency, but not since the four state troopers were massacred in the early 90’s has anyone been killed. The Santuario is a small centuries-old church famous for its red dirt floor and the miracles the soil is said to provide. Tradition maintains that one can hold the red dirt in their hands while asking God for intercession and then carry the miracle dirt to remind God to answer. “It’s just dirt,” Jake cynically says to the Santuario Padre who has not seen anyone matching Sympatico description. The Padre silently smiles watching Jake pocket a handful of dirt for the second time this year.
Rolling into the ancient mountain village of Truchas along the high road to Taos, Jake pulls off the road in front of the wind-worn adobe home of Ernesto and Evaristo Quintana; two brothers in their late eighties with whom Jake has a somewhat unique arrangement. When Jake first opened his distillery, the Quintana brothers came calling with stories stretching back centuries right up to prohibition. They confessed that the rumors were true, their dad and Uncle did in fact run the most successful prohibition era liquor enterprise in the Southwest with a distribution network running as far north as Denver, east all the way to Dallas, and west to Phoenix. In the frontier southwest, if you drank Mula during prohibition, most likely the Quintana brothers made it.
After prohibition, the Quintana’s continued manufacturing and distributing illegal liquor, eventually transitioning the business to Ernesto and Evaristo. With the help of Armando’s grandfather, they built an even larger liquor enterprise. Ernesto became a much-celebrated distiller inspiring musicians to compose ballads about the effects his mesmerizing Mula had on lovers, and the many magical things that might happen under its influence. Ernesto always promises to show Jake his specially crafted Still but never does. Evaristo was the bootlegger. To this day, he remains the unofficial record holder for the fastest time between Santa Fe and Taos. While his daredevil driving made him a hero, what makes Evaristo legendary is that in all his years of running Mula, he never got caught. Many nights the federales thought they had him, but he always somehow slipped away. His advantage was being more popular with locals; there were always those willing to help him escape, and others all too happy to passively foil his pursuers. Local police never involved themselves, not only would it be dangerously unpopular, but liquor prohibition is a federal matter; much like illegal immigration, which is why to this day; the Quintana brothers elude federal capture while living in plain sight. Armando’s grandfather ran retail operations managing two underground bars in Santa Fe, one between Santa Fe and Española, one in Taos, and a three in Albuquerque. All that now remains from their once booming enterprise, is a Still Ernesto claims to have but no one’s ever seen, Everesto’s modified roadster carefully concealed in their dilapidated carport, and the Al Azar.
Mula is a blue-corn whiskey containing special southwest ingredients that set it apart from its younger East Coast cousins. Like moonshine, Mula is usually unaged and high proof but to make it right, you have to use blue corn grown along the Rio. Jake has tried both moonshine and Mula and agrees with the Quintanas, “Mula is muy bueno.” The Quintana brothers proposed teaching Jake the ancient art of Mula manufacturing; a Northern New Mexico tradition since 1643. In return, Jake would agree to provide them two barrels a year until both brothers were dead. Jake was excited beyond words by their offer, the chance to become the only Distiller in the world who makes magical Mula was too intoxicating an offer for any Distiller, Engineer, or Anarchist to turn down. It’s far more impressive than being in his select group of a few hundred intellectuals who know how to build nuclear weapons.
Twice a year Jake delivers Mula under the cover of darkness. He assumes Evaristo distributes the bounty because stories of its existence keep popping up. This past winter, according to what’s quickly become lore, someone offered a quart of Quintana Mula to cover a fourteen-hundred-dollar poker bet at the Wind River. The winner bragged he would have wagered twice more just for the chance to own a bottle of the storied liquor. Every time Dario retells that story, Jake wonders if he’s the one who made it. For the Quintana brothers to drink a barrel of Mula every six months requires more than a bottle per day, which seems unlikely so they must be selling some on the side. It goes without saying that Jake’s Mula manufacturing is off the books. The Government can never learn Mula is again being made in the mountains of Northern New Mexico, or that the famed Quintana brothers are not only alive, they’re still distributing. Of course, locals know who they are, as does regional law enforcement, but in Northern New Mexico, everyone also knows to keep that kind of information within the community.
Jake’s back home by three thirty frustrated and anxious. It’s unusually hot, causing late afternoon Santa Anna dust devils to churn extra hard. Neglecting his usual routine, Jake parks in front of the courtyard beside two customer cars and hurries into the tasting room so focused on confirming Sympatico’s status he doesn’t acknowledge the two couples sampling whiskey at the bar. “Here’s our owner and Master Distiller now,” Theresa announces as Jake abruptly stops, awkwardly surprised to find people in his house.
