Bitter Sweet Child

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

South Valle Hermoso, Mexico, 1969

He pressed his body against hers. “Guapa relájate!” (Relax gorgeous.) She could not stop tensing her muscles. It was as if she were a stone. Nothing could soften her. “Conchita, you’ll like it if you just relax. It won’t hurt so much,” he pleaded. His rough beard felt like sandpaper against her soft skin. The combination of cigarettes and alcohol on his breath made her nostrils seize up as she tightened even more. The bitter, putrid odor coated the inside of her throat right down to her lungs. The air passage began to swell and climb up toward her mouth reaching out for fresh air blocking her breathing completely. She forced herself to open her mouth wide and gulp in more of the rancid air being expulsed out of his vile body. She had to close her mouth firmly as more of the slimy air particles from his breath were rushing in sliding down her throat. Each breath made her sicker. Oh how she wished she could cease breathing, but nature would not permit it. She dared not retch. ‘How can this be happening to me? Was it like this for mama too?’

San Diego, California, USA, 2006

When David Henshaw awoke on Saturday morning April 9, he could not have imagined his life was going to change forever. If alive now, he could not begin to tell how it happened.

David turned 51 in December and for some unfathomable reason started to look back at his life and wish he had done things differently. When the regrets he should have suffered between 45 and 50 didn’t materialize, he was lulled into believing he had been spared. David lived through his father’s mid-life crisis and witnessed how it ruined his parent's marriage. What went wrong? He never understood. His mother would not discuss it. It was a closed book. His father on the other hand was broken-hearted and even after remarrying a most wonderful and caring woman who loved him deeply, he still resented the breakup of his marriage with his mother.

Today was the annual Spring party to which he invited his friends, relations, associates and some employees for a BBQ. His closest friend from his high school days was the first to arrive to lend him a hand, followed closely by his cousin Antonio Iannuzzi, nicknamed Tony. He could always count on them for such events as his wife normally made herself scarce on these days. Sometimes she disappeared for the whole day and returned late at night, which was the signal to end the party.

As the sun set over the blue Pacific turning the high clouds into pink sugar candy, David served the hamburgers, sausages and spicy chicken wings. Uncharacteristically he had decided earlier in the day to get drunk. His mother had instilled in him it was possible to have a good time without alcohol, but he made up his mind not to heed her this day.

Upon Wilma’s return, David wanted to be well inebriated and his senses dulled; so that, whatever she did or said would not distress him. As the hour approached of her dreaded homecoming, he wandered around the house in a stupor with an expression of stupid bliss on his face. It was becoming difficult for him to concentrate and impossible to carry on a coherent conversation. An aura of nervousness and foreboding gradually and stealthily engulfed the party goers. A few people began to leave, David tried in vain to persuade them to stay, but they insisted it was time to go. Their reasons were neither convincing nor explicit. The earlier rowdiness of the guests was replaced with controlled and hushed tones. The remaining crowd of 50 broke up into smaller groups of between 5 and 10 and dispersed around the house and yard. He stumbled back and forth between one clique and another, whereupon his appearance was always greeted with camaraderie, cheers and smiles. 1 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

Valle Hermoso, 1969

“Chicas!” No she did not want to go there. She tried to sleep, but it would not come. “I can’t help myself. You are so beautiful and young. Still unspoiled by disappointment and resentment. You have your whole life before you.”

Valle Hermoso, 1970

“Chicas! ¡Chicas! ¡Chicas!” (Girls)

“Déjenos, Papi, por favor.” (Leave us alone, Daddy, please)

“Pero sois muy lindas.” (But you’re so beautiful)

“Déjenos, Papi, déjenos.”

“Una vez más.” (One more time)

“¡No, por favor, No!” (No, please, no)

San Diego 2006

Any moment Wilma would reappear. He did not want to be at the front of the house when she arrived. He went out the back toward a group sitting at the far end of the pool with the cascading waterfall in full flow. There were three women and four men. They had their backs to him. “Do you remember,” Lou Ella started out, “when Wilma came back early last year and David did not introduce her to anyone at the party?”

“Oh God yes,” replied Amy. “She went mental.”

“Oh yeah?” Fred asked, “What did she do?”

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” said Lou Ella. “She was shouting at how inconsiderate he was and how everyone else had ignored her.”

“Oh, she was furious,” added Amy. “It was as if Hell had landed at this house.”

“The woman’s a total psycho,” continued Lou Ella. “She doesn’t want to be at these parties, but as soon as she arrives, it turns nasty. I'm getting the hell out of here before she comes back.”

“She's a sour puss,” added Amy.

“No, shit!” remarked Fred. “I think I'll stick around. It sounds like fun.”

“Fred!” his wife Lucy chided him.

“Maybe for us, but can you imagine having to live with that?” remarked Amy.

His friend Wilson was sitting amongst them gazing into the pool without contributing to the conversation.

“Do you guys remember the last Padres game we went to and she decided to come along?” asked Tom. 2 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“Oh man, that was ugly,” said Jack.

“What happened?” asked Lou Ella.

“At the beginning of the 7th inning, the Padres were having a terrible game. The chances of them turning it around and winning were pretty slim. Well, Wilma gets up and leaves the rest of us. We were eight guys there. She was the only wife there. She came back at the end of the 8th inning, by which time the Padres had miraculously tied. She had a go at David screaming at him for not following her when she got up.”

“What did he do?” asked Amy.

“Well, he got up and left with her.”

“Jesus!” remarked Fred. “She must be fierce!”

“You wouldn't think so by the size of her,” said Tom, “She's a foot shorter than him.”

David decided he’d heard enough. He went to look for another beer. As he approached the kitchen, he overheard Jerry saying to his wife Doris, “Honey, we'd better get going before Wilma’s back.”

“Oh sweetie,” she said mischievously, “That's the only reason I agreed to come. I missed out on her fit last year.”

“You're wicked,” he laughed.

David headed toward the garage from where the sound of a ping pong ball was being swatted back and forth. He heard people conversing in low voices over the constant smacks. The door leading from the house to the garage was open. Just as he was about to enter he overheard Ramsey saying, “That was terrible what she did to Fabian’s little dog, Smuggles.”

“What?” inquired Heather.

“She nearly kicked the poor little thing to death?”

“She did what!” stammered Linda.

“She was really mad at Fabian, because he’d not done his homework and what really upset her was he refused to do it and screamed at her that he hated her and hated his teacher.”

“So why take it out on the poor dog?” questioned Heather.

“Well, in fairness to Wilma, the boy was screaming at her, she was screaming back and Smuggles got between them barking and growling at her. So she gave it a mighty kick sending the little bugger flying across the room.”

“Oh my God!” exclaimed Heather.

“Just then,” continued Ramsey, “David came through the door. He calmed things down and took the dog off to the vet. One of its lungs was ruptured and nearly died.”

David changed his mind, started to turn around and go back into the house, when he heard Ramsey say, “That was 3 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 nothing like what she did to the horse.”

“Oh, don’t tell me it gets worse!” exclaimed Linda.

“She shot Leah’s horse right in front of her.”

“Jesus, this woman’s totally mental,” said Heather in shock.

The sound of clashing rubber, wood and plastic stopped. Bertie suddenly interjected, “She nearly went to prison for that one.”

The bangs resumed again.

“What happened?” asked Linda, her voice now sounding less surprised than before.

“Leah came over to our house after school with our daughter Ruby. Wilma had told Leah to be home by 7. My wife Evelyn was going to bring her home, but she was running late. At 7:15 she called Leah and told her to be home or else. The poor girl became frantic, she called Evelyn and told her to hurry home, but she was stuck in a traffic jam due to an accident. Leah called Wilma and told her this, but she didn’t believe it. Wilma called Evelyn, but there was no answer. Her battery was dead, so she couldn't take the call. Wilma got in her car and came over. She arrived in a rage and dragged the girl away. The two were raving and ranting at each other. Our neighbor June came out to see what was going on and tried to calm things down, but Wilma just told her to fuck off and mind her own business.”

“What an awful way to behave!” exclaimed Heather.

“You haven’t heard the worse yet,” said Bertie stopping his playing.

Valle Hermoso, 1970

“Tomorrow is Jasmina’s birthday. Twelve. It’ll be her turn.”

“No, Papi, not with Jasmina, por favor. Es una niña.” (she’s a child)

“You were 12, sweetheart.”

“No, Papi, por favor.”

“Oh, she won’t mind,” his speech was slightly slurred, “Huh, that’s funny, she won’t mind.” He glanced over to her. She laid in her bed on her back, with her arms raised above her head, her hands twisting around, making fists then opening them and laughing to herself. “She’s got no mind. Look at her, she’s beautiful. Prettier than you even.”

“No, Papi, with me, not Jasmina.”

San Diego 2006

Ramsey continued, “When they got home, they were still arguing. Wilma tried to smack her. Leah caught her arm and twisted it around hard.”

“Good for her!” exclaimed Linda.

4 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “Wilma went nuts,” resumed Ramsey, “she went to her bedroom and grabbed her .38.”

“Oh no!” remarked Heather alarmed. “Where was David?”

“He was still at work. Anyway, she said to Leah that she’d teach her a lesson. You can imagine by now the girl’s scared shitless.”

“Yeah, I should think so. Poor thing.” said Heather.

“Wilma stomped out of the house. She watched her mother cross the yard to the stable. Leah loved her horse. She ran after her mother screaming. ‘No, please No!’ Wilma reached the barn first, put the lights on and went in. The girl found her mother standing in front of the stall with the door open, the pistol aimed at Fido’s head. Leah picked up a stone and threw it at her mother. It missed and spooked the horse. Fido bolted out heading right for Wilma. She fired hitting Fido in the side of the neck. The horse freaked out and kept trying to get past her. She emptied the chamber of all six bullets killing the horse.”

“What a massacre!” lamented Linda.

Bertie added, “She explained she shot the horse in self-defense and had no intention of killing it. She just wanted to teach her daughter a lesson. I think that saved her from going to prison.”

David could stomach no more. It was just as well his senses were numb from an overdose of spirits. He longed for another drink, which he hoped would blot out the rest of the evening, but could not bear overhearing any more conversation about his wife. He needed to lie down. He turned around and headed for refuge in his bedroom staggering down the long hall. The door was drawn shut, which was always left open unless Wilma or he were in it. He reached the door and put his ear to it wondering if there was anyone within and whether to knock first.

A woman giggling merrily resounded clearly from within. He recognized her. It was Diane, his cousin's girlfriend. Tony too was laughing. “C`mon, honey.” he urged her. “Let's get out of here before the witch gets home. She'll kill us if she finds us in her bedroom. I'll be banished forever from this house. As it is, I'm begrudgingly welcomed here. You know I don't like to come over, unless she’s out.”

“Oh, you’re as shit scared of her as David is,” she charged.

“Look, sweetie, it'll just make things worse for David.”

“Oh, alright,” she gave in, “for David's sake. How come such a sweet guy sticks with that acid drop?”

Valle Hermoso, 1970

“I’ve been telling you, on her birthday.”

“But she’s not right, she won’t know what’s happening to her.”

“Even better.”

San Diego, 2006

David heard footsteps behind him. He was startled by them and looked around.

5 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“What's going on Dad?”

It was Fabian, his second child. Fabian was supposed to be the name of his first son. David stared at him for a moment not knowing what to say, when the bedroom door behind him opened and Diane stepped out. “Oh,” she giggled. “David! Are you okay?” she asked concerned.

“Oh yes. I'm fine,” he managed to stammer.

Tony came out of the bedroom. He smiled awkwardly at David and Fabian. “Man I can never get over that bathroom of yours. You could have an orgy in that Jacuzzi.”

Fabian turned and went back into his room. “You don't mind ole buddy, do you?” Tony patted David on the back. Diane giggled again. It was grating on David. He wanted to tell her to get the fuck out, but he bit his tongue for Tony's sake. She was such an air head. That was all his cousin ever succeeded in attracting. They never stayed with him more than six months. They were always desperate like him and as soon as they found something better they ditched him.

David pushed past them into his bedroom, closed the door behind him and crashed into his bed. He told himself as host of the party not to fall asleep, but the urge was overpowering. He was fighting to stop himself from going over into darkness, yet as soon as he did, he snapped himself out of it with a start. This battle seemed to go on forever. Finally, he could bear it no longer and decided to get up. The digital clock next to his bed indicated in big bright numbers 12:07 p.m. It was 12 hours out of sync, just like his life was 180° off kilter. Every morning, when he awoke he meant to put it right, but never did. He turned it to point away from his eyes, but the image of the fire red numbers burned into his mind forcing him to sit up. His head spun and a few stars buzzed around it. He held himself still on the edge of the bed until the spell passed then stood up slowly. Wilma should have been back by this time.

Valle Hermoso, 1970

She knew there was no way to make him change his mind. She promised to make him happy, do anything he asked of her, but it was not enough. Nothing was going to stop him. The rate of his breathing increased. She had learned to force herself to relax, tried even to convince herself that she was enjoying it. “She won’t be like me. She’ll feel nothing. She won’t please you like me,” she tried to persuade him. “Just look at her.”

“Oh, I’ve been looking and I like what I see and what I like I will have.” He shoved hard into her.

San Diego, 2006

David stepped out of the bedroom into the hallway, but was still groggy and stumbled. He steadied himself against the wall. His eyes landed directly on the photograph of his Downs Syndrome son with his adopted family. He stared into Alexander's eyes, but the image blurred. He pushed himself away from the wall and started down the hallway. Just as he reached the large room dividing the two wings of his house furnished with large bamboo armchairs from Thailand set on a tile floor with a smattering of tropical plants and small palm trees with an old fashioned overhead fan. Wilma's voice startled him. It made him stop short of going in. “That's so funny,” she was saying in her high-pitched voice which at times seemed fragile as if she was about to crack up, but she was not laughing. She would comment that something was funny, but she never laughed spontaneously. She knew when something was funny, but why couldn't she laugh freely? When she did, it was forced and fake. She only joined in when others laughed, but always chiming in after the others and would stop before they did, so as not to be still laughing when the rest had finished.

Valle Hermoso, 1970 6 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

She reached for the shaving blade. It cut into her finger. She flinched and dropped it into the bloody bath and disappeared from view. Tears burst out of her eyes. “Oh God, please let me do this.”

Her mother tiptoed into the bathroom with her fingers pressed to her lips. She whispered, “May God forgive us hija” (Daughter). She bent over and pulled the plug to let the dirty red water out. “You’re a brave girl. I’m sorry I’m not like you. I’m so ashamed of myself, so ashamed. I’ve been such a coward. Oh, I’m so ashamed.”

San Diego, 2006

“Oh, that reminds me,” said Wilma, “when my first born ….”

Before David knew what he was doing, as if he had lost all control over his actions, he burst into the room, rage filling him, his face purple and swollen as if he had been pumped up with a helium tank, his voice was squeaky and sharp, “What do you mean your first born? His name is Alexander William Henshaw.”

“Honey,” she stretched the word out with emphasis on ‘Ho’ with a tiny pause before continuing with a drawn out ‘ney’. She jumped to her feet, “Don't make a fuss in front of our guests!”

“Guests, fuck'em all. Your family here are all a bunch of hanger-ons and the rest have never had the balls to tell me to stop being a pussy all my life.”

“Honey, now C'mon,” she beseeched him, “be reasonable.” She looked around the room trying to conceal her embarrassment. “What's come over you?”

This infuriated him further. He was always the one who maintained control while she on the other hand never tried to restrain her temper and ire. “Oh, so you don't like the shoe on the other foot. Now you know what it feels like.”

“I won't stand for this.” She walked out of the room in a huff toward the North Wing.

“You won’t stand for it,” he shouted after her with rage consuming him. It was a futile and frustrated kind of fury that sees no way out, except through self-destruction.

Fabian came up to David and said, “Jeez, Dad. Keep a lid on it!”

He turned on his son, “Run after her, you little …” He was about to pronounce ‘fag’, but stopped short.

“You’re an ass hole!” Fabian shouted back and headed down the hall in the direction his mother had gone.

David’s only wish at that moment was to dissipate into nothingness, but the anger he had withheld for so many years would not be restrained any longer. It had taken charge and would stop at nothing. He doubled up his fists and began to shake.

Wilson rushed over to him, “C'mon buddy. Let's go for a ride.”

David riveted his eyes onto Wilson’s. “I've been on a hell of ride for the last 21 years. I've been getting shafted. I've been the one who wanted everyone to be happy.”

Some people started to head toward the door to leave the party. “Oh, yeah!” he called out loudly, “Leave, go on. Now

7 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 that we're not all happy families.”

“C'mon David,” Wilson cajoled him. David looked Wilson up and down. He was 2 inches taller, handsome and always perfectly tanned. He was famous for his affairs, which his wife overlooked.

“You've been screwing Wilma,” blurted out David.

“God, No! Why would you say a thing like that?”

Some of the guests had already gone out the door, while others, the not so discreet types like Fred, Bertie and Ramsey, exhibited no ambition for departure. Some people preferred to turn away from unpleasantness and make a hasty retreat; while others liked to hang around to observe so later they would have something to talk about at parties, where they were welcome only because they could dish out the dirt on others and not for any other contribution. They figured they could liven up any gathering with their gossip.

“Jesus Wilson. I wish you were. Then maybe there'd be hope for me.”

“David, what's got into you?”

“For fuck's sake Wilson, why have I put up with her shit?”

“C'mon David. You don't mean that? It's just the drink.”

“Drink! Huh!” Everyone in the room stood motionless hanging on to his next word.

“Drink,” he put his arm around Wilson, “Drink, you say!” At the top of his voice.

“You're scaring me,” said Wilson.

“I'm the one who's been scared for the last 21 years. Living for everyone else. Not living for myself. Not anymore. From now on, I don't give a fuck about other's feelings. Mine will be the only ones that count.”

“You've flipped!” said Wilson as if he were an authority on psychoanalysis. As if he had pronounced the judgment that was to seal David's fate.

“You're fucking right, Wilson. I've been the idiot for the crap I've taken from that woman. I've trained myself not to feel anything anymore. When Fabian told me he’s gay, how do you think I felt? How do you think I reacted? Wow, son! I'm so happy for you. That's right. I was happy for him, because he was happy. And when he got that job as a busboy at 18, instead of going to college after all those years of paying outrageous fees for private schools. Oh yes, I was happy, because he was happy.” He paused. “When Leah told me she got accepted to medical school because all her life she wanted to be a doctor. Oh, was I happy! I don't know what happy means any more. I don't know what it is to be happy, Wilson. Do you know?”

David pushed Wilson away, “Get away from me, you philanderer!” He turned his attention to the remaining guests, “Get the fuck out of my house, all of you!”

“Fabian’s right. You're an ass hole,” called out Wilson as he left.

“Oh, now he's showing balls,” David shouted after him. “Oh ass hole. I'm going to enjoy being one for a change. It's my 8 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 turn now.”

David headed for his bedroom passing through the hall decked with pictures of his life depicting him as a family man. Wilma's eyes were always wide open, as if they never blinked. Leah and Fabian were usually grinning. He stopped at the end of the hallway to look at the photograph he had put up against Wilma's will. It was one of his only two acts of defiance in all their years of marriage. Alexander was surrounded by his adoptive family. Their smiles were real and strong. Their eyes were not looking into the lens when the picture was taken; rather they looked into themselves and each other. There was joy at being together. It was an image he had never seen in all his family photos.

He went into his matrimonial bedroom, packed a small suitcase, walked out to the garage passing their mini gym, where Wilma was running on the tread mill. He paused by the door momentarily reflecting on what he was about to do.

Salt Lake City, Utah, 2006

“Well folks, this has been the most incredible story I’ve ever covered,” Ronaldo Herrero’s face beamed from the TV. “It will be interesting to see what verdict the jury of 10 Mormon men and 2 Mormon women come to tomorrow. Some say it’s a forgone conclusion…”

San Diego 2006

She looked up. This time there was no poison 'Honey' expression in her eyes. “Do you feel better now?” She asked as if he had been a naughty 8 year old school boy she taught, who had just had a little tantrum and would soon forget all about it and resume his play happily.

'Huh!' he chuckled inwardly. “I never felt so good in all my life” He walked on and climbed into the Ferrari he had purchased only three months earlier. She didn’t approve and refused to go in it. She argued that only middle-aged men bought them to attract young girls and if she ever saw him with one, she would kill him.

San Diego, 1985

The tests. The tests. They were wrong. They were wrong. How could they do this to her?

Jasmina clutched her arm above the elbow and squeezed it until Wilma thought she would pass out, but she didn’t.

Take him away! No, don’t! Yes do! No, don’t! Yes do!

9 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 CHAPTER TWO

The next morning David drove out to the apartment in downtown San Diego, which Alexander shared with two other Downs Syndrome young men. He had walked up the six flights of stairs rather than take the elevator. David used to get up every morning at 5 a.m. to take Fabian and Leah to the gym before school. Wilma never took them in. He also made sure they got breakfast, even at the week-ends. He arranged for the cleaners to come in on Saturday mornings to clean the house, while Wilma went off in her four wheel drive Lexus to have her hair done, or to get a manicure or sometimes she went shopping. She always timed her return just as the maids were leaving.

Most evenings they had take-outs, because although Wilma came back from her teaching job at 5 p.m., she claimed she was too tired to make dinner. It made him respect his mother all the more as he grew older. He marveled at how she had managed to work two jobs and raise four children at the same time. His mother cooked breakfast and dinner every day. His folks did not have enough money for eating out.

His Dad used to also leave the house before the children. His workday was from 7 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. He looked after the kids upon their return from school, helped them, not so much with homework, but was always on hand for them. He was a great confidant. Any of them could talk to him about their inner most personal matters. He had a way of making his children confide in him. He never judged, just asked probing questions; so that, they would find a solution to whatever troubled them entirely on their own.

His Fabian never confided in him at all. As for Leah, she loved him dearly. He treated her like a princess, but she never revealed anything of any import to him. Both children were always mindful of how their mother would react, in case she would go off into one. Showing feelings was not allowed. Any weakness was pounced upon. David had at last realized Wilma had bullied them all. She even bullied him into giving up Alexander, when he was born, because he was Down's Syndrome. Eventually David too learned to shut down his emotions. Nothing could pierce him, because he felt nothing. Just emptiness. Even with his success and money, most of the time he spent with his family, he was distracted. He was with them, but not really. As he walked up the stairs, his step became lighter rather than heavier.

He reached the landing outside Alexander's apartment. David paid the rent. He had rewarded his adopted family for raising him. He only saw him while he was growing up once a year. Wilma could not withstand to see him more often. He was her big failure in life. Her reject. She never allowed David to visit him on his own. The adopted family also discouraged their visits. Initially Wilma wanted a closed adoption, but David agreed to the adoption only if it were open. This stipulation she carried around like an open festering wound, with which she taunted him. 'You see how cruel you've been to me by making me face my failing, whenever we go to see him.'

How he had paid for this exception. How Leah and Fabian grew up fearing their parents could also reject them, if they did not meet their expectations. How it had held them back from being themselves. 'My God!' he castigated himself. He was about to ring the bell, when the door suddenly opened.

It was one of Alexander's room-mates. Seeing David at the door startled him. “It's alright, Justin.” His nose, eyes and cheeks twitched from the unexpected situation. “I've come to see Alexander.” The young man stood there looking at him. His initial reaction now turned to uncertainty about what to do.

“Is Fab…” he started to say. Fabian was the name Alexander was to have, but when he was born with Downs and given up, they opted for a different name; so that, Fabian could be used for their next son, if they had any more. Justin stared back at him blankly, “Sorry, is Alexander in?”

Justin called out at the top of his voice, never taking his eyes off David. “Lexy, your father’s here!”

10 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 At first there was no reply. Justin repeated himself. They both heard a toilet flush down the hall, a door swung open and banged into the wall with a loud crash. Justin kept his eyes glued warily to the unexpected visitor. David stepped in with one foot and looked down the hall.

Alexander came rushing while at the same time trying to pull up the zipper on his trousers, when he looked up and saw David, his face lit up, a big smile broke out and his cheeks turned slightly red. He rubbed his nose. “Daddy, Daddy!” he squealed like a little child with a high-pitched voice, quite unlike what one would expect from a young man of 21.

He ran to David and threw his arms around him. Justin still stood there as if riveted to the spot. David embraced Alexander. “Daddy, Daddy!” he squeaked again with delight. “I l…, l…., l….,” he stammered, “lwove you, Daddy.” Due to not enough space in his mouth for his tongue, characteristic of Down’s Syndrome, he struggled at times to pronounce correctly certain letters. Sometimes he had to slow down so much to annunciate them that it caused him to stutter.

“I love you too, son,” said David. Alex rocked him back and forth tightly, not letting go of his father. The hug felt so good, but David became aware he needed to do something to release Justin.

“C'mon, son. Let's move out of Justin's way, so he can go out.”

Alex loosened his grip and outstretched his hand like a boy of two would and let his father guide him into the apartment.

Justin cleared his throat, went out without saying a word, pressed the button and waited for the elevator, whilst his eyes the whole time remained fixed squarely on David and Alex.

David felt self-conscious under Justin's unblinking gaze. The elevator arrived with a circumspect ding. Neither brash, nor bold. Yet strong enough to make the statement it had arrived and it should be the center of attention. The doors swung open. Justin stood there, still looking at them, as if the elevator had no business being there.

David called out to Justin, “The elevator!”

The suspicious young man stepped forward into the breach without looking where he was going, for his eyes had remained trained on them. The doors slammed shut behind him with another ding. This time gentler than the arrival. It occurred to David departures should be more dramatic than arrivals, but for now he was quite happy about his arrival at Alex's.

David closed the door to the apartment. Alex was still holding his hand. He had latched onto his father and seemed determined not to release him. Mind you, David did not in the least object. In fact, he adored how his son doted on him. How he looked up to his father, despite a lifetime of neglect. How there was no rancor for the rejection. He was still as innocent and naïve as the day he was born.

He envied Alex's lack of bitterness and regrets. Alex only had one feeling and that was of overwhelming love for his father. David didn't feel he deserved it. He had come to earn it. It was time he made it up to his son. Not that Alexander had any need for it. David needed to redeem himself for his dismal failure as a father.

David addressed Alex, “What would you like to do more than anything?”

Alex blurted out instantly without the slightest hesitation, “Kite surfing,” he giggled.

“Kite surfing!” remarked David surprised.

11 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “I've seen it on TV on extreme sports and on YouTube. Oh, it's so coowl, Daddy.”

“And you can swim, Alex?”

“Oh, yeah! I'm a first class swimmer. I can jump out of the poowl in one go. I mean right from under the water l…., l…., l….,” he stammered, “lwike a sea monster.” He threw his free hand up, screwed up his face imitating a monster and growled at David.

“That's incredible!”

“You know what else?” he continued without taking a breath, “I go swimming every day for two hours.” He let go of his father’s hand. He started to take off his shirt. “I'll show you my muscles.” The shirt flew off. He had biceps, which were the envy of men and the admiration of women. He flexed his muscles showing off.

“Jeez, son, you're built like a brick shit house.”

Alex looked displeased with this comment. He grabbed his shirt, put it back on and started to go toward his bedroom.

“What did I say?” asked David in desperation.

Alex turned around and looked him in the eye, which for him was not easy. He looked awkward whenever he did. It was lopsided. It was impossible for Alex to give an impression of anger with the head turned sideways. It looked comical. David restrained a smile.

“No bad lwanguage. Not from you.” He turned around and continued on his way.

“Jeez, son,” blurted out David. “Look, I'm sorry.”

By then the boy had disappeared into his room. David went after him. The door was open and what greeted him brought a big smile to his face. A huge poster of a red Ferrari with a naked woman draped over the hood adorned the wall above his bed.

“That's a good looking babe there,” remarked David.

“It's my favorite car,” responded Alex.

David half smiled, “I know, my favorite too.”

Alex looked up at this father. “I promise, no more bad words,” swore David.

Alex came up to him and threw his arms around him, “I l…, l…., l….,” he stuttered, “lwove you, Daddy.”

David wrapped his arms around him and said, “I love you too, son.”

They stood there motionless for a few moments. David said, “Kite surfing it is, Lexy.” That was what his adopted family called him. Wilma never allowed him to do so. “Shall we go?”

“Are you sherious!” cooed Lexy. Whenever he became excited he slurred his S’s so that they sounded like Sh’s.

12 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “Serious as,” he paused to avoid using any four letter words, “as I’ve ever been.”

Lexy released his father, did a blitzing 360 degree spin and threw his arms around David again, “I lwove you, Daddy,” he shouted at the top of his voice.

“I'll get my shwim bag,” said Lexy almost in a panic. He started to head for the door, then turned around and began to go toward his bedroom, but then stopped suddenly. The prospect of going kite surfing had suddenly overwhelmed him. He did not know which way to turn or what to do next.

“Never mind,” said David. “Where we're going they have all you need. All you gotta bring is yourself.”

“Let me grab my shwim shuit and goggles.” The boy rushed off into the bathroom and came back with a small gym bag in his hand and a baseball cap with a brim twice as long as normal. Emblazoned across the top was the word, ‘Rockin'.

With his head tilted down ever so slightly his face was blocked out by the brim and he looked like any other young man his age, except he was not a normal average young man. David berated himself for even thinking it.

“Let's go sport!” ordered David.

As they walked out there was a decisive spring to Lexy's step. He babbled non-stop down the elevator about how he had learned to kite surf by watching lessons on TV and YouTube.

“No sh...!” David stopped himself

“I don't need lessons. I know exactly what to do.”

They reached the first floor and walked out to the street. David could not remember whether he had parked the car to the left or right. He hesitated, when he heard Lexy shout, “Lwook, Daddy! A Ferrari 599 GTB! Just lwike in the poster.”

David turned and looked to where Lexy pointed. How could he have failed not to recall instantly where he had left it? Just then a stunning brunette with her hair tied at the back wearing a sports bra, tank top and tiny little shorts, with pink running shoes was jogging towards them, but with her eyes fixed to the Ferrari.

She should be on the car naked as in the poster in Lexy's bedroom, thought David.

Lexy raced over to the car without having noticed the jogger, whose breast bounced up and down, ever so slightly due to the restraint from the firm bra.

“Lwook at this purdy car,” exclaimed the boy.

David reached into his right trouser pocket, took out his keys and called out to Lexy. “You'll need these to see the inside.” He threw the keys to Lexy. The boy was so surprised he didn't have time to react quickly enough. The keys grazed his left shoulder and landed just beyond him two paces in front of the jogger. Lexy hesitated to take in the impact of what his father had said. When he turned around to reach for them, he came face to face with the brunette holding the keys in her hand in front of her face. “Here you go,” she said.

Lexy raised his head and studied her face. She held his gaze and smiled. He looked away and without looking her in the eye again, reached for the keys and blurted, “Thank you!”

13 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “You're welcome,” she said and continued her jog. Lexy pressed the keys to his lips kissing them. The jogger brushed past David without acknowledging him.

David turned and his eyes followed her until he heard Lexy exclaim loudly, “I love this car!” Lexy was sprawled out face down hugging the hood.

“She's a beauty, isn't she?” said David.

“A beauty,” called out Lexy as he rose off the hood. “There's a 12 cylinder engine with 620 horse inside this beast. That's not a beauty, It's a monster.” He pressed the unlock button and went over to the driver's door. He looked up at his father, as if asking permission.

“Go ahead son, get in.”

Lexy threw open the door and looked inside.

“Go on, sit in the driver's seat and see what it feels like.”

Lexy started babbling again, listing out all the features of the GTB. He knew more about the car than Ferrari's racing team.

Finally David asked him to go around to the passenger side, “I'm taking you to the beach.”

David turned the key and the engine roared. Lexy started to purr like a cat over the deep throated hum of the engine. “Oh, she sounds beautifool.” His eyes glittered under the brim of his cap. He face was alight with joy.

David pushed the gear stick into first and pulled out slowly and carefully.

“Go on, give it some lead, Daddy!” Lexy urged him.

David pressed down hard on the accelerator, shifted up into second and pushed even harder on the gas pedal. Lexy's head shot back and his hat nearly came off. He had to reach up and hang onto it.

David eased up on the power, Lexy started again a non-stop mono-dialogue about the Ferrari as if he were reading directly from the specification section at the back of the owner’s manual. Its horse power, engine cubic displacement, steering, brakes, styling, wheels, tires, gearbox, suspension, chassis and even the history of its evolution. David never imagined there could be so much to tell about a car.

They came to a red light. As they waited, the same jogger, who had earlier handed Lexy the keys, crossed the road in front of them. She turned ever so slightly, looked Lexy straight in the eye, smiled and waved at him. There was no hint of even a sideways glance at David.

“Aye, she's beautifool,” blurted Lexy. “She should be naked on the hood here,” and he roared with laughter.

It was infectious and David laughed too.

“I was thinking the same thing,” he said.

“She's more beautifool than the girl in the poster.” 14 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“There's nothing like the real thing,” added David.

“I like her, Daddy. I think I love her,” said Lexy with heavy stress on the penultimate word and pronouncing it perfectly.

“So am I, son.”

“I found her first. She's mine.”

“You got her, tiger.”

The light turned green. David looked both ways before venturing into the intersection. It was clear. He stepped on it and the car lurched forward with a squeal.

Lexy yelled, “Yeehah,” as the car sped along.

“This car’s a pussycat.”

“It's a pussy magnet,” laughed David.

“Now Daddy, no dirty lwanguage, please,” Lexy admonished him.

“Right you are, son. Sorry.”

David pushed down hard on the accelerator. “Yeehah!” screamed Lexy.

This made David laugh uncontrollably.

They took Interstate 5 and headed for Coronado. David knew of a kite surfing school along the Silver Strand south of the island connecting it to the mainland, where it was mostly windy with good waves. They were there in no time. The school occupied an old run down beach bar that had closed years ago and was left abandoned for at least a decade until it was turned into a surfing school. It still had the long wooden bar that stretched for 40 feet. It had long ago lost its luster. The once shiny smooth top now looked like an ancient dirt track filled with potholes. Someone tried to paint over it once, probably with some left over yellow paint. Most of it had peeled off and what little was left had turned an orangey ochre, the result of the paint mixing with the remnants of dull varnish below. There were no bar stools left standing. Only the bolt holes remained that had fixed them to the floor. Now these tiny pits served as collectors of old gum, surf board wax and dirt. The entire place smelled of moist sour sweat hopelessly masked by a constant supply of salty Pacific Ocean air that blew in from the back, leaky roof and sides. If it weren’t for the never ending sea breeze, the building would succumb to mold in a matter of weeks. Several young men sat on top of the old bar. When Lexy and David entered and explained their purpose, a ginger-haired young man climbed down from the bar and went around the back to fetch the owner.

The proprietor was in his 60s, David judged, but he could also have been younger for his face was deeply lined from years of too much sun. He was deeply tanned with wrinkly legs and arms, yet he possessed a sinewy figure that once must have been quite muscular. He explained that the kite surfing class for the day had begun two hours earlier. “We’ll come back tomorrow,” said David.

The owner of the school told them that he could not accept the responsibility of teaching a Down’s Syndrome in any case. 15 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“But my IQ is 120. I am not a retard.” Lexy said indignantly. David looked at Lexy stunned. He had no idea. His own was 115, high average, typical of a college graduate. 120 placed Lexy into the next category of superior intelligence, that of people with doctoral degrees.

“My insurance does not allow us to teach anyone with a disability,” lamented the owner apologetically.

“It’s not fair. I am a great swimmer. I am smarter than most. This is blatant discrimination. Watch this!” Lexy instructed. “Make way!” He took off his jacket in a huff and threw it onto the floor. He climbed on top of the bar. “Get down. All of you!” he ordered the group of lads who still sat on the bar top. Suddenly he put his hands out in front of him and rolled his body forward until he was upside down on his hands with his knees slightly bent for counter balance. David instinctively rushed forward to catch Lexy fearing that the boy was going to topple over and onto the floor. “Does this look like disabled?” Lexy shouted with some effort as his face turned dark red from the blood rushing to it. He wobbled a bit back and forth. David started to reach out to grab him, but Lexy held his balance by moving his hands forward then backward. David reigned back his hands fearing that his interference might unbalance Lexy.

“Now watch this!” called out Lexy with a strained voice and started to walk on his hands along the top of the bar, while the young men hooted and cheered his remarkable feat. His neck was bent forward at a 90 degree angle with his faced parallel with the surface of the long bar, his tongue stuck out more than usual and pointed to the left. David stood there gawking like a fool. When Lexy reached the end of the bar, he brought his head and legs in toward his chest, rolled over onto his back and sat on the edge of the bar facing his stupefied audience. David’s lower jaw dropped down as far as it would go as if it had been disconnected from the strongest muscle in the body. His tongue dangled loosely out of his mouth. David looked like the retard.

“Wow! I’ll be damned,” said the owner of the surf school, “I’ve never seen anything like it in all my years.”

“Well!” asked Lexy as he jumped off the bar. He landed clumsily and had to put his hands out to stop his fall. “Well?” he repeated when he recovered his upright posture.

“I am really sorry. As much as I would like to, I could lose my school license if I take you on without the required insurance.”

As father and son walked out feeling dejected, the ginger-haired young man who had gone to fetch the owner upon their arrival followed them out.

He approached Lexy and said, “Man that was so cool. You’re incredible.”

“I know,” said Lexy without modesty.

“Who taught you to do that?”

“I watched videos.”

“He watched videos of kite surfing too,” chimed in David.

“But you’ve never been kite surfing, have you?” asked the young man.

“No, but I practice on land.” Lexy turned and showed him his technique. He made the moves as if he were kite surfing.

16 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “That’s pretty good dude,” he was clearly impressed. “I’m Matt, what’s your name?”

“Lexy,” he said with a twinge of sadness in his voice.

Matt turned to David, “I’m Matt.”

“It’s nice to meet you. I’m David, his father.”

“Yeah, I figured. I’ll teach Lexy,” he offered, “provided he can show me he knows how to set up the kite.”

Lexy’s face lit up, “You will,” he was ecstatic. “C’mon, I’ll show ya.” He started back toward the school.

“No, not here,” said Matt. “I’m not going to teach you through the school.”

Lexy looked perplexed.

“I’m going to teach you using my own kit. Follow me!”

Matt led them over to an old VW van, which would have been shiny red when new. What was left of the paint could be rubbed off by simply wiping it away by hand. He slid open the middle side door without introducing a key. David figured the locks were most likely broken. When he rolled back the door, it squeaked bitterly. It desperately needed a dollop of grease.

Matt climbed inside and began to hand David and Lexy two wet suits, two boards and two sets of kites. Lexy would not change outside. He insisted on doing so inside the van hidden from view.

They carried the gear and went down to the beach. The lesson began. Whilst there a young woman approached them shyly avoiding any eye contact and sat down nearby without saying a word. David found it odd. There were few people about. Mainly some die-hards braving the strong breeze walking their dogs, jogging or riding along on their beach cruiser bikes. In spite of it being early spring and the sun was shining, David had to go back to the car and fetch his big parka jacket, while there he took Lexy’s coat to offer to the young lady, who wore a light weight sweater. David figured the wind would be going straight through it.

He approached her, who at first did not look at him directly, until he stood before her. She glanced up at him briefly; she had blue eyes, a fine face with delicate features. Her cheeks were bright pink from the cold. Her eyes were deep set, but their blueness compensated for their depth so that they seemed to look right at him, but the look only lasted a fraction of a second before they slid to the side away from his. She had a long nose that balanced her high set cheekbones. Her mouth was wide with a thin upper lip and a thick lower one. She had wavy blond hair that cascaded down as far as the top of her ample breasts. He noticed her nipples sticking out through the thin layer of clothes she wore. Now he was sure she was cold. He estimated her to be in her early twenties. “You must be cold,” he offered her Lexy’s coat. She looked up at him again, but only fleetingly. She stood up slowly and lazily. He calculated her to be 5’ 11”.

She had a slender figure with narrow hips and long skinny legs with long arms. He began to worry the jacket might not fit her. He held it up open for her to put on. She slid the left arm in first and it only went midway up her lower arm and stuck quite short of her wrist. David had to loosen the cuffs. She put her right arm through the other sleeve. She pulled it up over her shoulders. Thanks to Lexy having wider shoulders, the coat more than amply covered her top- The coat only covered part of her back. She turned around and zipped it up. In the front it only came halfway down her stomach. The jacket quite unsuited her.

17 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 David resisted a smile for she looked comical. She shyly said, “Thank you!” and sat down again.

“Is Matt your boyfriend?” he asked her.

“God no!” she negated fervently. “He’s my brother.”

“Ah,” remarked David.

“Do you come often to watch him?”

“Yes,” she replied.

“Do you mind?” he pointed to sit down next to her.

“No,” she said without looking up at him. He sat down rather uncomfortably, not sure whether he should persist in being friendly, but he felt obliged to do so as Matt was doing his son a favor. It was the least he could do, even though she was unwelcoming and ungrateful. The girl was quite the opposite of the effusive and outgoing brother.

It never ceased to amaze him how two siblings could be so different. He looked over to where Matt and Lexy were. They were engrossed in what they were doing. Matt instructing and Lexy constantly nodding his head in agreement or understanding or perhaps just nervous energy.

Matt positioned Lexy down the beach in the water just in front of where the waves were breaking. He raced up the beach, picked up the kite, took it up further up the sand to get rid of the slack, waited for a strong breeze, then flung it into the direction of the wind. It rose up fast, pulled Lexy forward, but rather than leaning back to counterbalance the kite, he smashed down face first.

David resisted with all his might the urge to rush forward to the rescue. Lexy tugged hard on the ropes, turned himself around on his bottom, sat up facing the kite and leaned right back until he was horizontal, then he let the kite pull him up until he was on his feet again. David felt like clapping.

Matt by then had reached Lexy and began to show him all the moves. After 20 minutes of instruction on dry land, Matt showed Lexy how to bring the kite down. Lexy was bursting with enthusiasm. He wanted to get into the water. Matt led him out to the edge of the waves, put the board on Lexy and fastened the kite back on his harness. Next he laid out his kite and board, checked his harness, ran up the beach, took the slack up from Lexy’s ropes, held it up, waited until the wind opened it up completely and tugged on it. He released it into the air. This time it went up even faster than before. Lexy seemed to have been caught by surprise. He flew forward and straight into the water head first. David leapt up, the kite mercifully headed back toward the ground. Lexy bounced straight up like a rubber ball and waved to Matt to launch him again.

The next time the kite shot up he held his position, kept the ropes tight twisting them until the kite reached over the sea and he launched himself out and over the waves. He shot out like a stone from a sling shot at an alarming rate. Matt quickly followed. David could not resist jumping up and running down to the shoreline from the thrill of seeing Lexy going out to sea. Matt was going even faster. It seemed as if his board hardly touched the water, while Lexy seemed to be leaving a large wake behind him. In no time Matt overtook him, positioned himself in front and started to turn in toward the beach. Lexy mimicked him, but he could not keep the ropes taut and gradually sank into the water. Matt circled around firing off instructions and indicating constantly with his free hand. It seemed an eternity before Lexy was again upright on his board and moving back toward the shore. David looked behind him and Matt’s sister was still sitting where he had left her like some desert flower that grew only in sand so as to amaze all who came across her stoic 18 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 courage to choose such a hostile place to exist, as if it were too much to attempt to flourish in a friendlier environment.

He looked out to sea again and Lexy was just moving along behind the white surf of the waves. Slowly but surely with a couple of stumbles he turned himself around and shot out to sea again. This time he was working the wind, maximizing its pull to lift him out of the water so that he alternated between skimming the surface like a feather and cutting through it like a lead canon ball. He felt so proud of that young man he had to stretch to give his heart more space in his chest cavity, lest it burst.