“Hey,” he pensively offers hoping that’s sufficient to be pleasant without getting drawn into some nonsensical conversation. “Is she here?”
“I’m so sorry, no,” Theresa answers with worry.
“We’re wondering,” the overweight customer intrudes with a booming voice, “if you can settle a dispute.”
Jake notices him for the first time, deciding he’s probably wealthy on account of traveling with an attractive woman twenty years younger. She could be his wife but seems affectionate so probably not. He’s learned from past failings that he has to be nice. “It’s gotta be quick,” he offers, “I’m dealing with something.”
“Fair enough,” the large marriage-ambiguous customer bellows, clearly not interested in other people’s constraints. “We were just discussing Scotch.”
“I think single malt from the coastal region is best,” the tall thin customer with an equally thin, equally aged wife asserts.
“I prefer Highland Scotch,” the fat customer counters. “What’s your expert opinion?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Jake answers and immediately starts toward the kitchen proud to have successfully completed a customer interaction.
“Of course, it does,” the wealthy customer insists.
“Surely you’re not suggesting they taste the same?” His appropriately married colleague challenges.
“Guess I am.” Jack anxiously smiles and starts once more for the kitchen.
“Our strong disagreement with you on this matter, is the one thing we agree on,” the thin customer presses with the nodding approval of the marginally married man. “Perhaps you care to elaborate?”
Jake considers walking away but regrettably goes in a different direction. “It doesn’t matter, because both taste like shit.” Jake regrets saying that, but once the opinion spigot’s opened, there’s no slowing the flow. “Coastal Scotch tastes like shit. Highland Scotch tastes like shit. All Scotch tastes like shit, just some has more smoky shit than others. The thing about Scotch drinkers,” Jake says as cathartic momentum builds, “is by time they’ve suppressed their gag reflux enough to tolerate that crap, they’ve destroyed their taste buds to the point it’s impossible to ever enjoy good whiskey again. All they’re left with, are varying degrees of differential shit.” Theresa has on several occasions lectured Jake regarding his need to be nice. Unfortunately, it hasn’t done much good. “Suggesting there’s a difference between coastal and highland Scotch, is like saying there’s a difference between Quarter horse and Thoroughbred crap. While technically true, it’s a difference without distinction when you factor in the fact, you’re talking about horse shit!” Jake’s certain that ends their conversation, as is Theresa to her horror. Jake heads into the house eager to resume his search. “There’s another non-positive review,” he mumbles. This is not the first time Jake’s gone off on customers and it amazes Theresa that a man so calm and gentle can, in the right situation, be so obnoxious. She watches him disappear down the hallway more worried about his worries than her collapsing customer relations catastrophe.
Jake knocks on Sympatico’s door reconfirming she’s not there. He begrudgingly returns to the kitchen immediately noticing his pump’s been moved. Out of ideas, he decides to drain his Still while waiting for Dario rationalizing, he should probably stay on site until she’s found. He goes to the key rack, but the shed key’s not there. He replays this morning surmising he left the key in his truck and is about to get it, when he sees his former customers standing outside. Not wanting to re-engage, he gets the spare from a kitchen drawer and heads out the back door. Circling around the house to avoid detection, he’s almost to the tool shed when Dario roars into the parking lot slamming his truck to a sliding stop in front of the spirits barrel room. Dario hops out of the truck with surprising agility for a man his size. “Hey, Doc.”
“Find anything?” Jake asks.
“No, but my guys are looking.”
“She wasn’t at Padre’s, or the Santuario. Drove and up to Truchas but nobody’s seen anything.”
“My cousin’s checking shelters, Hector’s staking out the bus station, Dominic’s monitoring police Com, and I don’t know where the hell Mandy is, but no one’s been at the Al Azar all day. All in all, Doc, we’re doing everything we can.”
Jake steps toward the shed with his pump. “We need to figure out something soon.”
“What if she went back to Miguel’s? It’s what I’d do.” Dario pauses to let his theory settle in. “Don’t forget the bloodstained knife, ask me, that screams unsettled business.”
Jake concedes Dario’s point. “If I were her,” he counters, “I wouldn’t go anywhere.” He stops in front of the shed noticing the padlock’s not in the hasp. He rewinds this morning certain he put the key back on the rack after locking the shed. He turns toward Dario with a stress-relieving grin, “I know where she is.”
Dario watches Jake crack open the shed door. “Sympatico,” he gently calls. As he pulls the door open a stack of tools and paint cans collapse onto the ground, bouncing around his feet. “She builds intruder alerts,” Jake tells Dario with a satisfied smile. Two sensory sensations hit the rescue team as they gingerly step into the metal shed: first, the building reeks of pack rats, and second, it’s hot, suffocating hot.