Lexy did several more runs in and out with Matt ahead of him all the time showing him how. At last Matt motioned for Lexy to head for the shore. His son dutifully spun around and raced back keeping the board virtually out of the water, only occasionally skimming it with the lightest of touches as if he were a painter, who briefly and ever so finely brushes the canvass in broad swinging strokes leaving hardly a trace of paint on the surface.

He followed Matt up onto the sand, snapped his feet out of the straps, bent down and picked up his board with his kite still up in the air. By then Matt had disengaged his kite and came back to assist Lexy. He unhooked the kite and brought it down. David came up to Lexy, who threw himself into his dad's chest and hugged him instantly soaking David’s clothes.

David didn’t have the heart to push Lexy away despite the moister beginning to seep through the front of his attire into his skin. “I lwove you, Daddy!” the lad squealed with utter delight. “That wash the besht!”

“C’mon,” David urged Lexy, “Let’s help Matt round up the kites. Lexy released his father and ran off to help. David followed closely behind.

“I see you’ve met Beatrice,” Matt said to David as he helped him roll up his kite.

“Is that her name?” David said it in a way that even irritated him. He felt like an ungrateful fool.

“Oh, don’t worry,” said Matt feeling David’s blunder. “She’s very timid.”

“Yes, so I can see.”

“To get anything out of her, you have to ask all the questions and if she feels relaxed around you, she might ask you the odd question.”

“Right,” pronounced David.

“She may not say much, but she takes everything in, not so that you’d notice.”

“Right,” said David a second time. How could he be so ignorant of the plethora of anomalies that the human race possesses? He should’ve realized there was something about her. It was time he became more aware. It was dawning on him his appalling lack of observational skills, which too often resulted in cloudy and blurry perceptions he preferred not to acknowledge or ignore. He must focus better. Not until this day had he seen his son as a person, not limited by Down ’s syndrome.

For how long had he been so shortsighted? Was it only since the birth of Alexander or was it like that all his life? Had he really lived 51 years with his eyes barely taking in what they observed? Had he given people the credit they deserved or indeed had he even short-changed himself? This question struck him to his core. He had to shake himself like a wet dog throwing off the water weighing him down. 19 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

David and Lexy helped Matt round everything up and load it into the van. Matt threw Lexy a towel, “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “It’s not the cleanest, but it’s the only one I have in the van.” Lexy took it gratefully and happily. He bounded into the van and reappeared five minutes later fully dressed and handed the wet towel back to Matt. His instructor changed into his clothes in full view of them.

“David will you fetch Beatrice for me? We must get on home. She should be there to help my Mom with lunch.”

“Let me take you to lunch,” David offered happily.

“Yesh, yesh. Let’sh!” cooed Lexy. Before David could approach Beatrice, Lexy was already on his way over to her.

“Beatrice, Beatrice,” he called out to her as if she were his lifelong friend. “C’mon, we’re going to lunch. My Dad’s treating.”

She had only managed to stand up when he reached her. He put his hand out to her to lead her back to the van, but she did not respond. Lexy reached out and took it. “C’mon!” he tugged on her hand.

She snatched it away. “I’m coming,” she snapped annoyed.

Lexy was not fazed. “I’ll race to the van,” he announced. He ran ahead of her a few steps and drew a line in the sand. “On the count of three.” He lined up and waited for her. She walked straight past him nonchalantly and crossed over the line. “That’s cheating,” protested Lexy. “One, two, three,” he lunged forward shooting past her arriving almost immediately to the van. Before she joined them, Matt said quietly to Lexy, “She doesn’t like to be touched.”

“Oh, why not?” asked Lexy loudly.

“That’s how she is,” said David. “You like to be touched, but she’s the opposite.”

“That’s not good,” said Lexy in a childlike judgmental way. “She’s wearing my jacket!” he remarked out loud so that she heard him.

“No wonder it doesn’t fit me,” she commented.

“It looks funny on you.” Lexy broke into hysterical laughter. With this ridicule her semblance of self-assuredness dissolved into a state of utter self-consciousness and embarrassment. She took it off in a huff and threw it onto the sidewalk. Lexy retrieved it instantly and put it on, while she stood there looking uncomfortable with her arms crossed around her front.

“What sort of food do you like, Beatrice”? asked David wanting to detract her attention from what just transpired.

“Chinese,” she replied instantly.

“Ooh, my favorite,” cooed Lexy gleefully.

“I know just the place,” said David.

“No,” she said firmly. “I want to go to the Jade Palace in Imperial Beach. “It’s my favorite.”

20 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “So it is,” pronounced David.

“Lexy, why don’t you go with Matt and Beatrice and I will follow,” suggested David.

Lexy climbed into the front seat of the VW van before anyone else could react to this suggestion. Beatrice gave Lexy a dirty look. Clearly Lexy had usurped her position. David was instantly sorry of his indiscretion. “Beatrice, why don’t you come with me?”

Lexy leaned out of the window of the van, “You’ll love the Ferrari,” he called out to her.

“I don’t like fast cars,” she said and hopped into the back of the van.

“It’s very kind of you,” said Matt to David.

“It’s the least I can do. You’ve made me realize things today about my son and myself that are worth much more than a Chinese meal.” He paused, “I’ll follow you.”

When they arrived at the restaurant, Matt informed David he had to call his mother to explain their whereabouts. David handed him his cell phone. “Here use this.”

While eating David’s phone rang. It was Tom, his shop manager. “Yeah, so go ahead and close without me,” he told him.

As soon as he hung up, his phone rang again.

It was the chief of jet maintenance at Miramar Marine Corps Air Station. “I’ll be there in one and half hours,” he said and hung up.

“You want to drive the Ferrari?” he asked Matt.

“Are you serious?” Matt’s eyes were alight with disbelief.

“You drive it with your sister to Miramar. We’ll follow in your van, that is if you’ll allow me to drive it.”

“I don’t want to go there,” cut in Beatrice.

“I’ll take you home first, okay?” said Matt impatiently.

“But not in the Ferrari,” she declared.

Matt suddenly seemed to be in a hurry. Lexy started his diatribe explaining for the sake of Beatrice and Matt all about the Ferrari. She looked utterly bored.

“Lexy,” David beseeched him, “she’s not interested in cars. You can tell Matt later all about it. You ride with him to Miramar. I’ll go in the van by myself.”

Lexy looked disheartened, but it did not last long. He unexpectedly announced in a loud voice so the whole restaurant heard him, “I think your’re beautifool, Beatricshe.”

21 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 All heads turned to their table. Her face flushed bright red and not from the flattery, but from embarrassment.

“You see,” Matt asserted to his sister, “I’m not the only one who thinks, you’re beautiful.”

“Oh shut up Matt!” She hissed looking him in the eye and staring him down so he had to quickly look away submitting to her, so as not to invoke her ire further.

Lexy looked puzzled, but continued with his lunch. They finished their meal. David paid for it and he and Lexy followed Matt and Beatrice to their house. It was a in a lower middle class neighborhood in Imperial Beach. David knew the type. It was like the one he grew up in sandwiched between Balboa Park and Downtown San Diego. The houses all looked similar, built in the 1920`s and 1930’s. They were mostly bungalows with porches at the front, a separate garage at the back at the end of a long driveway. In many of these houses the garages had been converted into living spaces. He and his brother had also lived for a while in the garage of their three bedroom house, which was not big enough for his parents, his two sisters and youngest brother.

Most of the houses were well kept, but Matt and Beatrice’s house he recognized immediately as a rental, because it lacked the attention to detail the surrounding houses possessed. He thought to himself he really should take better care of the two rental properties he had in North Park. In fact, his own looked rather forlorn compared to Matt’s.

They all went inside. The furnishings were adequate and looked comfortable. There was a mini grand piano at one end of the living room. It took up half the space. It looked incongruous. Lexy raced over to it and struck the keys with both hands hard. It blasted out an inharmonious sound, which embarrassed David. Lexy said, “I wish I could plway it.”

Matt’s mother appeared in the room wearing an apron and rubber gloves. Her long hair tied behind. She was a tall woman, from whom Beatrice must have inherited her height, the same could be said for the looks too. She had bright blue eyes set above high cheek bones, pink cheeks, long nose, full lips and a large mouth. She stopped in her tracks, “Oh!” she was mildly surprised. “You didn't tell me to expect company!” She removed her gloves. Matt presented her. David moved forward and shook her hand.

“Rebecca,” she introduced herself. “It’s nice to meet you. You must be the gentleman who treated them to lunch.”

“Yes. I'm David Henshaw. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He reluctantly released her hand. “Your son is a great instructor.”

Lexy was preoccupied with looking at trophies on a book case alongside the piano.

“Oh no,” Matt protested, “Lexy's an amazing learner. I’ve never known anyone to catch on so fast. He’s a natural. It's awesome how strong he is.”

“You’re very kind,” said David.

“Hey,” called out Lexy. “Beatrice with brown belt.” He was pointing to a photograph of her on the book case. “Are you like Kung Fu karate girl?”

Beatrice did not respond. “It's Judo,” answered Matt for her.

“Oh, that's so cool.”

“Who's the virtuoso on the piano?” asked David.

22 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “That's Beatrice,” replied Rebecca with some pride.

“Wow, you have talented children,” he complimented her.

“Thank you,” she said.

Matt was impatient to go. He explained to his mother the plan. David suggested, “Why don’t you come with us? With Matt.”

She cocked her head to one side and looked at him. Not so much as if considering the suggestion, but more like assessing David as a person. There was no sense of skepticism or doubting his sincerity. There was neither coquettishness nor coyness in her manner. She must have found David to be agreeable for she readily accepted. “I’ll just go and change.”

“Daddy, Daddy, come over here,” Lexy motioned David toward the bookcase. “Look at these certificates of achievement Beatrice has for piano.”

“Maybe she'll play for us sometime,” hinted David.

“She doesn't like to play to an audience,” said Matt.

“No, of course not. It's more pleasurable that way.”

Beatrice went out of the room.

Rebecca was back within five minutes having changed into a pair of tight long slacks and a snug top over which she wore a leather jacket she must have bought in her 20’s, but still looked good on her. She had untied her hair and brushed it. It had the same kind of blond curls and waves so attractive in Beatrice’s hair, except it was not quite as thick.

At first, David could not take his eyes off her until Lexy distracted him. “Give Matt the keys, Daddy!”

“Of course.” They exchanged keys.

Matt shouted to Beatrice, who had gone into her room, “Bye, Beatrice!”

Rebecca called out, “Beatrice make sure to keep the door locked. I’ll call you later,” and out they went.

A crowd had gathered around the Ferrari. Matt walked up to it like a proud Peacock. He unlocked it and opened the passenger door for his mother. She got in, he closed the door, looked around at the onlookers. “Nice car, Matt!” one of the young men called out. He smiled from ear to ear.

Matt’s van’s top speed was 50 mph. David pulled over. Matt pulled up behind him. He told him to go on ahead to the air base and wait for them at the gate and suggested he let Rebecca have a go at driving the Ferrari too.

Driving the van reminded David of his youth for he had a similar one. They were happy and care free days. It was before he met Wilma.

David arrived at the base’s gate. There was a gathering around the red Ferrari. He announced himself and his party was waved past the checkpoint.

23 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 The head of maintenance, Chief Ramirez, informed him they were having trouble firing up the crane they used to load up the Tomcat fighters onto the transporters. In less than 15 minutes David located the problem with the crane and it started up.

The Chief told David the pilots were complaining about lag in boost of power in the engines. Several of the F14s had been flown there by the Navy to be tested and repaired. The engineers from Gruman Northrop had attended several times to examine them, but found everything to be within tolerance and ordered them to be taken up to Long Beach to their maintenance plant for further testing.

“Do you mind if I have a look?” inquired David.

“Why the hell not,” the Chief replied. “There’s no harm in it. They’re going to retire them next year. It’s not like they’re under warranty. Northrop charges a fortune every time they look at them.”

David assured him there would be no charge and in any case, he was not sure he could repair them, but already had an inkling of what the problem might be. He opened the engines of one of the fighters and started looking around. Meanwhile, Matt, Rebecca and Lexy were giving tours to the Marine and Navy personnel of the Ferrari. Within half an hour of them arriving, all staff that were not on base and manning a post was outside hangar 4, where David’s Ferrari was parked.

David examined the fuel injectors and found that indeed they were within tolerance, but they were at the low end. He adjusted them to the top end.

“Get a pilot to take her up for a spin,” said David to Chief Ramirez.

Thirty minutes later a pilot approached David, “I’m Capt. Hightower,” he presented himself. “Why don’t you join me for the ride?”

“Are you serious?” asked David surprised.

“Sure am.”

“Well, kit me out! It’s always been a dream of mine to fly in one of these.”

“And mine has been to drive a Ferrari.”

“You got it,” affirmed David.

Fifteen minutes later David emerged from the hangar dressed in pilot overalls, boots and helmet. He was given instructions on what to do in case he needed to eject or throw up. He was warned that vomiting was likely. He told Lexy what he was about to do, who directly went up to Capt. Hightower and without any restraint, protocol or decorum asked if he could have a ride too.

“You bet, son,” replied Hightower without the slightest hesitation. Lexy leapt up in the air with excitement. “Your Daddy goes first, then you.” Lexy ran off back toward the hangar in a state of utter delirium to tell Matt.

They taxied down the runway faster than his Ferrari could ever move. The adrenalin rush from the take-off made him feel light-headed. His stomach seemed to stay on the ground and was desperately trying to catch up to him. He was shooting up while his bowels were going down. He lifted the mask of his helmet up and slowly reached for the puke 24 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 bag. He held it gingerly. He wished he had not eaten the sweet and sour pork ribs. It seemed like the MSG separated from the sauce and crept up his throat making it burn. He held the bag up in front of his face as he felt his meal creep up his throat then suddenly burst out filling the bag. He felt totally gutted. He closed the bag and leaned back.

“Pull your mask down!” he vaguely heard the Captain. He did as instructed and put the bag in a pocket to the side of his seat as the Marine on the ground had shown him. He was worried sick he would throw up again. He reached for another bag, just in case. The smell of puke filled the air cavity in his helmet making him feel nauseous. They went out over the blue Pacific and then Hightower put the fighter to the test. It was a white knuckle ride for David. He was unable to concentrate on what the Captain was telling him. All he could make out was, “It’s bitchin'!”

He was glad when they landed. It was worse than the scariest roller coaster ride he had ever been on, yet it was the most incredible thrill of his life. He only wished he could have relaxed and enjoyed it.

When the jet came to a standstill, he felt paralyzed. He could not command his legs or feet to move. The top went back out of the way. He put his hands on the sides and pulled himself up. His legs fortunately responded and tried meekly to hold him up. A ladder was shoved up against the fuselage and a marine gripped him and steadied him. “Take it easy, sailor,” the marine called out. It took all his strength to climb down. When he finally reached level ground, his legs were losing control and his vision became bleary. The marine held him upright and he leaned on him with all his weight.

Rebecca met him, “You look like a ghost!” she remarked.

“I feel like a Zombie,” he replied.

“My turn now!” he vaguely heard Lexy call out to the ground engineer. David turned to look at him. He was already kitted out. Hightower had not even left the cockpit. He could not think clearly. There was something he meant to tell the Captain about Lexy, but could not recall what it was.

The Chief came out and led them away from the fighter. His legs felt like they had springs in them bouncing in all directions at once making him feel wobbly. Rebecca held his arm on the other side from the Marine and helped steady him. He was glad she was there. Her touch pleased him even though his senses were numb. The Chief guided them back into the hangar to his office, where he sat him down and offered him some water.

At first he sat there not saying a word, like a man suffering from extreme shock. Rebecca crouched in front of him with a look of deep concern on her face. “Shall we call a doctor?” she asked the Chief.

“No, he’ll be fine in a few minutes, you’ll see.” He heard their conversation about him as if they were speaking underwater.

He understood from the Chief he had cured the problem. “We should’ve called you in the first place instead of those numb skulls from Northrop. Their engineers go by the book. They have no ingenuity.”

The next thing he remembered was Lexy bouncing in front him brimming with excitement. It was obvious he was not affected by the ride. David had lost track of time entirely. He was mired in a trance as he stared fixedly into Rebecca’s face, who smiled at him from time to time, rarely taking her eyes off him.

Gradually he became more coherent, though he felt like he was dreaming and he could not wake. At last Capt. Hightower came in.

“Are you alright, David?” he inquired with a smile on his face. “I’ll be damned. I’ve never known anyone to be so affected 25 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 by a little joy ride. You’ve been in a coma for the last 90 minutes.”

David concentrated hard to dispel the fog that enveloped his brain. Finally he spoke. “That was one hell of a ride!”

“Just so you know, I took it easy with you, as for Alexander, I gave him everything the Hornet could put out. 4.5 G, straight up, straight down, upside down, rolls, you name it. Your Lexy should be a jet stunt pilot. He has a lead stomach. As for you,” the Capt. paused.

“Yeah, I feel like I lost 8 lives,” said David meekly.

“That thing now flies like lightning. No throttle lag whatsoever. It’s kick ass fast.”

David reached out with his right hand to Rebecca, who had been crouching in front of him all this time. “Will you tell Matt to let the Captain have a drive?”

“Sure.” She leapt up so fast it made him feel dizzy again.

“I think you need a blood transfusion to get your color back,” the Captain joked. “You’ll be alright, you’ll see.”

“Sure, I will. I just need to sit a while longer.”

“Chief,” the Captain asked, “Can we use runway 2 for cruising that red hot rod?”

“I’ll clear it with the tower.”

Thirty minutes later David was sitting at the edge of runway 2. He was feeling better, but they had insisted on bringing out the chair for him to sit on. His legs were not so much springy now, but more like hard rubber. They moved but in a clunky lumbering way as if they were being dragged against their will. His stomach still felt queasy. The thought of any kind food was utterly revolting.

Lexy explained to the Captain all about the car. A queue of people formed to drive it as soon as the Captain started down the runway. Rebecca sat down on the ground in front of David with her legs crossed in front of her and her knees bent. He was grateful to her. She had her back to the runway. She did not seem interested in what was going on there. “What was it like?” she finally asked.

“Incredible! The most amazing experience of my life, second only to seeing my children born.”

She looked at him intensely and smiled, “You’re very close to your son, aren’t you?”

The question struck him like a dagger in the heart and he flinched. He desired to return to his previous stupor, his life before today, where his feelings had been locked up for 21 years. Rebecca noted his discomfort and immediately said, “Oh, it must be very hard to have a child with DS.”

He felt a compulsion to come clean right away and tell her the whole story. Open up his heart and spew out 21 years of pent up feelings. Was it fair he let rip on this poor, unsuspecting, kind woman?

Lexy ran up to them hugged his Dad from behind, “I lwove you, Daddy,” then ran back to join Matt.

Tears poured out of David’s eyes like monsoon rain. He tried to stop himself, but he couldn’t hold back any longer. The 26 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 dam had burst. He felt sorry for those who were in his way. Bizarrely, Rebecca smiled. She stood up and pushed his head into her belly, just below her breasts. His whole body shuddered. He had the impression she was enjoying this outburst as if his weakness was endearing. He thought he had shown strength for bearing what he did for 21 years. He had been proud of himself. Pleased with how he withstood what so few men would have.

When his sister filed for divorce he lambasted her. How could she? What betrayal? Rebecca stroked the back of his head softly and sweetly. His wife had not done so in 21 years. Whenever he was intimate with her, her whole body became rigid.

Lexy ran up to them again and noticing his father was in anguish, “Oh, Daddy,” he asked, “Are you okay?”

David pulled his head away from Rebecca and motioned to Lexy to come closer. He reached out and hugged him.

“I’m fine, son. These are tears of joy. I’m happy I'm getting close to you.”

“Oh, Daddy, you’ve always been close to me.”

David burst into tears again. “Oh, Daddy, you are a silly willy.” This made David laugh and Rebecca followed suit.

“You’re so right my dear boy,” David released him. “Go along and join your new friends.”

Lexy went off again happily.

“So you gave him up for adoption?” surmised Rebecca.

“Please don’t judge me,” he implored. “I of all people should've known better.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I wasn’t born with the name Henshaw. I was adopted myself, but in my case I chose to be,” he paused, “When I was four I was kidnapped by my Arab father along with my older brother and younger sister and taken to live with his parents in Jordan. He then went off to work in Kuwait. We only saw him once a year briefly. We had no contact at all with my mother. Eight years later my older brother escaped back to California. From there he spent 12 months lobbying my Arab relatives to send my sister and I back. Nine years later I was reunited with my mother. It was like meeting her for the first time, for I had no memory of her.”

“How awful for you!”

“I’m thankful I insisted on the open adoption. At least Alexander knows who his parents are; otherwise, we would have lost each other forever.”

“I hate to say it and you may judge me badly for it, but sometimes I wish I never had Beatrice. If I had known I was going to have a child with Asperger Syndrome, I would’ve never had children. She is impossibly difficult to live with. She has driven us to despair at times.” She paused as if regretting her words, “But then again, it’s because of her I’ve learned to be more patient, more tolerant and more loving.”

“You see, I missed all that,” said David. “I thought we were being selfish. Well, we were. But now I realize that if we had raised him, we’d be better off. That’s also selfish. Isn’t it?”

27 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “So what if it is?”

Capt. Hightower approached them. David wiped his tears away.

“Man, you took that airplane ride to heart.” He shook David’s hand. “I’m going to speak to the Commander and recommend you get on the GSA schedule to repair whatever moves in the Navy.”

“That’s very kind of you,” said David.

“If you’ll excuse me, I have to get home to my wife.” He paused, “That's one super car. I’ve never driven anything like it.” He turned and left them.

The sun started to sink below the horizon turning the high clouds over the coast to hues of light and dark pinks. The runway lights came on obliterating his view of the sundown he had hardly begun to enjoy. After all the marines and sailors had at go driving the car, Matt got in again with Lexy and took it down the runway for one last spin, when suddenly the lights went out and several marines ran out of the hangar to tell them to get the car off the runway. Matt was at the far end and a jeep raced out to him, but he ignored it and kept going.

“What’s up,” inquired David of the Chief.

“The base Commander has returned unexpectedly. He wasn’t supposed to be back until Monday morning. He'll chew our asses out for using the runway as a race track.”

“Jeez man, I’m sorry.”

The Chief disappeared back into the hangar, David ran out onto the runway to get Matt’s attention. Matt reached the end and stopped the car when he saw David waving to him frantically.

“Switch off the lights!” he shouted. The headlights went out.

“What’s up?” asked Matt.

“The base Commander’s here.”

“Oh man, are we in trouble?”

“No, not you. Let me take it from here.”

Matt jumped out of the Ferrari and David replaced him and drove it around to the front of hangar 4. There was a large navy blue Torino parked there with the driver still in it and a woman sitting in the back.

David decided to go in and face the music. Lexy followed him, “Does this mean the end, Daddy?”

“I’m afraid so, son.”

The hangar was fully lit up as if it were daylight inside. The Commander was there questioning Chief Ramirez with a raised voice about why there were cars on runway 2.

“I can explain,” called out David. 28 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

The Commander turned around to look at him. The Chief threw a look at David which told him to shut up. David hesitated, but moved forward towards the Commander trying to deduce what would be the right thing to say. He heard rapid footsteps characteristic of a woman's high heels behind him. He turned around to look. He was amazed to see the woman, who had jogged past them in the morning. Before he could think of anything to say, “Daddy,” she called out. “Come and check out the Ferrari outside. The Marines must be paying its pilots a lot of money these days.”

David kept looking at her and Lexy too was staring. She spotted them. She stopped for a moment. “Oh, it’s you two again.”

The Commander approached David and Lexy, “You know them, Emilia?”

“Well, not exactly. I bumped into them jogging this morning.”

David snapped himself out of his trance and moved forward to Emilia, presented himself and Lexy, then turned around and introduced himself to the Commander.

Before the Commander could respond, Emilia said to her father, “Can I speak to you alone for a moment?”

He nodded his head. It seemed he was well accustomed to deferring to her. She led him away from them. The Chief glanced at David and shrugged his shoulders.

A somewhat heated dialogue ensued. It appeared as if she was winning. She squealed with delight suddenly and kissed him on the forehead. “Thank you, Daddy.” The Commander’s face turned bright red. She ran over to David with a beaming smile. She held her palm out, “Car key please,” she demanded like a young teen-age girl beseeching her father to indulge her. David smiled and handed over the key.

“I’ll come with you,” volunteered Lexy. “I’ll explain you the controls.” She smiled sweetly at him, put her arm out for him to loop his through her elbow joint. The two sauntered off like little children.

David looked at the Chief, who seemed relieved. The Commander called out, “Well, what are you waiting for. Light up runway 2!”

“Yes Sir!” snapped five marines in unison. The Chief cut in, “Allow me.”

The Commander ordered, “As you were!” and left the hangar.

The Chief invited everyone into his office. A couple of Marines brought Matt, Rebecca and David take-out pizzas and soft beverages.

An hour later the Ferrari returned to the hangar. Lexy raced in first, “I drwove! I drwove! I drwove it!” He seemed to be suspended in mid-air as his feet hardly touched the ground.

“You what!” inquired David stunned.

“She taught me to drive,” replied Lexy. “It’s not sho hard.” His face was lit up with a broad smile glued to it as if a cosmetic surgeon had fixed it to be so permanently. Just then Emilia came in, “Oh, pizza,” she cooed.

She went to grab a slice, “That Lexy,” she started, “is one hell of a driver. He’s totally fearless. He went faster than I did.” 29 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“No sh--“ David stopped himself from completing the four letter word. Lexy’s adamant restriction on using foul language held him in check.

“Yeah, he’s brilliant,” she said as she took a big bite out her pizza. She chewed for a bit, then with her right middle finger wiped the corner of her mouth, “He’s a speed demon.”

David glanced over to Lexy, who was staring at him with his head cocked to one side. He looked up obliquely from under the broad brim of his baseball cap, “Daddy, did I do bad?”

David smiled, “Of course not, son.”

David walked over to him and the two embraced. “I lwove you, Daddy.”

“I love you too, my dear son.”

Lexy released his Dad and ran over to Emilia who was still holding onto her slice of unfinished pizza and he gave her a big unabashed squeeze, “I lwove you too Emilia,” and he released her much to her relief.

“I say,” called out Emilia, “Why don’t you all come out to the Salt Flats in Utah. My boyfriend is attempting to reach Mach 2 on land, the first to try it.”

Before David could even contemplate an answer, Lexy began to jump up and down. “Yes, let’s go. Let’s go now. Yes, let’s go.”

“The world’s media will be there to record the event,” added Emilia.

“I know all about Nigel Stockley,” announced Lexy.

“You’re well informed, Lexy.”

“Yeah, it wash on the news yesterday.” Lexy went to grab a slice of pizza.

“We came back to take a C130 out there. We’re bringing some spare parts.

“Oh what it is to have rank,” said David happily.

“My Daddy kissed a lot of ass to get where he is. He’s entitled to it and besides the Navy is one of the sponsors.”

“You can count us in,” said David brashly. “I’m looking forward to the ride.”

“The C-130 is subsonic,” the Chief chimed in.

“Precisely,” said David.

“Rebecca, are you in?”

“I can’t leave Beatrice.”

30 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “Who's Beatrice?” asked Emilia.

“Oh, she’s a beautifool girl,” burst in Lexy.

They all laughed.

“My daughter,” added Rebecca.

“Bring her,” said Emilia. “The plane leaves at 23:30.”

David looked at his watch. It was 8:14 p.m. Rebecca looked uncertain.

“We’ll send a Navy car to pick her up. You can go in it and pack some things. We’ll be there the whole week.”

“But Matt has classes,” protested Rebecca.

Matt jumped in, “Actually next week, I only have two, one on Wednesday and the other on Friday. I can take time out to go.”

Rebecca still looked uncertain.

“Let me talk to Beatrice,” suggested Matt.

David handed him his cell phone.

At precisely 23:30 the plane taxied down the runway with Beatrice on board. She had agreed to go on the proviso that if she became bored or did not like being there, she would be flown straight back. The Commander had agreed to the stipulation with some cajoling from Emilia.

31 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 CHAPTER THREE

By 11.30 a.m. they were all outside having surrounded the car. It was a magnificent beast. Nigel had explained to David they had to make a new design of jet engine that was light yet powerful. It produced 22,000 lbs. of thrust. The typical 737 engine output was 18,000. They needed so much power to push it through Mach 1, then a booster rocket would kick in with 26,000 lbs. of thrust taking it to Mach 1.5, followed by another booster rocket to take it through the Mach 2 barrier. Above the engine was a tiny cockpit. The whole contraption was 16 meters long and 2.5 meters tall balanced on two wheels. It was essentially a giant motorcycle.

Everything had been designed to keep weight to a bare minimum and it was highly streamlined to keep wind resistance down. Two thirds of the way back along the fuselage on each side were the small wheels, which balanced it precariously. Once mobile and moving at speed the side wheels would fold back in underneath. In fact, the whole vehicle was remotely controlled. The driver was there only to make sure it did not veer off to one side or the other, especially just before it broke through the sound barrier.

It was going to be one hell of a feat if they reached their objective. The highest land speed record in a manned vehicle was achieved on October 15, 1997 by Andy Green from the United Kingdom with a speed of 760,343 mph, just over Mach 1. Nigel went on to explain that another team was still trying to reach the 1,000 mph target, but were using existing jet engines, unlike his Mach 2 team, who had designed their engine from the ground up.

The G-force on the driver he expected to be 9 when the booster rockets kicked in. Nine times the body weight. About the same as at the top speed of the F-16. At above 5 G, the blood rushes to the head and when the vehicle begins to slowdown the blood rushes to the feet and the driver may well black out from lack of oxygen to the brain. Once it broke through Mach 2, the aim was to turn off the acceleration and let it glide down to 800 mph when the air brakes would be applied. At 600 mph they would deploy a parachute. The disk brakes would come on at 250 mph. Their driver was a stunt US Navy Pilot and had practiced flying upside down with G force 9, in order to be sure to be able to withstand the forces from this land vehicle.

Nigel was proud of his attempt to go on land nearly as fast as the Shuttle flies, which is at 1,790 mph, but still not as fast as the SR71 of 2,194 mph. Due to the effects of G-Force, they had designed a cockpit that pivoted. At take-off it swung back at a 45 degree angle, which reduced the amount of blood rushing to the head at high G-forces. When the car slowed down, it was counterbalanced so that it pivoted around at 180 degrees. In effect the driver’s head would be below his feet and he would be upside down. In this way, he would maintain a balanced flow of oxygen to his brain and stop him from potentially passing out.

Unfortunately, they had encountered a problem with the counterbalance. It was designed with the body of the driver in mind according to his weight and height, but in their tests, when the brakes were applied, the cockpit did not swing forward as it should. Initially upon putting on the brakes it flew forward very quickly, too fast that it bounced back to where it was and stayed there. They tried using dummies with different weights and body distribution and the one that worked best was identical to Lexy’s build. However the driver Grant Lilly, who had a similar build to Lexy's was struck down the previous night with a chest infection, which left him breathless and speechless. He had been ordered to rest for at least two weeks by the doctor. When Nigel heard from Emilia about Lexy’s fighter jet flight and how unaffected he was by it, he impulsively decided to approach David with a suggestion. He pulled him aside, “Your son, Alexander, has just the right shape that will allow our cockpit to work properly.”

“Let Lexy try,” offered David.

“It's a mad idea,” he said and looked away from David. “I don’t know.” 32 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“So let him try,” insisted David.

Nigel looked uncertain.

“Well then, why are you hesitating?”

“I'm not good at last minute changes. It might be best we delay it or find another driver.”

“That’s a real shame. The car is remotely controlled. All Lexy has to do is sit there. He'll be strapped in, right? What could go wrong?”

“Do you think Lexy will agree?” Nigel was still vacillating.

“Go ask him,” said David.

Nigel called for Emilia to join him. David watched from a distance as they approached Lexy, who was sitting on a bleacher inside the hangar alongside Beatrice. Neither was saying anything to the other. They were sitting in complete silence.

When Lexy spotted Emilia coming his way, he called out to her and leapt to his feet to greet her.

“Oh, Lexy,” she started hesitatingly, “we need to ask you a big favor.”

“Anything,” he beamed looking at her first then at Nigel.

“Nigel can explain,” she deferred to her boyfriend.

Beatrice jumped up from the bleacher and joined them. Lexy sensed something of import was about to happen.

“Lexy, I need a test driver.”

“You’re going to ask him?” blurted Beatrice incredulously at such a prospect.

Lexy did not know where to look. His eyes crossed and he twitched his right cheek slightly.

“I told Nigel,” Emilia started to say, “about you fighter jet …”

Lexy cut her off, “I’ll do it!” he yelled. “I can do it.” He glanced sideways at Beatrice.

“Of course, you can,” insisted Nigel.

Before anyone could say anything else, he turned to Beatrice and said, “Bye, Beatrice,” and bounded off toward the car, where his father was standing. Nigel ran after Lexy, while Emilia stayed with Beatrice.

“He'll be alright, you can be sure of that,” Emilia assured her.

Beatrice crossed her arms in front of her, turned and went back up the bleachers.

33 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 David watched his son approach him. Lexy was walking on air, as if he had sprouted wings that magically lifted him off the ground. He raced up to his father, threw his arms around him, “Daddy, I lwove you!” and hugged him tightly. David put his arms around Lexy and held him closely.

“You do exactly as they tell you, won’t you Lexy?”

“I swear on my mother, I will Daddy.”

Lexy released him and joined up with Nigel. David stood there fixed to the spot with his mouth agape, for he could not believe what his son had just sworn. Did he mean his adopted or natural mother? He called Christine, his adopted mother, Chrissy. He never called her mother or Mom. The boy had only spent an hour or so with him and Wilma on their once a year visits, which were too often once every 18 months and on some occasions once every two years. He began to wonder if Wilma visited him secretly. In fact, she always insisted they go together, that neither went separately. David had broken the rule on Saturday for the first time in his life.

Maybe Lexy was just using a figure of speech. David had heard the expression used more commonly by people whose mother had already died as “I swear on the life of my mother.” Did Lexy think Wilma was dead? Literally or figuratively? Did Lexy perceive him and Wilma as parents who once a year were exhumed out of their coffins, dusted off, cleaned up, presented, then put away again in their boxes until the next year?

What were they to Lexy? David had always thought of Lexy as his son, but had he been a father? Was he entitled to claim the title? Shouldn’t he have to earn it? Lexy hugged him and told him he loved him every chance he had, as if David had been there for him always. Fabian and Leah hardly ever said to him, “I love you, Daddy.” In fact, he could not remember the last time Fabian had said those words. His daughter on the other hand was affectionate with him and her actions demonstrated she loved him. For that, he was grateful.

He took his phone out and dialed home. Leah answered. “Pack your bags! The same goes for Fabian. I want you to get to know your brother, Alex. Put your mother on!”

Wilma came on, “Oh, so you’re going to apologize for your behavior on Friday night.”

“Listen to me!” he started.

“No,” she cut him off, “You listen to me.”

“It’s about Alex,” he cut in.

“That’s what set you off on Friday. I don’t want to talk about it. Either you apologize or don’t call back!”

“I swear on my mother, Alex just said to me. He meant you.”

“Did you hear me?” she asked calmly down the line, but with her usual strained voice.

“Oh yes I heard you,” replied David. “Come and see him. You’ll be proud.”

She hung up.

He called back. Wilma answered. “Well, are you going to apologize?”

34 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “I apologize. Come out …”

She cut him off. “That’s not an apology,” she said emphatically.

“For God’s sake, this is not about you and me. This is about Alexander. Come and see him. You’re going to be so proud of him. It will change everything.”

She hung up.

He called back. This time Leah picked up the phone.

“Do whatever it takes to come and see Alexander. Lie to your mother. Don’t tell her anything. Just go to Miramar Marine Air Station. From there you’ll be taken by a US Navy plane. Be there at 4 p.m.! You and Fabian.”

She started to say something about school. “Forget school. Cancel everything. Tell Fabian to come. I know he’s mad at me. Tell him I’m sorry and he’ll understand everything once he’s here.”

“Okay Daddy,” she complied.

“I love you, honey,” he said.

“I love you too, Daddy,” she replied.

He could hear tears in her voice.

“I know me walking out on Friday like I did was bad. And for that I am sorry, but I can tell you the last two days have been two of the greatest of my life. You’re going to love your brother. He’s amazing. Make sure you’re there with Fabian. Bye Sweetie.”

“Bye Daddy.”

He hung up.

He went to check on Lexy. The young man was wholeheartedly absorbed by his adventure. All David could do was watch. He wanted to make up for a lifetime of not seeing his son grow up, of not being there to change his nappy, wipe his nose, take him to school, go on outings with him on his speed boat, take him out to the desert. He was intent on catching up. Most parents want their kids gone and independent by the time they are 18 or 19, but this was not what David wished. He desired to be with Lexy for as long as he was able to. In Alexander’s case, he would never be completely independent. He would always need support and David wanted to do this himself. He no longer wanted outsiders, paid or unpaid, to look after him. He was his father and he would look after him.

When Leah and Fabian arrived, Lexy spotted them and broke off from his training and rushed up to them, hugged and kissed them in his usual effervescent and enthusiastic way, all the while telling them several times how much he loved them and how happy he was they came out to see him. His joy was overwhelming and it rubbed off, not only on David, Leah and Fabian, but on the whole M2 team.

A spirit of jubilation and camaraderie sprang up which had been lacking earlier. Even Nigel felt the effect of it and commented on it to David, “He has spirit. He is so thrilled. It has reminded everyone how exciting it is what we’re about to achieve. We’ve been working on it for so long that our senses have dulled. Lexy has made us feel renewed with vigor.” 35 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

The first test was scheduled for the next morning at 07:00 hours before it became hot. They needed to do the trials under cool conditions, especially for the carbon tungsten wheels to make sure they could endure the heat and pressure.

Nigel went to great pains to explain to David the ins and outs of the safety and fail-safe systems. In case things went horribly wrong, they could remotely eject Lexy out of the car. The whole cockpit along with Lexy would fly up 100 meters into the air. The G-force would be about 10. The parachute would automatically deploy, when it reached 100 meters. Literally there was a rocket under the seat to launch him into the sky. Also Lexy could activate it himself. The release handle was just below his foot. All he had to do was to push down on it.

Despite Lexy’s smaller cranial capacity due to his Down’s Syndrome his reflexes were that of an athlete as David had observed when kite surfing. Perfectly high IQ and fit men could not be sure to succeed in this task. Lexy’s disadvantages in this case, especially his low stature and robust build, made him the perfect physical specimen for the job. Also his ability to withstand high G-forces made him a more suitable candidate than many other men, including men who had been trained to handle it. Furthermore, he was able to absorb a lot of raw data, take instructions and memorize information, but what he lacked David knew was mental processing power. A split second late in making a decision at a critical moment could spell the difference between success and failure or even life and death. This aspect was not at all obvious to Lexy. Even Nigel did not feel it to be an issue. “We have total remote control. We can make decisions for him.”

“If he achieves this, it will show the whole world that being mentally or physically disabled is not a limitation, but in some cases an advantage. Maybe it will make the so-called normal people see handicapped persons like him in a different light.”

“Maybe,” said Nigel hesitatingly. “I don’t believe Lexy is thinking about the rest of the world right now.”

“Of course not, but he wants to prove himself.”

“He’ll certainly have the chance to do that.”

“He’ll never have another like it.”

Nigel stood up, “Well, it’s time I got back to the team. Rest assured we put safety first.”

“Of course. I’ll come with you.”

36 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 CHAPTER FOUR

The next morning at 06:30 Lexy was already in the car. The team was making last minute checks of all systems. The engine was fired up and Lexy went through a series of visual confirmations of the readings on the instruments panel instead of relying solely on the computer output. The all clear signal was given and a countdown began from 5 minutes.

All those present had to wear ear protection. No one was able to talk to anyone due to the engine noise. Nervousness was in their faces. Their expressions cast in stone. Leah bit her upper lip every now and then. Beatrice chewed her nails. Matt kept flicking his left index finger against his thumb. Rebecca held David’s hand and squeezed it intermittently. Fabian scratched his head frequently. They glanced furtively at each other often.

As the countdown reached 30 seconds, everyone held their breath. The roar of the engine shook their bodies like reefs in a flute. Even with the ear muffs the noise was deafening. When the digital clock reached zero, the car started out slowly at first. When it was clear of the hangar, it began to pick up speed quickly. Even though David was expecting a sudden and rapid launch, when it occurred the force and power was so extreme it stunned him. As it raced toward Mach 1, the first rocket booster fired. There was a moment’s hesitation, which could not have been more than a few milliseconds. Rebecca squeezed David's hand. The car jolted forward like Zeus shooting a star from a sling. The vehicle sped forth at such an alarming rate that David thought it would burn out. The blast from the rocket came back like a whip slashing right through them. They were left shaken to the core, gutted, burnt out hulks bewildered by the power that rocked them.

Next the sonic boom struck, which reverberated through his body as if he were a tuning fork making everything inside him go off key. The effect made tears burst forth from his eyes spontaneously as if a turbo injector had kicked in. Rebecca squeezed his hand again, which sent an electrical impulse through his body making him quiver like an Aspen leaf in the breeze.

As the vehicle distanced them, it took on a surreal aspect as if it were moving in slow motion in an infinite line. He knew the second booster would explode in 10 seconds after the first one. He counted them in his head: 1 thousand, 2 thousand, 3 thousand, he had been practicing the night before counting to 10 seconds, so he would know precisely when the second rocket would fire. When he reached 10 a huge flame blasted out of the back. The nose lifted into the air, David's heart leapt up to his throat, but fortunately the front wheel came down almost immediately, not with a bump, but smoothly like a graceful airplane being landed by an experienced pilot.

All David could see now was an orange dot with a blue halo surrounding the car. It reminded him of the gas butane ring on his camping stove. Wilma should be here, thought David. He felt guilty taking comfort from a woman he'd only met two days before. He should be loyal to his partnership with Wilma. Here he was cheating on his wife in front of his children. His hand started to perspire cold sweat despite the chill of the desert morning. In fact, his whole body was exuding liquid. He felt a drop of wetness slide down his back. His muscles tensed. He released Rebecca's hand and wiped his forehead, where beads of sweat had accumulated and were dripping into his already damp eyes. He was conscious Rebecca was observing him rather than his son, as if he were the center of attention. He glanced at her and smiled curtly and uncomfortably.

When he looked back at the car its orange fire extinguished and the halo around it vanished just as many a gust had blown out the flame of his camp stove. The big digital board inside the hangar read out “1.5 M.” The air brakes engaged, then the parachute deployed. The car became hidden behind its shroud. Nigel had not fired the third rocket to take it up to Mach 2. It was to come later.

Leah came up to her father and threw her arms around him. He felt her neck and it was covered in cold damp sweat too. He glanced at Fabian, who stood with his hands in his pockets to keep them warm, looking warily at his father. 37 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 David removed his ear muffs, pulled off Leah's and motioned to Fabian to do the same. “You think he's all right?” called out David.

Fabian shrugged his shoulders. Matt who was standing next to him responded, “He's an Ox. He'll be fine. You'll see.”

Leah was short only 5 ft. like her mother. She bent her head back to look up to her father's face, “I was really frightened for him.”