“Sympatico?” Jake calls stepping inside. As their eyes adjust, they’re able to exploit the narrow late afternoon light streaking in through the open door. Slowly they move toward the back, finding Sympatico curled in the corner clutching Jake’s carving knife. “Bet she hid here when Miguel came, she knew I’d find her when I returned.”
“Damn, Doc, they put one helluva of scare in her.”
Jake approaches slowly. “Sympatico.”
“Whoa, Doc, go easy, she could go off without warning.”
“They’re gone,” Jake softly whispers, squatting down to her eye level. “They can’t hurt you anymore.”
Sympatico stares without expression. She’s been sitting devoid of thought so long, Jake’s familiar voice just barely causes her mind to catch gears. Slowly, she starts stitching together her day, the awful cup of coffee, how afraid she felt being left alone but unable to ask him to stay. Miguel and his men; the excited way she rushed to the window thinking Jake had returned only to receive her terrorizing realization. She relives her panic, manically grabbing the shed key and knife before running out the back door and making her way to sanctuary. She feels her fear once again surge. Miguel will be back; men like him always come back. Even as hopelessness rises, a part of her, a very deep part, knows these men before her won’t cause harm. She’s too physically and emotionally depleted to feel relief, just a realization that for now, the terror has abated. With considerable effort, she pulls herself up using the workbench for support.
Jake starts toward her but stops. “Go easy, Doc, she still has the knife.”
Sympatico looks at the carving knife in her hand having no memory of it. Without instruction, her muscles release the knife to drop freely to the floor. As the handle slips past her trembling fingers the suffocating constriction that’s encased her chest all day eases. She registers that single sensation, but nothing more. The knife bounces off the plywood floor echoing against the sheet metal walls in a signal her ordeal’s over. As the effects of the day extract their toll, Sympatico’s exhaustion releases all at once like water bursting through a broken damn. She collapses forward and Jake just manages to wrap his arms around her before she swoons to the floor. He holds her against his chest. “It’s okay,” he repeatedly whispers while gently stroking her hair. As Sympatico slowly regains her footing, Jake motions Dario to help. Together, they gently lead her out of the oven-hot shed into the fleeting day. Jake and Dario steadily guide Sympatico across the parking lot, through the courtyard, carefully laying her on her bed. “You’re safe now,” Jake says as he strokes her hair. A well-deserved relief sprays over him with the realization that the darker thoughts pursuing him all day have been vanquished.
Sympatico couldn’t say what Jake says, all she registers is that her ordeal’s over. ‘I’m safe,’ her mind repeats. ‘He keeps me safe.’ The last thing Sympatico registers before falling asleep is Jake’s smile, and the warm way he talks nonstop while lightly stroking her hair. She registers the reassuring way Dario vows to always protect her and how he lightly drapes a blanket over her weakened body with a kindness she can’t comprehend. As exhaustive sleep conquers her conscience, that little voice from deep inside keeps repeating, ‘you’re safe.’ The voice is not yet loud enough to be heard, which means she can’t be at peace. It does, however, begin the software rewrite that will someday, if good things continue, put her on the path that allows her to live again. Jake and Dario hold vigil long after Sympatico’s fallen asleep, each independently understanding she needs to know they’re there. Once convinced it’s okay, they quietly retreat to the kitchen where Dario promptly plops down at the table burying his stubble face in hands still swollen from Saturday’s encounter with evil. “Today’s taken a toll, Doc.”
Jake takes a bottle of reserve Cabernet from the cabinet. “Yeah.” He pours two glasses before remembering to pour one for Theresa, who quietly stood vigil alongside them. She’s already called Hector and is busy whipping up fresh batches of salsa and guacamole for the crew he’ll soon bring by. “It is true what, Padre says,” she announces with exalted faith. “God does listen to the lost in Spanish.”
Jake drains unconditionally into his chair releasing his last remaining remnant of control. He noses the wine before taking a sip. “Today’s certainly been all over the freaking map.”
Dario swirls his glass admiring how tears cling to the side like lost hope on a draining river. Outside, del Sol dips below the eastern slope of Pajarito instantly trading daylight with night. To the uninitiated, the kitchen seems surreal; an ominous aura hovers over the room deepening the fading light, which further amplifies the still-born silence. Theresa’s festive mood lays in stark contrast to the sullen stasis of her male counterparts. It’s an encapsulated moment where the less words spoken results in the most being said. If this were a painting, it would be in cold colors with blurry blue edges escaping ambiguously into a wrap-around frame. “You worried about what’s happened, Doc?”
“No,” Jake ominously answers, “I’m worried about what happens next.”