David patted her back and tears gushed out of him. Leah squeezed him tightly and cried too. She cried for her father, who had suffered silently for so long, for herself, for her mother and brother, who endured together the heavy burden of the unspoken all their lives. Their suppression of the unmentionable had crystallized itself over the years into an aura that pervaded their lives, never deserting them. It became an invisible undercurrent running through their veins burning them until their blood ran cold and locked their feelings into a frozen grave.

An hour later Lexy returned from his medical examination bounding with excitement. He was still on an adrenalin rush. The lumbering way he walked was the same but there was lightness about it, which David had never seen before. His elation levitated him defying gravity. His speech was more slurred than usual because he spoke so fast, not out of nervousness, but from his exhilaration. No one understood him. David kept telling him to slow down, but it was futile, as if he had been put on fast forward and the controls had then broken down.

David had to shout to try to make him stop speaking. “Be quiet!” he ordered. Lexy ignored him completely as if David had said nothing. When it finally dawned on him what his father was requesting, he hesitated briefly, but then resumed his incoherent machine gun rambling. Finally Beatrice approached him, put her finger over her lips indicating for him to shut up, but Lexy continued relentlessly. She put her finger over his lips to no effect. In desperation she cupped her hand over his mouth and silenced him. Even then Lexy was difficult to suppress. A tussle began, but Beatrice held him firmly and stubbornly, until his tongue stilled and he stopped struggling. She put her index finger of her free hand to her lips telling him to be quiet. He nodded his head meekly in agreement. She released his mouth. Immediately Lexy tried to speak again. She instantly covered his mouth again with her hand forcefully. “You must stop talking. Just stop! No one can understand you. You're speaking like a lunatic.”

Lexy nodded his head in defeat. His eyes spoke perplexity. There was an expression of frustration in his body language for being denied to express himself.

“Lexy, we want to understand what you're saying. You must speak slowly. Do you understand that?”

Lexy nodded his head. Beatrice released him. He looked confused. Suddenly his words dried up. He rushed up to his father and threw his arms around him. David hugged him warmly. Lexy released his father and went around hugging each person there in turn with great big bear hugs charged with rampant enthusiasm. Leah, Fabian, Rebecca, Emilia, Nigel and the other eight members of the M2 team were subjected to his embrace. Lastly he rounded on Beatrice, looked at her pleadingly having recalled she preferred not to be touched. She did not recoil from him. He waited for her to make the first move. “You can give me a hug, but make it quick.”

Lexy gently inched toward her closing the small gap remaining between them, put his arms around her lightly, while she stood there with her arms to her sides rigid as a frozen Popsicle about to snap with the slightest pressure. He gave her a peck on the cheek and released her instantly. She turned red. David could not tell if it was a blush or fury for Lexy's forwardness.

“I want go to my r…., r….., rwoom,” he announced, “I need resht.”

38 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “That's a grand idea,” remarked Nigel. “We're all proud of you, Lexy.”

The young man left the hangar. All there looked at each other without saying a word. Finally David said, “My congratulations to the M2 team! You have already broken one land speed record.”

“Thank you,” replied Nigel. “Our first test has gone well. Let's all have a little rest before the second test this afternoon.”

The M2 team left while Nigel and Emilia hung back. Nigel approached David and said, “We recorded what Lexy was saying in the cockpit during the drive. At first we could not understand it. He must’ve been quite nervous. I was nervous watching. I can’t imagine what must’ve been going through his mind. Anyway, we managed to slow it down and deciphered what he was singing. It was a Beatles song with a twist:

Lwove lwove, lwove me do You know I lwove you Sho pleashe lwove me do Daddy lwoves me sho Sho why, why not you

David's nerves had already been made raw from the dizzying mix of emotions he had undergone since Saturday. He choked on his words as he dashed out, “I need to rest too.”

Rebecca went after him without any hesitation. Leah and Fabian looked at each other enquiringly. Nigel and Emilia turned and left. Beatrice announced, “I'll go for a rest too.”

Rebecca caught up with David, “Are you okay?” she asked softly.

“I don't know why I feel upset. I should be happy for Lexy for what he's achieved today.” She put her arm on his shoulder as he walked along the path leading to where the makeshift bungalows stood that formed their basic rooms. She did not say anything. He put his arm around her waist. “That was quite something the way Beatrice calmed Lexy down.”

“I was stunned,” said Rebecca.

“You were!” asked David surprised.

“Oh yes. She's quite headstrong, but usually it's with things to do with her. She's not one to jump into things that don't directly affect her. I've never been able to figure out what makes her tick.”

“But you raised her, right?”

“Oh that I did, but that doesn't mean I understand her.”

“I didn't raise Lexy, but in the last two days I have been with him, it’s as if we’ve always been together and understand each other totally.”

“There's a strong bond between Beatrice and I. It's not outspoken like you and Lexy. Most of the time I have no clue what’s really going on in her mind.”

“Doesn’t she tell you?”

39 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “No, and when I ask her. it flummoxes her.”

“Huh,” sighed David puzzled. “That must be hard for both of you.”

“For me it is, but I'm not sure about her. She's never had the talent for verbalizing her feelings and it's dangerous to assume what she might be thinking as when I suggest one thing or other she's unable to corroborate it.”

“Is she unhappy?”

“She says not. She seems content enough. It doesn't bother her she’s not pursuing a career. She has no ambition to achieve any particular thing with her life.”

“Wow!”

“Jack and I, my husband Jack, used to worry about her. We got terribly stressed over it, but we were stressing alone. She dropped out of high school. The last four years of her life have been a nothing, except for an awful thing we did to her.”

“Oh come now, I can't imagine that.”

“Hear me out!” David kept quiet. “Two years ago, we decided she had to do something with her life. Jack was a US Navy seal, then joined NCIS (Naval Criminal Investigative Service). He had just retired and we were planning our own lives separately of the children. We wanted her to be independent. She's very bright. Even she agreed with us her life was unsatisfactory. All the suggestions we made to her were turned down. She had no ideas of her own. She told us she didn't want to disappoint us, but we reminded her it was not about us, but about her.” She paused before continuing. There was an expression of reticence in her countenance.

“Go on!” urged David.

“Out of desperation we took the initiative. We forced her to move into a supervised semi-independent home for adults with Autism and Asperger Syndrome. We thought it would make her grow up and realize she had to make a decision and do something with her life. She didn’t want to go. She told us she would hate the place before she even tried it. She said she didn’t want to live with freaks. Neither of us was willing to give up on her. We felt we would be letting her down, even if she were letting herself down. We couldn't just stand by and watch that happen. Jack was insistent. The day we moved her out was terrible. Jack had to physically manhandle her out of the house.” She stopped.

“Well, what happened then?” David was keen to know what transpired next.

“Two days later, she came back home telling us she hated the place. She wanted to move back. Well,” she paused looking at the ground. “We told her to go back. We told her she had to live her own life and we were no longer responsible for her. We had no obligation to her any longer.”

She became silent again. David could see it was a struggle for Rebecca to go on with the story. There were two benches, common in parks, in front of the military barracks style accommodation. David ushered her to sit down on one of them.

Even when seated Rebecca avoided his eyes. “Go on, tell me what happened!”

“She didn't go to the home. At midnight we got a call from the home asking if Beatrice was staying the night with us.”

40 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “Oh God!” exclaimed David.

“Jack called the police and a massive search was mounted for her.”

“Oh my God! I remember that, it was on the news.”

“But not the whole story. We found her two days later. She was raped and left naked on the beach in the middle of the night.”

“Oh God, I didn't know that. All I heard was that she was found.”

“That's only the half of it.” She stared to cry. David reached into his pocket and took out a paper tissue and gave it to her. “Thank you,” she said and looked up at him briefly. Her eyes were red and bulging. The tip of her nose had turned dark pink. She wiped her tears and tried to contain her chest from choking so she could continue with her tale. “The rapist was caught. Well Jack having friends in the police force found a way to get into the cell where the man was held and beat him to death.”

“Jesus!” exclaimed David.

“You know what he told me when I first visited him in prison?”

“What?” inquired David.

“He didn’t do it to avenge the rape of Beatrice, but to be punished for the way he had abandoned her.”

“But that's preposterous!” exclaimed David incredulously.

“I feel nothing but animosity for him. Not for what he did, but how he took upon himself all the blame and punishment as if I had not been part of it.”

“But you didn't do anything wrong. Neither of you did.”

“I can't have the luxury of self-recrimination. Jack was just selfish, thinking of only himself.”

“Oh come now. Neither of you deserve this.”

“We were so caught up in doing the right thing for her that we forgot about her safety and health. There were all sorts of signs that what we were doing was wrong. She became agitated. She could not sleep. She became distracted, lacked concentration, her short term memory failed. Whenever she was asked a question she took forever to answer and quite often the question did not even register in her mind. She did stupid things like put her finger in water on the boil to test if it was hot, but we forced her out anyway and when she asked to come back we just pushed her out again, completely failing to see it was wrong.”

“That's easy to say with hindsight. You didn't know she wouldn’t go back to the home and it's hardly your fault she was raped.”

“We should’ve known better. She’s a vulnerable person. We were not thinking straight.” She broke down crying again.

David took out another tissue and gave it to her. She took it without looking up at him or thanking him. 41 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“For me failure has been a vice,” said David, “for you a virtue.”

She looked up at him with her puffy eyes puzzled, “Virtue!”

“My giving up Lexy was wrong. I know that now. And my living with this mistake for so many years was a failure. As for you, you tried everything you could. Beatrice could not have had better parents. You did nothing wrong, unlike me who did nothing, which is worse.”

“If there's anything I learned from this is that we have to accept whatever fate throws at us. We must not fight it. We just have to live with it and accept that's how things are. I'm better off for it and so is she.”

“And your husband?” David almost immediately regretted having asked the question. He felt it may have been out of place. “I should not have asked that?”

“Why?” she asked unflinchingly. David squirmed around on the bench uncomfortably. “Is it because you have an ulterior motive?”

“You think so?”

“I hope so,” she replied and looked him directly in the eye. David held her gaze. He was unsure of what to say. He knew he might never go back to Wilma, but also felt at this moment he was not in the right frame of mind and did not want to hurt Rebecca. She'd been hurt enough.

“You don't seem like a man who would have endured what you did for so long.”

“I'm not the same man I was two days ago.

“I don't know if I could trust myself if I were to change so suddenly.”

“For me, it's been liberating. It's as if the weight of the world is no longer on my shoulders.” He looked at her trying to read her mind. Her tears had dried up, but her eyes still looked blank as if hope had been extinguished from them. She had been too hard on herself. She suffered, while he avoided, both were just as hard. They had taken their toll on them. “C'mon,” he said as he leapt to his feet. “Let's get some rest.” He reached out to her. She took his hand and let him pull her up.

They reached the door to her room first. She smiled at him. “Will you come in? Keep me company?

“I would love nothing more,” he responded resoundingly.

She smiled again, color was returning to her eyes. “How come you're so sure?”

“Are you not? Because if you aren't ...”

“Of course,” she cut him off, “I'm sure.” She fumbled around in her coat pocket for her room key. Pulled on it and in doing so dropped it to the floor. David instantly reached for it, picked it up and looked at her. She was blushing. He put the key in the door lock and opened the door. She went in and he followed. The room was bare just as his own. There were two single beds which were more like deluxe cots than proper beds. Nothing hung on the blank walls. There was a big window overlooking the passageway under which clung a big air conditioning unit that blew out hot or cold air. 42 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 The curtains were a dark khaki brown. David went over to them and pulled them shut. He turned his attention back to Rebecca. She had already removed one shoe and was in the process of taking off the other, “My feet are killing me from so much standing this morning.” She lost her balance slightly as she struggled to get the shoe off. David reached out and steadied her. She smiled at him broadly, wrested her shoe off her foot, which flipped out of her hand and when she tried to catch it, she swatted it instead and it flew across the room hitting the opposite wall, whereupon it left a black mark.

David broke out laughing. She followed suit. He put his arms around her and kissed her firmly on the lips and pressed his body to hers. She responded equally. When they separated, he helped her take off her coat. He took off his. He hung them on the two hooks behind the door. He went back to her and they kissed again. This time with more passion and with increasing frenzy, as if they were committing something they had been waiting years for and now that the moment had arrived it could not come fast enough. Even though she was a tall woman, David lifted her off her feet as if she were a waif of a girl. She wrapped her long legs around his waist like a young nimble dancer, squeezed him hard as he pressed into her crotch.

He ripped her top off, then her bra to expose two beautifully formed breasts, which still managed to maintain their elasticity despite her being close to his age. She tore his shirt off and admired his broad hairy chest and ran her hand over it while she cooed softly. David's phone rang. “Tring, Tring, Tring.” The phone came with 30 ring tones, but he chose the one that sounded like an old-fashioned rotary phone. For many years he resisted having a cell phone. His children had acquired them before he did. When he finally felt obliged to obtain one, it had to sound like an antique. To him progress didn't necessarily mean improvement. Cell phones were an intrusion and nuisance in his moments away from the constantly ringing office phone. He resented it following him around?

Rebecca looked at him quizzically. “Let it go to voicemail,” he said and pulled her face to his and kissed her. He put her down and undid her trousers. The phone kept ringing. “Tring, Tring, Tring.” David was happy to ignore it. “Maybe it's Lexy,” she suggested. Reluctantly he went over to his jacket and pulled out his phone. It displayed Wilma.

“That woman,” he muttered to himself.

“What's the matter?” inquired Rebecca.

“It's my wife,” he responded. “The hell with her.” He switched the phone off and went back to Rebecca and threw his arms around her. When he tried to kiss her, she moved her head back.

“Don't you think you should've answered her?”

“No,” he replied. “I've been answering to her for far too long. I'm not doing it any more. You see I'm a changed man.” He smiled and tried to kiss her again. She evaded him.

“But she wants you back?” she quizzed him.

He stared at her eyes for a few seconds then asked, “Is this about you or her?”

“Yes and No,” she answered.

“What does that mean?”

“It's not about me and her.”

43 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “I'm with you and not her. I want you here and now,” he moved to kiss her and this time she gave in. He felt her kissing him back with urgent passion willing herself to be aroused and carried away by the heat of the moment before she might change her mind. She stroked his hairy chest. He cupped her breasts in turn, bent down and kissed her nipples. He was enthralled when she groaned and any hesitation or restraint she might have felt when the phone sounded seemed forgotten. Pleasure and the desire for self-gratification overpowered them.

David knelt down in front of her and slowly pulled down her pants, while she caressed the back and top of his head with both hands urging him to get on with it. She pulled him up as soon as her trousers were off, knelt down in front of him and took off his pants. He wore a pair of black and white boxer shorts that were struggling to hold back his erection. She pulled them down slightly and his penis sprang out. She looked up at him and her eyes sparkled in sharp contrast to their earlier dullness. She stroked his buttocks with both hands, while she wrapped her lips around his penis and took him inside. His manhood stiffened further. She let it pop out and looked up at him again with a broad smile. She engulfed him again eagerly. He moaned. He was under her spell, for she was in command.

They fell asleep in each other's arms. He awoke from the suffocating heat in the room. He rose and switched on the air conditioner. It roared into life with a bang and a thud, then the fan kicked in. It reminded him of the hum of 747 engines, while he sat in the last row, 35,000 feet above the North Pole.

He noticed Rebecca stir. They were both naked. He felt a desire to renew their lovemaking. She had done things to him his wife had not even thought of doing in 20 years and other things Wilma never could have imagined. The thought of taking him in her mouth was dirty. Sex for Wilma had become an obligation. It was undertaken as if it were a perverse punishment. With her it was mechanical and he could not bring it to a close soon enough. It always took way longer than he wanted, because there was no lust, just pure frustration. Too often she asked him during sex, “How much longer?” It delayed him even more, not because he wanted to prolong it, quite the contrary.

There was no spontaneity with Wilma. They had agreed early on in their matrimony, once a week, early on Sunday morning, before mass. Sometimes he felt she had deliberately chosen Sunday as the day for it so in church she could ask the Lord for forgiveness, not for the sexual act, but for doing it out of duty instead of love.

Rebecca opened her eyes and saw him standing by the edge of the bed. She motioned for him to join her. He needed no persuasion.

44 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 CHAPTER FIVE

Beatrice looked at her watch. It was lunchtime. She rose from her bed, threw some cold water on her face, switched off the air and went outside. The sun was nearly at its apex and she instantly felt its heat. Instead of going to the dining room, she veered off toward the hangar, where she thought she might find Lexy.

She entered gingerly looking around. The car was stationed in the center with a ladder on each side joined by a bridge going over it giving access from above to the cockpit. She looked around and saw no one. She climbed up the ladder on the right, then up onto the span over the vehicle. She reached the middle where there was a gap, big enough for a person to pass through. She looked inside. It was empty.

She put her feet over the opening and eased herself inside, right into the seat where Lexy had been sitting that morning. There were so many gauges. She did not know what any of them meant. There was no steering wheel. There were only two levers on each side of the seat sticking up from below. They were covered in buttons. She dared not touch them, lest the car do something it shouldn't. She decided she had seen enough and was wondering how to extricate herself from there, when she heard from above her, “It's neat, isn't it?”

“I feel so stupid. I don't know anything.”

“You play the piano,” said Lexy. “That's more complicated than this thing.”

“Maybe, but not scary like this.”

“It's not scary. It's more like heart stopping. I thought I was going to pass out.” He paused and added quickly, “but I didn't.”

“Are you really going to drive this again?”

“You bet your sweet ass, sugar.”

She laughed quietly to herself. She did not know why his childish remark made her laugh.

“My ass is not sweet, you fool,” she retorted.

“Will you be my girlfriend?”

“You must never touch me,” she replied. “Not even hold hands, unless I want to.”

“Okay,” replied Lexy, his former enthusiasm now dampened.

“You promise?”

“I promise,” he replied.

“Then, I'll be your girlfriend.” She looked up to where he stood.

“Let's go and tell them,” he beamed down at her.

“Who?” she asked. 45 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“Your Mommy and my Daddy.”

“Oh them,” she acknowledged. “Help get me out of here!”

“You have to lift up your arms and hold onto my hands. Is that okay,” he asked cautiously.

“Don't be stupid!” she called out matter-of-factly.

“You said I mustn't touch you without your permission.”

She lifted her arms up. Lexy wasted no time in grabbing her hands. “Now try to stand up slowly, while ducking your head.”

She followed his instructions. “Now, put your foot on the ledge there below you. Careful! Try to not kick the instruments.”

“I wish I never climbed in here,” she said flustered as her foot found no ledge. “What ledge?” she shouted up at him.

“Look down to your left!”

“I am!” She screamed back. “I don't see a ledge.”

“It's a black bar just above your knee about 6 in. wide.”

“Oh, that! Why didn't you say bar?” she giggled. Her hands were sweating, but Lexy's grip was firm. She bent her knee and placed her foot on the bar.

“Now do the same on the other side!” instructed Lexy.

She looked down to her right. “I can only see a red bar.”

“Don't touch that!” screamed Lexy with panic in his voice. “That'sh the manual ejection override lwever.”

She giggled again. “It's not funny,” shouted Lexy. “You could've blasted us through the roof,”

She giggled even more. “Do you think it's funny?” asked Lexy losing his patience with her.

“No, of course not.”

“So why you laughing?”

“I don't know.”

“Just look for the black bar on the right”

“Oh I see it now. It's before the red one.”

“That's right.” 46 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

She stepped on it and her forearms elevated out of the cockpit hole.

“Put your right hand on the gangway!” He let her go. “Now the other!” She did. “Now pull yourself up.

She tried, but she could not do it.

“Oh!” she exclaimed embarrassed for her lack of strength. “This is impossible,” she cried out in exasperation.

Lexy changed his position from kneeling to sitting on the platform with his legs stretched out in front of him, one each side of the opening in the gangway above the cockpit entrance.

“I’ll have to touch you again,” said Lexy, “to help you out.”

“Where?” she asked.

“Under your armpits.”

“Why there?”

“I'm going to bend down, put one arm under each armpit and lift you up.” He paused for an answer.

“Okay?” he asked.

“Alright,” she conceded.

“Put your hands on top of my legs. She did. “Hold on tight!”

“I am,” she said emphatically.

“No, tighter!”

She tried.

He leant over with his arms down. He hooked them below her armpits taking great care not to touch her breasts. He lifted her slightly. She tilted her head back to clear his head until they were directly face-to-face. They felt each other’s hot breath. He used his arms like a lever with the lower half of his body as a fulcrum to hoist her and as he did so he reclined back. She came up out of the cockpit slowly. Her height meant she was not light. She came half way out and ended up laying on top of his legs face down. Her nose came to rest in his crotch region. She stayed there for a moment frozen from horror. Then frantically in a panic she moved her hands up and grabbed him by his shirt and pulled herself up until she was completely out laying on top of him with her face on top of his. She was overtaken by a rare impulse she never felt before and kissed him directly on the lips. Lexy was stunned still. She instantly jumped up and steadied herself on the railing. Lexy laid on the ground, as if he had been hit by a fatal lightning bolt. She looked down at him and began to giggle.

“What's so funny?” he asked.

“I don't know,” she replied. “Now that we've kissed we can say we’re really boyfriend and girlfriend, but don't tell anyone, we kissed!” 47 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“Can you kiss me again?” he asked.

“Certainly not!” Then as if repenting her speed of response said, “Not now. Later. When I want to.”

“Then I won't promise not to tell we kissed.”

She kicked him in the side, just below his rib cage. Lexy flinched resisting crying out. “Don't you ever blackmail me!” she rounded on him.

“Okay. I'm sorry,” he grunted back holding onto his side where her foot landed. He stood up languidly. “That was my first kiss,” he announced.

“Mine too,” she smiled.

“Really!” he seemed surprised as if he did not believe her.

She started to climb down the ladder.

“But you're so beautifool. Lots of men must have wanted to kiss ya.” He followed her down the ladder.

“Oh yeah. Lots of toads.”

“So, I'm your prince,” he said smugly.

Ignoring his over inflated comment, “Are we going to tell our parents?” She put her hand out to take his. She led the way. They walked together silently swinging their joined hands merrily. She walked slightly hunched over, her feet pointing outward like a duck. She put her heels down then lifted them up again before reaching the balls of her feet. Her gait was burdened and laborious, but despite her awkward walk she seemed to be gliding on a carpet of air.

Lexy's ape like gait too seemed to be free of his usual swaying from side to side, as if by holding her hand, she balanced him better, so he did not swing as much from left to right as he walked. Their approach was being watched by Leah and Fabian, who sat on one of the benches in front of the dorms. They observed them quietly without making any remark to each other about the sight approaching them. They did not so much as look at each other to impart any notion of what they might have been thinking. For all Leah knew Fabian might not at all be thinking about their brother.

So many things happened in their family which were never commented upon. As if by expressing nothing it meant it was perfectly normal whatever happened. Why shouldn't a romance develop between a DS and an AS? Why does anything need to be said about it? Why is there a need to judge or be judged? Why express feelings when there was no need? Even if there were, what would be the purpose? It would only unveil vulnerabilities and weaknesses. Stoic endurance was the order of the day. Leah was the perfect material for a doctor and she knew it. She could be impartial when others would suffer emotional breakdowns. She wanted to work in ER or in a war zone. She would be wholly reliable. Never a tear. Never emotional. Always level-headed come what may.

Her feelings toward Lexy were ambivalent. She was not raised with him, yet she grew up in his shadow. Lexy was the unmentionable rejection. She was grateful she had no physical or mental deficiency. She worked hard at school. Nothing came easily to her, but she never let her parents ever perceive she found most things difficult. In some cases she had to muster superhuman effort to get high marks. Her goal was to become independent in such a way that she would never again have to be dependent on her parents for anything. She never buckled under pressure unlike her older brother. 48 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

Fabian sat there bewildered by the oncoming spectacle. He imagined he was in a dream. Nothing was real. His brother for him never existed except as a ghost who occasionally fleeted in to haunt the family. He felt no commitment to display fraternal love or care for his older brother. He was second born, but he was promoted to the eldest, as if his brother's throne had been wrested from him to be usurped by the younger. He never felt comfortable with the role and rebelled against it in many ways he knew he was sure to regret later in life. He wanted to be free of his parents, but under his own conditions and not theirs. Yet he sabotaged his life to suffer the very thing he feared most from his parents: Rejection. It was a form of self-martyrdom. He willed the stealthy and silent hand of dejection to reveal itself boldly, but despite all his efforts, including his failure to achieve good results in school, he was spared. He had plenty of buddies, but no truly close friends for he dared not open up to reveal his true self, when stalking him was the ever looming hand of subterfuge and annihilation around the slightest provocative action which would catapult his mother into stratospheric heights of rage leaving him cowering in its wake.

If his father was unable to avoid it, what chance did he have? He found himself applauding his Dad for his outburst against his mother, but on the other hand the encrusted resentment he felt toward him was too powerful to show any hint that his father was at last on the right path. If anything, he envied his father. His coming out as a gay was the most courageous thing he had ever done, he had the guts to face rejection, which was swift and furious from his father. As for his mother, it did not materialize as anticipated. She accepted his sexuality with resignation. He was angrier with her than with his father, because she had reacted against Alexander's anomaly, but not his own. He had wrongly assumed she would be disappointed or angry; instead she was comforted by his vulnerability and reached out to him to protect him, mainly against his father. He was relieved to see her maternal instincts were functioning, but it unsettled him. He feared she would use it against him, if she felt the need to during one of her regular tirades.

At last Beatrice and Lexy reached the bench. Lexy said nothing at first, deferring to Beatrice, who in turn looked at him puzzled as to why he had suddenly turned into a mute like her. At last he blurted out still holding her hand, “She agreed to be my girlfriend.”

“You're a lucky guy,” said Fabian. Beatrice blushed crimson red.

“I know I’m the luckiest guy in the whole world.”

Leah jumped up. “That's so cool!” she exclaimed.

“Yes, we're cool,” beamed Lexy.

“We're going to tell our parents now,” announced Lexy.

“Now’s not a good time,” advised Leah.

Beatrice and Lexy glanced at each other perplexed.

“Why?” asked Lexy.

“Our parents are together.”

Beatrice immediately grasped the meaning and started to giggle uncontrollably. Two seconds later Lexy burst out, “They're boyfriend and girlfriend too!”

“Yeah something like that,” replied Leah. 49 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“Oh!” sighed Lexy with a heavy heart. “You mean she's my new mother now and Daddy is Beatrice’s new father?”

“Not exactly,” chimed in Fabian.

Lexy looked flabbergasted. “What about mother? I can't have three mothers.” With this he withdrew his hand from Beatrice, turned and ran toward his room sobbing. Beatrice stood there looking bewildered. Just then David came out of Rebecca’s room only to be greeted by the sight of Beatrice, Leah and Fabian with Lexy running past him nearly howling.

“What the f***?” he stopped himself from completing the word. He looked utterly flummoxed. He went off after Lexy, but the young man started to run even faster, “Lexy, wait!” shouted David. “What's the matter?” By this time Lexy had reached his room and was fiddling in his pockets searching for his room key. He would not look at his father. Tears were streaming down his face.

“Calm down!” insisted David having reached his side.

“Lweave me alwone!” shouted Lexy. “Just lweave me alwone!”

He found his key, struggled to insert it in the keyhole.

David said, “Give it to me! I'll do it.”

He reluctantly handed his father the key. David unlocked the door easily, gave the key back to Lexy, who rushed past his father and slammed the door shut as hard as he could in his face. David remained standing there looking dumbfounded at the closed door. He heard his son inside sobbing. “Lexy,” he called out. “C'mon son, what's the matter?”

There was no reply. He shrugged his shoulders, turned around and saw Leah, Fabian and Beatrice sitting at the bench with their heads spun around looking at him. The weight of their stares made him feel instantly responsible for whatever ailed Lexy. He was not sure whether it was directly or indirectly connected to him or if something else had happened with the M2 team. He started to walk over to the bench. All three turned their heads and looked to the front and away from him. He walked around to face them. “What's the matter with Lexy?” he asked.

No one responded. “C'mon guys, what's going on?”

“He's upset about having a third mother,” responded Fabian.

“Huh!” sighed David with relief and a brief, restrained smile broke out across his face. “Jezus, Holy Mother of God!” he exclaimed sarcastically.

“Don't blaspheme!” Leah reprimanded him. He was reminded of how Wilma tried to raise his children as good Catholics. How she insisted on saying grace before each meal, even though she hardly ever prepared them. From Monday to Friday he had to buy a take out on his way from work; otherwise, they would have no dinner. How on week-ends, he made breakfast for the children, while she slept. How most week-ends they went out for dinner. How when they had company, Wilma did everything possible to avoid being home. For God's sake, even when the cleaners came in on Saturday mornings, she went off to do something personal: a pedicure, or some shopping. Then on Sunday mornings she insisted they go to church as a family.

“If it hadn't been for your mother rejecting Lexy on his birth, none of this would be happening now!” he blurted out. 50 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

Leah retorted ardently, “If you had the guts to stand up to her, none of this would be happening!”

She crossed her arms over her overly developed bosom and stormed off toward her room. David was stung by these words, but they were true. He had no defense. No ground to stand on. He wished the Earth at that very moment would open up and swallow him whole. The one child he always relied on, with the special relationship, whose love he took for granted, had no respect for him. He of all people should have known what it was like to be rejected by his own family.

He was at that moment reliving the most dreaded nightmare of his childhood, except now it was worse, for he was no longer a child, blameless as he was then. How could he have inflicted this on his own children? He looked at Fabian with tears in his eyes, “I'm sorry,” and gushed out sobbing.

Fabian stood up, stretched out his slender body, wiped the palms of his hands against each other twice, shrugged his shoulders and shook his head as if in disapproval or rejection of the apology, which David knew was pathetic and too late. Fabian walked away. David glanced at Beatrice, who still sat there on the bench looking to the right away from David, as if he were not there, as if the crumbling of his entire life in front of her was a matter of no significance. As if he himself was not worthy of her attention, or even worse as if he never existed and the Earth had already gobbled him up.

He broke down crying uncontrollably. Just then, Rebecca came out of her room. David did not notice her. When she saw him, she ran to him and threw her arms around him. He wrapped his arms around her and rested his head on her right shoulder. For a fraction of a second he glanced at Beatrice, who at that instant looked up at them, fixed him with her blank stare and raised her eyebrows, then looked away again.

“What's going on?” inquired Rebecca of David. He was too ashamed to say anything.

Beatrice stood up, approached them and said standing just behind her mother, “His children hate him.”

Rebecca released David momentarily and turned around to face her daughter, but Beatrice had already done an about face and was heading toward her room. “That's not true,” Rebecca called out after her.

She turned and faced David again. “It's not true,” she repeated softly. She put her arms around him again to comfort him.

“Beatrice is right.”

“It's not true,” insisted Rebecca.

“If only,” he started to say.

“Stop that self-pity!” she ordered him before he could say more. “You'll come through this and your children love you.”

51 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 CHAPTER SIX

David and Rebecca arrived at the dining hall before the children. It was set up in a big marquee with picnic tables. They lined up behind others, collected a tray each and went down the line choosing their food. They found a vacant table and sat there.

Next Leah, Fabian and Matt arrived, but they chose to sit separately from David and Rebecca. Then Lexy and Beatrice came in. When Lexy reached the end of the food line holding his tray and saw David and Rebecca at separate tables from his siblings, he stood there not knowing which way to go. David spotted him and was about to wave to him to come over, when Lexy moved off in the direction of his brother and sister.

David resumed eating without saying a word staring into his food. Next time he looked up, he spotted Capt. Hightower, Nigel, Emilia and Commander Normandy. They joined them. “Teen-agers!” remarked Capt. Hightower. “They like to be independent, but not too independent, but they'll run to you whenever they need anything, expecting we'll give them whatever they want, and if we don't, they get mad!”

Emilia laughed, “Daddy, I never get mad at you. You’re always so obliging. You do know I appreciate everything you do for me.”

He glanced up at her, “I know, but you have been known to be ungrateful at times.”

“It’s only because you’ve spoiled me rotten,” responded Emilia.

“What about your kids, David?” asked the Captain.

“Oh, mine,” rather distracted as if he had not heard the question. “Oh, my kids, they’re good kids,” which did not answer the question. The Captain tucked into his food.

Nigel said to David, “The press will start to arrive this afternoon. We’ve decided that until after our record attempt is achieved, Emilia will be the only press spokesperson. No one else can speak to the journalists about anyone related to M2, not your children, nor you, nor anyone. We don’t want the press distracting us. Once we’ve broken the record, then you’re all free to speak to the press. They will hound you to get whatever little tidbit they can from you.”

“No problem,” said David.

“They’ll want to interview Lexy. We’ve decided to keep his identity from the press until after he completes his two runs. They’ll only be given his name afterwards. He’ll have his helmet on, so they won’t know who he is.”

“Okay,” nodded David.

“We’ve decided to do it this way, because we think it’s best for Lexy and will keep the press focused on the record that we're trying to break and not on Lexy's DS.”

“I will speak to the others,” David pointed with his finger to where the younger generation sat.

Rebecca spoke up, “It’s a good idea to avoid a circus parade around Lexy before the attempt. I know only too well how vicious the press can be.”

“I’ll be at Lexy’s side at all times whenever he will be with journalists after the attempt. They can be cruel as you said 52 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 Rebecca.”

“I hope Lexy can handle it,” remarked David.

“He’ll revel in it,” countered Rebecca, “You’ll see. This will be the making of him.”

“What about Beatrice?” asked David, “he’s sure to mention she’s his girlfriend.”

“It’ll help bring her out of her shell,” responded Rebecca positively.

“Or she’ll shrink deeper into it,” retorted David.

“She couldn’t be more introspective than she is already.”

Emilia, Nigel, Capt. Hightower and Commander Normandy looked at her puzzled. “She’s Asperger Syndrome,” clarified Rebecca.

“What’s that?” asked the Captain.

“It’s within the Autism Spectrum, but at the light end of it.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Emilia. “You’re gonna have to fill me in on what it’s all about so there are no surprises with the press.”

“Yes, of course,” consented Rebecca.

As soon as Lexy finished his lunch, he dashed off to rejoin the M2 team. As he entered the hangar he was stopped by a big burly armed security guard, who Lexy had not seen before. Cordons were being set up and about 10 guards milled about. He explained who he was and the guard laughed. “Go ask Robin Dyke who I am,” he said indignantly. “He’ll tell you.” The guard called another over and told him to find the head mechanic.

Two minutes later Robin appeared, “Hey Lexy.”

Lexy waved back triumphantly. “Let him through,” he told the guard. “Lexy, come over here. I want to show you something”

Lexy followed him to the table where Robin had been sitting. On it was a laptop. He opened a file and up popped a view of the inside of the cockpit. “We have a manual override lever here, as you know,” he pointed to it on the screen. As you can see we’ve wrapped around it a fluorescent reflective yellow tape so you can see it even in the dark. Just remember that if for some reason we can no longer control the car remotely, pull it toward you. Then you’ll have manual control of the vehicle. You’ll have to drive like you drove your Daddy’s Ferrari. We only put enough fuel in the tanks for one run. M2 will run out of gas and eventually come to a stop. You just need to steer it, so it goes in a straight line. You got that?”

“Absolutely,” nodded Lexy. “I will pull the lever if the computer fails.”

“And?”

“I’ll steer it in a straight line, until it stops.”

53 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “Exactly,” affirmed Robin. “Now if things go wrong and you can’t control the car,” he pointed again to the screen, “these two red lights will flash. If they do, you push the lever down for the cockpit to eject.”

“My girlfriend nearly pushed it,” said Lexy.

“What?” asked Robin alarmed.

“I wasn’t here. She got into the cockpit before lunch and I had to help her out. She nearly pushed it by mistake.”

“No one can go in the cockpit, but you. Is that clear?” asked Robin firmly.

“She went in when I wasn’t here.”

“Let’s get you in the cockpit. We’ll go over where everything is again.”

“Okay,” agreed Lexy relieved.

Lexy stopped to look at the M2 before climbing up the ladder. Robin put his arm around his shoulder, “She’s beautiful!” said Robin.

Lexy felt miniscule standing next to the M2.

Robin continued, “You know every machine I built except this one, I’ve driven.”

“So why don’t you drive it then?”

“I’d probably pass out.”

“You think I might?”

“Oh, did you feel faint on your first drive?”

“No, not faint. It was so exciting.”

“Wait till you go past Mach 2.”

“I can’t wait.”

54 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 CHAPTER SIX

After lunch David excused himself and went to his room for a nap. He stripped and laid down on his hard and small bed. He marveled at how he had managed to make love to Rebecca in such a dinky cot. His thoughts drifted to their lovemaking. It made him smirk and he felt an erection coming on. Without meaning to, he started to compare her to Wilma. His wife had many taboos about sex. At times he asked her if she enjoyed it and she answered candidly that she could take it or leave it. If they did not make love for months on end, she did not seem to mind. He always felt his advances were an intrusion on her. When they first started their relationship 25 years earlier, she reciprocated his passion, but he was always the initiator. It was his role as the man to take the lead, so he believed.

Now he understood it did not have to be that way and he was pleased with how Rebecca took the first step. He could not recall the last time he was an object of desire. It was fulfilling, yet it was selfish just thinking of himself. The fact that a woman undertook to satisfy him out of sheer delight rather than obligation made him feel different. It was much more than sex. For sex in this case was the culmination of a series of feelings that preceded the act. Not just his union with Rebecca, but also his liberation from the past. The baggage he had been carrying around was now gone. For him that’s what it was about. He felt reborn. His son who he had neglected and abandoned was the catalyst for his reincarnation, the very same his wife had cast out 21 years earlier.

The source of his demise into emotional oblivion became the wellspring of his revival. It was as if he had been the fortunate protagonist of a miracle. He feared his reversion back to his former zombie existence. Would he willingly go back into that tomb? Had he really escaped from one hell only to land himself in another? For he was in new territory. Did he have the resolve and courage to leave Wilma? What if she were willing to change? After all, if he was capable, why not she? Did she not also suffer, maybe even more for having cast away her son? Wasn’t it time for reconciliation rather than separation? Was he using Rebecca? Was Lexy just an excuse for him to justify leaving Wilma? Who was he doing this for? Himself? Lexy or his family? He did not know what he really wanted. He was torn between the two extremes of rupture or reunion, continuity or a new beginning.

Suddenly he was startled by a loud urgent knock on the door. He snapped his eyes open and asked, “Yeah, who is it?”

“It's me, Fabian. Open up Dad!”

“Just a second.” He jumped out of bed and hurriedly threw his clothes on. He opened the door. Fabian stood on the door’s threshold without entering, but his eyes scanned the contents of the room as if he were expecting there to be someone else.

“Come in,” offered David. “I’m alone.”

Fabian stepped in. He appeared agitated.

“What’s up son?” asked David.

“Ahem,” he started out uncomfortably and nervously. “Mom called. She’s been trying to call you since this morning. She’s left you several messages on your phone.”

“Oh shit!” exclaimed David. “I forgot to switch it back on.” He felt embarrassed, went over to his jacket and took out his phone.

“She wants to know what the hell’s going on. She’s really mad.”

55 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “Did you say anything to her?”

“No, well yes,” replied Fabian.

“Oh, hell!”

“But is wasn’t me.”

“What do you mean?”

“She asked me.”

“Asked you what?”

“She knew about Rebecca.”

“What!” David was suspicious.

“You couldn’t wait to tell her, could you?”

“Don’t put me in the middle of this. Don’t blame me for not being able to keep your dick in your pants at the first sighting of easy pussy.” With this remark he turned around, stomped out and slammed the door behind him.

David stood there confounded. The repercussions were already starting. It was in his nature to avoid confrontation, unlike Wilma who thrived on it, used it like a weapon to bully all around her. He did not like ups and down. He had chosen to stay down rather than suffer the vicissitudes of life.

Life below the radar, out of the line of fire, was preferable. Harmony was what he desired and not conflict. He had become the artful dodger. The master façade builder. The supreme mask creator of broad smiles and false laughter. These were skills he had honed to an exact science over 21 years and now in one fell swoop, was he to discard them as if they had enslaved him rather than protected and sustained him? Would he be able to switch them on again at a moment’s notice when confronted with the inescapable demons, which had pursued him so relentlessly? Was he not betraying himself to a fleeting whim? Was happiness to be laden with self-doubt? Was serenity fiction or fact?

He entered his PIN into his cell phone. A few seconds later it made a series of five irritating beeps that always left him wondering why he didn’t program a more pleasant tone. They always took on an unreal urgency, which had to be dealt with immediately, regardless of what he was doing at that moment. They were reminders he had missed out on something, which could prove to be crucial to his existence. They were proof he was wanted. Someone needed him for something, even if it were insignificant. The knowledge that someone was trying to reach him was all gratifying. He dialed the number for his voice mail.

Wilma was angry. “Call me now!” The same message four times. The fifth message was from his manager. “Hey David, Wilma called here. She’s mad. For God’s sake call her. She said something about I knew about it and that I should’ve told her. I don’t know what she’s on about and it’s none of my business.”

David hung up and was about to call her, when the phone rang. The screen lit up with the name of Wilson. He had to choose between taking the call or calling Wilma first. He opted for the lesser of the two evils. He answered the call. At first he said nothing. “David, are you there?”

56 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “Yeah, I’m here.”

“What the hell’s going on, man?”

“What do you want Wilson?” asked David annoyed.

“An apology for a start. You accused me of having an affair with Wilma. I’ve been your best friend all your life. What’s gotten into you?”

David said nothing. More conflict. It was his own making, he was about to apologize, when Wilson said, “Wilma’s been on the phone to me accusing me of having known all along of your infidelity. I assured her I never knew of you ever having an affair with anyone. She called me a bare faced liar. She wanted to know why in the hell did you accuse me of having an affair with her.”

“Listen man,” interjected David.

“No, you listen to me you ungrateful turd. You got problems with your wife, you sort them out. Don’t put me in the middle, ass hole!” He hung up.

David thought perhaps he should’ve called Wilma first. He changed his mind and decided not to call her. He looked at the off button. He went to press it, when it sounded. “Tring, Tring, Tring.” “Dad” lit up on the screen. He pressed the green button. “Hello Dad,” said David. He tried to sound cheerful, but he knew it fell short.

“What’s wrong son?” his Dad asked. He had a knack for sensing instinctively when something was the matter with his children. His radar missed nothing. His father was an artist, not only did he see things others missed, he also felt them. David wished he had that inherent capability. His Dad’s adroitness in sensing what others felt, even though they failed to express them was something which did not rub off on him.

“Everything and nothing,” he finally answered. His father was a skilled interrogator. He asked a question and had the patience to wait for the response, for his method of inquisition always got an honest answer, because his subjects knew he was truly listening and not ready to judge. His father remained quiet, for he knew David would say more.

“I left Wilma, or at least I meant to,” not sure of his intentions any more. His Dad still said nothing. He was not taking a position. Then changing subjects David continued, “I’m at the Salt Flats. Lexy is going to break the Mach 2 land speed record the day after tomorrow.”

“Isn’t that amazing,” said his Dad enthusiastically, but he did not sound surprised.

“You know about it?”

“Yeah, it’s all over the news.”

“What!”

“Wilma´s been on TV.”

“What the f***!” he stopped the expletive from completing itself.

“She says you forced him into it. She says it’s highly dangerous for him and that DS people are prone to epilepsy and 57 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 what if he should have a fit while driving the car. It could cause a fatal accident.”

There was a loud bang on the door. “Hold on Dad,” said David. “Who is it?”

“Emilia.”

He opened the door. She saw him with the phone to his ear. “I hope that’s not a journalist.”

“No. It’s my Dad,” he said indignantly.

She entered the room, found the remote control for the TV and switched it on. It was a small 14 in. old fashioned model placed in a reset in the far corner of the room. Ronaldo Herrero’s face appeared on the screen. The volume was low, so Emilia turned it up. David suddenly recalled his father was on the line. “Hey Dad. Can I call you later?”

“Sure son. Anytime.”

So you’ve just heard there Mrs. Wilma Henshaw, the mother of the Down’s Syndrome boy, who is due to drive the M2, which is meant to set a new land speed record. We’ve also heard from Doctor Alan Crengreen that Down’s Syndrome people are not granted driver’s licenses, because of the risk of suffering an epileptic fit.

David stood there looking utterly aghast and dazed as if he had entered a trance or had been frozen instantly with an expression of shock and dismay on his face. Emilia was in front of him, nearly on top of the TV. She said while keeping her eyes on the small screen, “Your wife’s a fucking loose cannon. I’ve got sponsors calling withdrawing their money.”

She turned around and looked at David, “Are you taking this in?”

David shook his head as if he were trying to wake himself. An image of Wilma appeared on the screen. Herrero. It was not his birth name. He was born with the name of Ronald Smith. He was already an established and well-known TV journalist known as Ron Smith, when he changed his name to Ronaldo Herrero and started a TV program interviewing couples in dispute. He was a specialist in exploiting domestic quarrels and he thrived on those involving children. At the bottom of the screen the letters KLATV EXCLUSIVE were embedded in place permanently. When asked why he had changed his name to the Spanish version, his reply was, “I hated that common name. Don't you prefer the Latin one?”

David felt desperate revulsion at seeing Herrero now. He could not believe Wilma could stoop so low as to go to a scum bucket like him. Wilma was crying. Herrero handed her a paper tissue. His voice was being broadcast over the images. “As you can see when I interviewed her earlier the woman is utterly distraught, worried to death her son will be killed.”

“Oh Jeez!” exclaimed David. “She's not his fucking mother.”

“What?” Emilia turned around to look at David.

“She's his blood mother. She didn't raise him. She gave him up for adoption, when he was born.”

“Does he suffer from fits?” asked Emilia, while in the background Wilma was crying on TV. Herrero was still summarizing the interview and drawing conclusions from the one-sided conversation he had held with Wilma.

“The poor woman's husband won't answer her phone calls. His irresponsibility enticed his son into an adventure in which he may die. Folks, this is no joke. This is real life drama happening before your very eyes.” 58 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

Emilia's phone rang. She reached into her pocket and took it out. She looked at the screen. She glanced at David, who still stood there like one of the victims of Vesuvius, whose demise was so fast that the expression of horror on the his face was clearly preserved for eternity. “For God's sake David, do something!” Her phone sounded again. She pressed the green button, “Hello,” she said. “Yes, I am Emilia Normandy.” An expression of deep dismay streaked across her face leaving an indelible mark so that she looked even more worried than before. But then suddenly she straightened up, forced herself to smile and relax. “Ah, Mr. Herrero. How nice of you to call?”

She waved the index finger of her free hand at him in a circular motion. He realized she wanted him to call Wilma. He could not put it off any longer. He pressed #1, which was speed dial for Wilma. Her phone did not even ring, for she answered instantly. He did not have the chance to ponder what he would say to her. He was livid, but how was he to deal with her? “Are you trying to get Alexander killed, you stupid bastard?”

“Of course not.”

“How long have you been having an affair with this woman Rebecca?”

“How do you know about her?”

“Never mind that, just answer the question.”

“This is all about you, this charade on TV.”

“It's about us. All of us.”

“But not Alexander.”

“Of course about Alexander too, he’s part of the family.”

“Well, excuse me, he’s not been from the day he was born.”

“Oh, he certainly has. He’s my flesh and blood. I won't let you use him to relieve yourself of the guilt you've been carrying around. You have no right to put him in this situation.”

“What guilt?” he asked.

“Oh, you don't fool me for a second.”

“I seem to recall, I had no choice.”

“Oh, you had a choice. I was weak,” she countered.

“The other choice was to leave you.”

“Why didn't you?” she shouted down the line. “It would've have been better if you had.”

“But, I didn't.”

“That's the only reason I stayed with you all those insufferable years.” 59 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“Oh Jeez!” he exclaimed. “You didn't have the strength to keep him, so you're blaming me for that!”

“You should've stood up to me!”

“Oh, for fuck's sake! That's all I've been hearing today.”

“What d'you expect? Everyone to rally around you?”

“Yes, I did!” he shouted back.

Emilia came up to him with her phone glued to her face. She waved at him to keep his voice down. He glanced at the TV and there appeared Herrero interviewing a young Down's Syndrome man.

“Oh yeah,” he was saying. “I've had fits. I can't even ride in a car, bus, airplane or train.”

“It's that bad!”

“Oh, I have to walk everywhere.”

“That must be awful,” Herrero sympathized.

“Yes, Alexander Henshaw is l....” Herrero cut him off. “That's all we have time for.” The camera zoomed in on his face. “We'll be bringing you an exclusive interview with Alexander this afternoon.”

“What the f***!” David refrained from completing the word.

Wilma must have been watching the same TV channel. “Oh David,” she shouted, “How could you?”

Emilia looked at David apologetically. David pressed the red button on his phone. “You've arranged for that slime ball to interview him?”

“We've lost two sponsors. That's $1.7 million. Herrero's producer offered $2 million for the exclusive interviews.”

“You're turning this into a circus,” David accused her.

“No. Your wife did that, David. What I want to know is who blabbed to her.”

Just then the door to his room opened. They both looked toward it. Lexy ran in. “Oh, Daddy did you see Mom on TV?” There were tears in his eyes.

“Yes son, I did.”

“Did you see her crying for me?” He said it in such a tone that it was obvious Lexy was happy, but he was trying to disguise it. “She's worried about me Daddy. She lwoves me.”

“Of course she does, son. She always has.”

Lexy looked pleased. He glanced at Emilia. “Do you have a mother?” he asked her. 60 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“My mother died giving birth to me,” she replied in a neutral tone leaving David with no hint of her true feelings about it.

“It must’ve been horrible growing up without a Mommy,” he moved toward her, opened his arms and wrapped them around her.

“Don't you want to cry?” he asked her with the most sympathetic voice David had ever heard, like a mother feeling sorry for her child who had hurt itself.

While Lexy was still holding her, she asked him, “Did you call your mother?”

“Yes, I did,” he replied. He released her and stepped back. “She told me not to tell you.”

“That’s okay Lexy. I won’t tell her you told me.”

“But I promised her.”

“It’ll be our secret. Okay?”

He nodded his head ashamed of himself.

“What else did you tell her?” asked Emilia.

“I told her everything. She was so happy for me.”

“She was?”

“Yeah, but she was worried about my safety.”

“I see,” Emilia nodded her head. David’s phone went, “Tring, Tring, Tring.” He ignored it.

“What did she tell you?” continued Emilia with her questioning.

“She told me not to drive the car.”

“She did?”

“Yeah.”

“Tring, Tring, Tring,” sounded David’s phone again. This time David looked at the screen. Chrissy flashed up.

“And what did you say?”

“I told her Nooooo way!”

“You did! Have you ever passed out?” she asked him.

“Nope, never.” He shook his head from left to right twice. 61 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“Never?” she doubted him.

“Nope. Never ever. I swear on my mother.”

“Tring, Tring, Tring.” David hit the green button. “Hi Chrissy.”

“David, what the hell’s going on?” Chrissy sounded angry and alarmed.

“Come out here,” he said and see for yourself. Bring the whole family. I’ll call you back when I’ve made the arrangements.”

“Is Lexy alright?” she asked.

“Oh, he’s fine. You wanna speak to him? He’s right here.”

“Yes, put him on.” David glanced at Lexy. “It’s Chrissy. She wants to speak to you.”

“Yipee,” exclaimed Lexy and took the phone.

“Chrissy,” he started out, “You won’t believe ….” He walked out of the room and shut the door.

“So KLATV offered $2 million for exclusive interviews with the driver.”

“No, with Lexy.”

David’s heart sank. Maybe it was for the best. At least this way Lexy would not be putting himself in harm’s way. He lambasted himself for the situation was resolving itself without his intervention. He had no control over what was going on. He was just being swept along.

“So who’s going to drive the M2?”

“Capt. Hightower,” she replied. “My Dad has already spoken to him and he’s agreed to it.”

“But he’s the wrong body shape. He’s a foot taller than Lexy and half as wide.”

“Nigel will have to make it work,” she said firmly.

David felt his knees weaken. He sat down on the bed. The motion made him dizzy. He laid down. Emilia went over to him. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I just felt a bit faint.”

“It’s hardly surprising. Your wife is a piece of work. She would do anyone’s head in.” She paused, “Lexy has had a ride. He was the first to go 1.5 Mach. He should be happy with that. We may never go anywhere as fast again.” She started to turn to leave the room.

“Can you arrange for Lexy’s adaptive family to come here?” asked David. “Just so he can show them the M2 he drove. They’ll be so pleased for him. I’ll text you now with their contact details.” 62 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“Sure thing. It’s the least I can do.” She continued, “I’m really sorry that it hasn’t worked out for Lexy as we had hoped.” She turned and left the room closing the door behind her gently.

He laid there staring at the ceiling. His mind was unable to process anything. It was as if it had been removed. He began to close his eyes, when Lexy burst in. David leapt upright, startled. Lexy giggled. He handed David his phone. “It’s Mom. She wants to speak to you.”

“Which Mom?” asked David.

“I only have one,” he replied shriftly.

“Oh God!” David muttered to himself.

“Please Daddy. No swearing.”

“I wasn’t swearing.”

“Oh yes, you were!”

David put the phone to his ear, “Who is this?” he started absent-mindedly.

“Who the hell do you think it is?” came a shrill sharp admonishment from Wilma. “Didn’t you hear him? He has only one mother. And don’t you ever hang up on me again!”

“Yes, of course,” said David stunned.

“You’d better talk Lexy out of doing this.”

“Doing what?” asked David.

Lexy was standing in front of the TV with the remote control in his hand flicking through the channels.

“Driving that car!” she shouted. “What the hell’s happened to you? Are you non compos mentis?”

Lexy landed on a Utah TV channel from Salt Lake showing pictures of Wilma with Herrero. Lexy started to jump up and down, “Look Mommy’s on TV!” pointing to the screen flicking his head back and forth between his father and the screen.

“How could you?” asked David. “Wasn’t it enough you betrayed him once by giving him up and now he gets his chance to achieve something great and you’ve taken it away from him. You call yourself his mother!”

Lexy turned his body around and faced his father, “What d’you mean taken away?” His tone was controlled, but his face showed he was about to breakdown mentally and physically. David feared the first epileptic fit for Lexy. He stood up alarmed. It appeared every ounce of blood in Lexy’s body was rushing to his face. It became redder and redder until he looked like a ripe tomato about to burst. David threw his phone onto the bed and rushed up to Lexy and put his arms on both of his shoulders in anticipation of an oncoming fall. His whole body began to shudder as if he were inside a cauldron being boiled alive. It shook and vibrated so much that the trembling moved up through David’s arms and made him shiver. 63 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“Lexy,” David was saying, “Try to calm down. You’re going to have a fit.”

“No, I’m not,” he screamed so loud, it made David jump back releasing Lexy. The boy bent over to the bed and picked up the phone.

“You fucking bitch!” he screamed at the top of his voice and threw the phone against the wall. Just then Leah dashed into the room followed closely by Fabian. Parts of the telephone bounced off the wall and scattered all over the floor. “I hate you all!” and rushed out.

Leah ran after him. Fabian shrugged his shoulders, put his hands in his pockets, looked at the ground and took a deep breath, as if he were about to say something, but did not. David stared at his second son standing there looking lost as he had most of his life. He barely scraped through high school and if it hadn’t been for Wilma pressuring him ceaselessly, he probably would have flunked out.

Fabian became self-conscious of his Dad staring at him and finally said, “You should’ve called Mom this morning.” He turned and walked out of the room.

David picked up the pieces to his phone. The back cover was broken. The battery had popped out. The body had a small dent at the top where it struck the wall. The glass screen had a crack across it in the shape of a lightning bolt. The SIM card was still in place. He slid the battery into its slot. Nothing happened. He pressed the On button. Nothing. He pressed it again and held it in. A few second later an hour glass appeared on the screen spinning around. He considered the wisdom of firing up his phone, but he needed to send an SMS to Emilia with Chrissy’s phone number, so she could arrange to bring them out.

The hour glass spun for what seemed like an eternity. Just as he was about to give up hope, it disappeared and the screen prompted him to enter his PIN. He entered the number 09, the month Alex was born followed by 25, the day of his birth. He used the same PIN for his cash machine and online banking. It was a date he would never forget. Everything that occurred on this day in 1985 was recorded in his brain as if inside it there had been a video camera taping, which was subsequently substituted with a projector playing back the film on demand in high resolution along with every word and sound. Even after 21 years of 0925 as his PIN, every time he used it, the film reproduced itself without fail. It played out parts of the day in bite size chunks, sometimes it made him forget why he had entered the number or where he was. Whether he was in front of the computer screen at the office or standing in front of an ATM. He had in each and every case to snap himself out of the distraction. They were the only moments in which he had lucid memories of Alexander. All memories of him after his birth up until last Saturday were blurry, incongruous and maliciously smudged images.

'I don't want to see him!' Wilma screamed from her hospital bed when she was told he was Down's Syndrome. His chest felt like imploding.

'How could this happen?' she ranted.

The injustice of it. The lack of control over what occurred in his life reminded him of how insignificant he was and a slave to circumstances. How nothing turns out like it does in the fairy tales. There is no 'They lived happily ever after.' There is no such thing as 'Happy families? His was not one.

'Call the doctor! I'll sue the hospital for incompetence,' threatened Wilma.

'What good would that do?' he had asked her. They had to sign a form before Wilma had the amniocentesis exonerating the hospital of any blame in case the test failed. They had agreed the doctors could not always be correct in their analysis. 64 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 No guarantee was offered. The only sure things in life are the caveats that come with every claim. Nothing in life holds water, for it evaporates, just as our lives over the years extinguish themselves before our very eyes.

He quickly dashed off the SMS to Emilia with Chrissy's contact details. He went over the names of everyone in the Hodder family in his mind:

Christine, nicknamed Chrissy, James, husband, nicknamed Jimmy, Albert, oldest son, 23, DS, a.k.a. Bertie, Florence, 22, a.k.a. Flowy, Virginia, 21, a.k.a. Gini, Susana, 19, adopted DS a.k.a. Suzy, Howard, 17, adopted DS, a.k.a. Howie, Frederick, 15, adopted DS, a.k.a. Freddy.

All the nicknames ended with y or I, just as Alexander had been nicknamed Lexy by them. He recalled the family photograph, which hung at the end of the long hall in his house just before the door of their bedroom. It was the only picture of Lexy in their home on display. Although it was in a dark recess of the hall, light shone out of it like a beacon putting out a message to the whole world of utter contentment for just being together. It was a vision embedded in his mind like the expression he saw on his mother's face when he saw her for the first time after 9 years of absence. Her face radiated like the sun burning the image permanently into his brain. For him it was actually 13 years for he had no recollection of her before his kidnap. He wanted to never again forget her face.

It occurred to him he should call Wilma back. He dialed her number. He took a deep breath and prepared himself mentally for the berating he was to take. He was trying to think how he could convince her to change her mind. How could he make her see Lexy was a son to be proud of? How this simple change in attitude could make all the difference in the world to her, him, Leah and Fabian. He was hoping for redemption for all of them.

The number rang and rang until it finally diverted to her voice mail. “Wilma. Alexander loves you. He only wants you to accept him for what he is. He doesn't seek forgiveness. He believes in you. Try to believe in him.” He hung up.

He looked at his watch. It was 3 p.m. He felt exhausted. He was drained. The TV was showing an old Western film with John Wayne called True Grit, wherein a young girl sought revenge on the man who killed her father. It was a kind of filial loyalty he imagined Lexy must possess for his unyielding dedication to his parents, even though they gave him up. Shouldn't he seek revenge on them? He could not avenge his Arab father depriving him of his mother's love for nine years, because he conveniently died when David was 18. His sister and he celebrated the anniversary of their reunion with their mother for the last 38 years on 4th of August. It was their 4th of July.

“I don't want to see him,” rang out in his mind. He tried to imagine what Wilma was feeling then. Was she renouncing Alexander, or did his extra Chromosome 21 remind her of her mentally retarded younger sister who died prematurely at 21. A past pain, buried and overcome. He tried for 21 years to accept her refusal to care for her son. It was a paradox. Her mother, she and her five siblings were abandoned by their father, when she was 14. She had to grow up from one day to the next. Being the eldest, she had to share the task of looking after her brothers and sisters with her mother. She exhibited incredible strength of character in assuming the responsibility without complaint or resentment. She even continued her full-time studies, while looking after the younger ones. It must have taken heroic effort to succeed at all. Her mother was very proud of her. Her father left them penniless, even though he came from a wealthy Mexican family. She refused to share with him the details of her past. It was too painful.

Like David, Wilma should have known what it must feel like to be discarded, which made it more difficult for him to 65 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 reconcile those words on 9 September 1985 with “I don't want to see him. It's better he never knows me. It's better he never knows the person responsible for making him a freak. It's better he never see me. It's better I never see him. It's better this way.” He tried at the time to justify that Wilma could not again in a single lifetime take on so much responsibility and pain.

“You won't look after him,” she accused David. “It'll be me giving up my career. It'll be me taking care of him. It's better this way.” she said over and over to him. “It's better this way, you'll see.”

Ever since that fateful day, David's thoughts and actions were always shrouded in a gray cloud. He could neither emerge into blue sky nor did he find himself in a storm. As he laid there on his tiny bed looking up at the white ceiling with only a single light bulb in the center, it was like his life: blank. He closed his eyes to blot out the bleakness. No sooner had he done so, he fell asleep.

He dreamt he was in a hospital standing next to a bed with light blue sheets with teddy bear motifs on them. There was a baby's head on a large pillow inside a blue case with Peter Pan on one side flying through the air, while on the other was Tinker Bell with her wand spraying fairy dust everywhere. It surrounded the baby's head. It was obvious it was a boy. It had to be; otherwise, the sheets would be pink. He wondered why a baby had been placed in a large bed rather than a cot. He became concerned it might roll over and fall out. He looked down the length of the bed and under the sheets was the naked body of a perfectly formed young man. The sheets were pulled tightly around him so that David could clearly see every muscle in this Greek god-like form. He was about to run his hands over the chest to feel the beautifully shaped breasts to see if they were real or if someone had placed a Greek statue in the bed with the baby, when suddenly before his face appeared a young man with dark brown eyes behind large brown glasses staring at him with a big smile of delirious gratification on his face. The head was completely bald, but perfectly round. He was wearing a white robe and a stethoscope hung around his neck. “I'm Dr. Marcus Barnaby. We're so thrilled with the result. Your son is cured of Down's Syndrome. We extracted all extra chromosomes 21 from his body. As you can see his cranium is now the normal size, his tongue fits in properly in his mouth. Gone are the characteristic mongoloid cheeks and eyes. He's going to be like any other.”

He became aware someone was in his room with him, “Daddy, wake up!” It was Leah's voice.

He opened his eyes slowly and saw her face peering down at him with an expression of alarm.

“What happened?” he asked concerned.

“Lexy won't get out of the car,” she fired off almost too fast for his brain to process.

“What car?”

“The M2.”

Good for him, thought David. “What do you want me to do about it?” Before she had time to think of an answer, he asked, “What time is it?”

“4:39.”

“21 minutes to go till the next test run.”

“It's been canceled. Capt. Hightower isn't ready to do it today.”

66 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “Well, in that case, Lexy should do it.”

“They won't let him. They have too much at stake. A whole bunch of TV crews have arrived. It's like a circus outside. You should come and see.”

“What's the point?” he sat up with his elbows propping him up. Leah smiled at him. It was sickly sweet and insincere. He had seen her mother perform it many times. “Did they send you to get me?”

“Yes,” she paused. “Aren't you worried about Lexy?”

“Of course, I am.”

“Then make him stop.”

“What? Make him stop trying?”

“Well yes. No, he's making a fool of himself.”

“Not you too,” he said exasperated.

“Maybe you're being irresponsible.”

“Have you been speaking to your mother?” he questioned her.

“No, but Lexy has.”

“He's so naïve.”

“I could say the same for you.”

He raised his eyebrows. He scoured the floor for his shoes. He reached for them and put them on. They were Reeboks with velcro laces. He liked them, because they were so easy to put on and take off. He could not manage to tie his shoe laces until he was 9. He figured it out for himself. No one taught him.

“I'm not naïve honey. I've been half dead for the last 21 years.”

“Don't say that. It's not true. You've been a good father to Fabian and I.”

“I have?” he questioned astounded.

“Of course, you have. How could you think otherwise? One mistake doesn't negate all the good you've done. Sometimes you tried too hard with us and because of it you expected too much of us.”

“Maybe I did. I don't know,” said David.

“Fabian senses you're disappointed with him. He's very unhappy.”

“And you?” asked David.

67 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “I'm fine.”

He looked at her doubtfully.

“Really, I am.”

“No, none of us are fine,” he concluded. “Let's go see your brother.”

68 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 CHAPTER SEVEN

He stepped out of his room. The hangar was masked by TV booms surrounding it. A helicopter buzzed overhead with the letters KLATV on it. “Oh my God!” he exclaimed. “I see what you mean.”

He took her hand and held onto it until they reached the cordon around the hangar. He saw vans with CBS, NBC, ABC, CCN, Fox News, BBC, ITV and many others. They pushed their way past the technicians setting up their equipment. They had to step over masses of cables covering the ground. They reached two security guards at a makeshift checkpoint. Leah explained to them who they were. They were motioned through.

Every time he saw the M2 he was overawed by its size and the obvious power it exuded. It made his Ferrari seem like a Mini. A faint scent of kerosene permeated the air. It always made him feel slightly nauseous. Nigel spotted him. He came up to him. He spoke softly, “For God’s sake, talk him into coming out of there.”

He glanced up at the gangway over the top of the opening of the cockpit and there stood Beatrice. Rebecca was at the bottom of the stairs. “Please Beatrice, come down!” she was calling up to her daughter.

“No!” she replied curtly.

Nigel looked back over his shoulder to Beatrice. “The stupid girl won’t come down unless we allow him to drive.”

“Stupid?” queried David.

Nigel turned his head back to look at David. “What?” he asked.

“You said stupid.”

“Look,” he started to say, but David cut him off.

“The only stupid thing around here is that you won’t let him drive.”

Nigel looked at him vexed and flustered. “You think it’s a good idea he drive?”

“Was there any problem with the first run this morning?” Before Nigel could reply, David continued, “He’s never had a fit in his life. He’s up for it. Why are you denying him this chance?”

“Because I don’t want him killed, that’s why.”

“No, it’s because the publicity has become about him and not your world breaking attempt!” David shouted back. His voice echoed around the cavernous hangar. The whole M2 team turned to observe them.

“We’ve ploughed $3 million into this venture. One million of it my own money,” he shouted back at the top of his voice.

“I’ll give you $1 million,” said David loud enough for all to hear.

“You have that sort of money?” Nigel doubted him. “Even if you had, it’s not enough.

“You already have $2 million from KLATV.”

69 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “What?”

“Oh, didn’t Emilia tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“She offered Herrero exclusive Alexander Henshaw interviews for it.”

“Oh God! This is turning into a circus,” he shouted angrily.

“You should talk to her.”

“And you should talk to your bloody wife,” he screamed back.

Just then Nigel’s cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and pressed the green button. “Emilia what the hell’s going on?” As he listened, Nigel walked away from David. His face turned ashen. He glanced back. David did not know how to read it. Was it consternation? Or perhaps just frustration that his plans so meticulously constructed and carried out until today were being altered by events beyond his control? David approached Rebecca, who was still standing at the base of the ladder looking up. “Beatrice, please come down, sweetheart!”

“No!” she retorted emphatically.

Rebecca turned around in exasperation and saw David standing right in front of her. “Where have you been? Hell’s broken loose here.”

“Sleeping,” her replied sheepishly.

“Sleeping!”

“Yes, sleeping, dreaming of you,” he smiled showing all his teeth.

“You liar!”

“Really, I have,” he moved closer to her.

“Don’t!” she stepped away looking very uncomfortable, “Don’t get carried away!”

David looked confused and angry. “What the hell did we do back there?” he raised his voice.

“For God’s sake, don’t make a scene!”

“Make a …..” he started to say…

She cut him off, “Herrero's TV crew is here,” she hissed.

“DAVID!” It hit him like a raging and furious explosive blast that made his chest implode. His legs began to crumble under him. He instantly felt sick to his stomach. “Is that her?” her voice detonated behind him. It reverberated around the diaphanous hangar like a series of quakes shaking him to his soul. Gone was the squeaky mousey voice characteristic of her blowups. 70 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

He turned to face her. She was walking up to him at a furious and determined pace. His head told him to run, but his feet would not budge. Her eyes shot out radioactive laser beams exterminating him from inside out. He suddenly began to sweat profusely as if he had been placed inside a microwave at the highest setting. At any moment he would burst into a million pieces.

Her eyes locked onto his like a heat seeking missile. She was coming right for him. He did not see the little hand. She was only 5 ft. It flew at his face with such speed that even his athletic reflexes did not have time to react. The tiny hand struck him on his left cheek with such ferocity it threw his head right back and nearly knocked him over. It left behind a stinging and burning sensation. It took all his resolve not to put his hand on the stricken cheek. As soon as he just about managed to regain his balance, she struck him with the other. He was so debilitated and in such shock that he was not prepared for the second strike. This time she knocked him over, which was quite an achievement considering he weighed 70 lbs more than her and was broad-chested. She bounded past him, “No!” David screamed trying to right himself, but his right hand involuntarily moved to his right cheek as if its touch would take out the sting and stop the throbbing. When he was about half way up, he saw her facing Rebecca, before he could plead with her again, Rebecca pulled back her arm, her hand was doubled into a fist and she punched Wilma right on the nose. He heard a loud crunch. The impact knocked her onto her ass. She landed in front of David.

“Fuck me!” muttered David. Blood was gushing out of Wilma’s nose. Rebecca went past them heading for the exit.

Wilma quickly regained her composure. “You fucking bitch! You’ve broken my nose.” She shouted at the top of her voice. “I’ll kill you!” She tried to stand up. David reached for her to hold her down, but her knee found his testicles. He felt like his guts were being yanked out violently and forcibly from within, which left him feeling utterly hollow. He fell over holding onto his balls howling. He closed his eyes and squeezed them trying to stop himself from passing out.

Wilma wiped the blood from under her nose, which was gushing down toward her neck.

“Mom! Mom!” rang out. It was the unmistakable groan like voice of Lexy. He was coming down the ladder as fast as he could. “Mom! Who did this to you?” he screamed.

“That slut!” she pointed to Rebecca. Lexy turned to look at her. And for the first time in his life, he became so angry that his eyes pointed up and crossed in towards the bridge of his nose, while his high-rounded cheeks pointed downward, his chin dropped, his mouth formed an O, which pulled down his nostrils making his short and stubby nose look elongated. David was still doubled over with pain. Tears were streaming out of his eyes. He was groaning, but could not manage to shout, “No!”

The young man reached the ground, turned slowly and lumbered forward with the expression of rage emblazoned on his face. He stepped off with his legs like a heavy dump truck fully loaded toward the same exit door Rebecca was heading for.

David strained to scream, “No!” as Lexy went past him, but nothing came out of his throat. The kick had emptied him of breath so completely that the formulation of coherent words became impossible. Suddenly like a bolt of lightning Beatrice bounded past him like an Olympic runner jumping a barrier. Before Lexy could reach Rebecca, Beatrice kicked Lexy’s left foot in toward his right, whereupon it tangled with the back of his right ankle making him lose his balance and topple over like a large hippopotamus. In spite of Lexy’s clumsy fall, he rose quickly. Beatrice faced him and took up a Judo stance. She warned him. “Don’t you dare go near my mother!”

Lexy looked unsure for a moment, but then his face took on a determined look. He stuck his tongue out pointing upwards toward his nose in an expression of concentration. With all his might, David forced himself to suppress the 71 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 pain cursing through his body and shouted, “No Lexy!” He glanced back at his father. Out of the corner of his eye David saw Wilma reaching for her handbag, which had fallen to the ground along with her when she was punched by Rebecca. She was muttering, “I’m going to kill that bitch!” He was expecting her to take out a handkerchief or paper tissue to wipe her nose. Two armed security guards were rushing toward them. Wilma pulled out her Smith & Wesson .38. The same pistol she used to kill Leah’s horse. He had bought it after the riots in Los Angeles years earlier, just in case they also broke out in San Diego. It was intended for protection.

When the guards saw the gun, they drew their pistols and screamed in unison, “Drop your weapon!”

Nigel screamed at the top of his voice, “For God's sake no shooting in here!”

Wilma ignored the guards, oblivious to Nigel's pleading and still muttering to herself as she stood up, “I’ll kill her, so help me God.”

“Drop your weapon or I’ll shoot!” the two guards called out simultaneously from behind him. Her arm swung around with the gun held firmly in her hand. David feared she was going to shoot Rebecca. In spite of the pain in his groin, he leapt towards her. Two shots rang out. He felt searing pain rip through him which was nothing like the kick in the groin. There was so much, he could not tell where it was coming from at first. It was as if his whole body had suddenly burst into flames. The heat made him swoon. He hoped it would make him pass out, but then was brought back from the brink of fainting by blinding pain in his upper right thigh and the top of his left shoulder. It was as if two red hot pokers had been jammed into those points in his frame and were being twisted back and forth tearing up flesh and mangling bone. His vision blurred. He looked around and saw Lexy on the ground. It appeared he was convulsing in the standing position, which struck him as odd. He should have been on the ground. It made him forget his pain for a moment. Was the boy having his first epileptic fit or was he too shot?

His sheer weight had knocked Wilma down. She was still under him. He felt her squirming and heard her screaming as if they were underwater, “Get off me, you fucker!” He tried to move, but found it impossible. He lifted his head. The movement made him dizzy. The M2 was spinning around the hangar as if he were on an LSD trip. He shook his head and forced himself get off Wilma. He looked behind him and Lexy was on the ground still convulsing and frothing at the mouth. With Herculean effort David started to drag himself toward his son with only one arm and one leg.

Beatrice and Rebecca were already at Lexy's side. He heard Beatrice scream, “Get the medics here!”

Wilma jumped up and stumbled toward Lexy screaming, “Get away from my son.” She was still holding the .38. “Freeze or I'll shoot!” David heard, but it was muffled. Wilma stopped facing David with the gun held up in front of her. She took on an elongated form. In the center she was concave. Her height doubled and she became as thin as a stick. Suddenly she lunged toward him. It was then he felt another bullet rip through his chest. The lights went out.

A few seconds later he awoke. He was shrouded in the blackest darkness. His eyes perceived no trace of light. His ears detected no sound no matter how faint. His nose discerned no whiff of fuel, as if the air had been denuded of its essence. The pain had miraculously vanished and in its place was utter sadness. He had never before felt anything so deeply. It was an emotion beyond human capacity. He embraced it heartily, but it refused to be captive. He tried to exercise his new supernatural power to hold onto it, but it was too strong. It slowly ebbed away like the receding tide, until he felt it no more.

72 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 PART TWO

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Well folks, this has been the most incredible story I’ve ever covered,” Ronaldo Herrero’s face beamed from the TV. “It will be interesting to see what verdict the jury of 10 Mormon men and 2 Mormon women come to tomorrow. Some say it’s a forgone conclusion that she meant to murder her husband, while others believe it was an accident, a tragic one. If she is sentenced for manslaughter, she will get five years with parole in three, if murder it will be 25 years with parole in 15. Either way she’ll do time. But a worse sentence for her is the one that has already been commuted, which is life confined to a wheelchair. And the worst of all, the testimony given by her two younger children was pretty damning. Her only consolation is that her Downs Syndrome son, Alexander, has stuck by her. Now known as the fastest man in the World, but also referred to as Oedipus.”

Wilma pressed the off button on the remote control. Herrero’s face blissfully disappeared from the screen to be replaced by her reflection perched in her ugly wheelchair, like a downcast queen left to rot in her tiny mobile prison. She looked over to where Lexy sat, “Why don’t you leave me alone? Why do you stay with me? I’m the one who should be dead, not your father.”

“Please don’t say that Mommy! You’re the dearest thing to me. I know you didn’t mean for any of this.”

“You were better off without me.”

“Now, I won’t stand for this nonsense.”

She closed her eyes and drifted off to a place far worse than where she sat now. She should have stayed there. Her attempts to make her life better had ruined so many others.

He pressed his body against hers. “Guapa relájate!” (Relax gorgeous.) She could not stop tensing her muscles. It was as if she were a stone. Nothing could soften her. “You’ll like it if you just relax. It won’t hurt so much,” he pleaded with her. His rough beard felt like sandpaper against her soft skin. The combination of cigarettes and alcohol on his breath made her nostrils seize up as she tightened up even more. The bitter, putrid odor coated the inside of her throat right down to her lungs. The air passage began to swell and climb up toward her mouth reaching out for fresh air blocking her breathing completely. She forced herself to open her mouth wide and gulp in more of the rancid air being expulsed out of his vile body. She had to close her mouth firmly as more of the slimy air particles from his breath were rushing in to slide down her throat. Each breath she took made her sicker. Oh how she wished she could cease to breathe, but nature would not permit it. She dared not retch. ‘How can this be happening to me? Was it like this for mama too?’

Lexy rose from his small, creaky chair. She snapped her eyes open. It was a poor relation to her soft seat, which she could not feel, yet hated. It mattered not whether it was made of soft leather or spiky nails. Lexy should have been sitting in it and not her. She looked around the bare room in the small house Lexy rented for them for the duration of the trial. She had been granted bail of $1 million only because she was in a wheel chair on the condition that she remained under house arrest. He inherited one-third of his father’s estate and the life insurance payout. David left her nothing. It was just as well, for a criminal would not be allowed to enjoy it. She knew the legal fees must be costing Lexy all his inheritance, but he was stubborn. He would not allow her to be defended by a court assigned attorney. At first she refused any counsel, but the judge told her she had no choice. When Lexy showed up with Mrs. Graves, she would not even talk to her. She tried to make the lawyer go away, but she relented only because the woman told her she was the victim and not the culprit. How she wanted to believe it, but in spite of trying, it was out of reach like a mesmerizing shining star that she could only stare at and admire for hours, but would never set foot on.

He walked over to a small cabinet on the far side of the small room. The Formica top had lifted up on the sides and front. It weren’t for the TV standing on it, the top would have come off years ago. The formica sheets that once covered the two door frames had peeled off long ago. Each frame was tenuously holding within it a sheet of green

73 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 plastic with floral arrangements designed to make it look more elegant than plain glass, but instead just made it look even cheaper than it already was. Lexy grabbed the handle on the right door while with his left hand he held the top of the cabinet in place to prevent it from toppling over upon opening it. He pulled gently at first, the plastic sheet rattled about, but the door did not yield. Lexy pulled hard on the metal grip and the door flew open with the hinges groaning wearily. No amount of oil would help them become less squeaky. The inside of the cabinet was crammed full of letters and several of them spilled out onto the floor.

He picked up a handful of the letters, “Look Mommy, these are people who have written supporting you. They don’t all fit in here. I had to put a bunch of them in the cupboard in your bedroom.”

“They’re not writing to me. They’re writing to you, they feel sorry for you, not for me.”

“No,” and he took the handful he held and brought them to her. “You should read them. They have nothing to do with sorry. It’s about justice.”

“It’s too late for me. It’s come too late. My life’s over.”

“You’re depressed that’s all.” Lexy went back to the cabinet and placed the letters on top, some of them fell off, but he ignored them. “Do you want to go to bed now? You have a long day tomorrow.”

“Yes,” she replied.

He wheeled her into the bedroom, helped her into bed, tucked her in and left.

“Don’t close the door!” she called out after him.

“No, I promise, I won’t.”

She closed her eyes, not because she wanted to sleep, but to get away from where she was.

“Chicas!” No she did not want to go there. She tried to sleep, but it would not come. “I can’t help myself. You are so beautiful and young. Still unspoiled by disappointment and resentment. You have your whole life before you.”

Unwittingly her mind drifted back to the courtroom.

“But I didn’t mean to. It was an accident.”

“It was your bullet from your gun, which delivered the fatal wound to your husband,”

“I know,” she tried to say more, but the prosecuting attorney Raymond Twitchell cut her off with a look of derision that never failed to make her feel ashamed.

“You were holding the gun, you pulled the trigger, Mrs. Henshaw. That much we have established. That much is fact. You pointed the .38 at your husband. Your finger was on the trigger. You came to the Flats to kill. You brought the pistol with you. It was premeditated. You shot your husband dead in cold blood,” he pronounced.

“Objection!” screamed her defense attorney, Mrs. Samantha Graves.

“Sustained,” announced the judge.

“But it was an accident,” continued Wilma, “I didn’t even realize I had shot him.”

74 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 A hushed giggle rose from those present in the court. It cut through her like a machete slicing off her tongue. The wicked thing only served to incriminate her every time she spoke in the presence of that prosecuting lawyer.

The judge tapped his gavel gently, not so much as admonishment for the hilarity of the reaction to her remarks, but more out of respect for the court proceedings. “Silence!” he ordered with no intonation of a rebuke, as if it were acceptable to demean her.

“Oh!” remarked Twitchell. “Did you know you had the gun?”

“Well, yes,” she replied with tears welling up in her eyes.

“And did you point it at your husband?”

“No.”

“Mrs. Henshaw, let’s see if we can find a reasonable explanation of how a bullet from your pistol ended up in your late husband’s chest killing him.”

“Objection, Your Honor!” shouted Mrs. Graves.

“Overruled,” responded the judge without any hesitation before she could add anything else.

Twitchell continued, “And was the safety catch off?”

“It must’ve been…”

Twitchell cut her off. “Was your finger on the trigger?”

“It might’ve been.”

“Did your finger pull the trigger?”

“If it did, it was not on …..” he cut her off.

“Lwet her shpeak!” shouted Lexy flustered from his pew at the front forgetting to mind his pronunciation whenever he felt stressed.

The judge pounded his gavel hard. “Young Mr. Henshaw, I have cited you already several times for contempt of court. If you interrupt these proceedings one more time I will ban you from them.” He looked at Lexy sternly. There was not the slightest inkling of sympathy for the lad.

The young man stared back at him, not in defiance, but with a look of frustration.

“Do you understand me?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Making sure this time he did not slur the S in Yes.

“Now, Mrs. Henshaw, let’s get back to where we were before we had that interruption,” resumed Twitchell. “You pulled the trigger. Now,” while looking at the jury, “you know what happens when you point a loaded gun at someone with your finger on the trigger. Don’t you Mrs. Henshaw?”

“Yes, but….”

75 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “No ifs and or buts, Mrs. Henshaw. You shot your husband by design. This was no accident. If it weren’t for Mr. Nigel Stockley’s quick thinking by hitting you on the back, who knows how many you might’ve killed. Lucky you’re not on trial for more murders, Mrs. Henshaw. I have no further questions, Your Honor.”

“Chicas! ¡Chicas! ¡Chicas!” (Girls)

“Déjenos, Papi, por favor.” (Leave us alone, Daddy, please)

“Pero sois muy lindas.” (But you’re so beautiful)

“Déjenos, Papi, déjenos.”

“Una vez más.” (One more time)

“¡No, por favor, No!” (No, please, no)

“Mrs. Henshaw, you’ve already told this court the shooting of your husband was an accident when your gun discharged its bullet, but Mr. Twitchell does not seem to believe you.”

“Objection, Your Honor!” shouted out Twitchell.

“Sustained!” affirmed the judge. “Mrs. Graves, keep in mind it’s not Mr. Twitchell on trial here. It’s Mrs. Henshaw. Members of the Jury,” he turned toward them. There were ten men between the ages of 50 and 70 and two women one 55 and the other 65. They looked utterly bored. “Keep that in mind when you’re deliberating. Mrs. Graves, kindly approach the bench.”

“Otra vez, guapas.” (One more time, gorgeous girls)

“Déjenos, por favor. Por favor, Papi.”

Mrs. Graves was suddenly standing in front of her. She had not seen her approach. Wilma glanced away embarrassed, “We’ve learned that before the bullet from your gun struck your husband, he had already been shot twice by those two inept guards hired by Mr. Stockley, who testified here that they were gunning for you. The coroner has conceded that the two shots from the guards could have ultimately killed your husband. These are all facts. The only doubt here is whether you maliciously and intentionally wanted to kill your husband. Was that your intent, Mrs. Henshaw?”

“Of course not.” She looked toward Lexy. He looked pleased she was finally getting her chance to tell her side of the story.

“So how come you had the gun?”

“David made me carry it.”

“Oh! Why?”

“There have been so many shootings at schools. He was worried about my safety and that of my pupils.”

“I see. So you always had it in your handbag.”

“Yes.”

“Is that not against the rules?”

“Yes, but I’m not the only teacher who carries one.”

76 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“So, it’s not uncommon,” Mrs. Graves looked toward the jury. The head juror shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“It’s more common than you think.”

“And you were trained on how to use a gun?”

“Yes, David had me professionally trained by an ex-policeman.”

“He must’ve been very concerned about you.”

“He was. He loved me and I loved him. I know I was angry, jealous, but I didn’t mean to shoot him.”

“So tell us, Mrs. Henshaw, when you heard the two shots what did you do?”

“I heard the shots coming from behind me and I turned around to see what was going on.”

“Weren’t you frightened?”

“I was terrified.”

“I didn’t know who was shooting or why.”

“And did you not hear the guards warning?”

“What warning?”

“They told you to freeze or they would shoot.”

“Well, if they did, I didn’t hear them?”

“And why would that be?”

“I’m a bit deaf, so I wear a hearing aid. The trouble with them is that they amplify sounds.”

“That’s what they’re supposed to do?”

A low giggle surged around the courtroom like an electrical current tickling the funny bone, but its spontaneity was checked by the judge lifting his gavel, but he did not need to strike it down as all fell silent again.

“Yes, of course, but sometimes they amplify the sound too much to the point of being painful.”

“Oh, really? When?”

“KLATV offered me a ride in their helicopter to the Flats. Those things make a lot of noise. I had to take my hearing aids out. When I arrived I forgot to put them back in.”

“So that would explain why you didn’t hear the guards,” supposed Mrs. Graves. “but you did hear the guns.”

“Well, of course, they make even more noise than a helicopter. I’m glad I didn’t have them in; otherwise, that would’ve really hurt. When I used to go to the range for practice, I had to take them out and wear ear muffs.”

“I see. Are you wearing your hearing aids now, Mrs. Henshaw?”

77 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“Yes, of course; otherwise, you’d have to shout.”

“So you heard shots. What happened next?

“I saw David fall to the ground. I rushed to him.”

“So, let’s piece together what happened?”

“Objection, Your Honor!” burst in Twitchell.

“Overruled!” responded the judge. “I think the court and members of the jury should hear both sides of the story.”

“Thank you, Your Honor!” said Graves triumphantly.

“Make sure you don’t go off into science fiction Mrs. Graves. Stick to the facts; otherwise, I will instruct the jury to disregard any suppositions not grounded in them.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” She turned her gaze toward the jury. “Mr. Stockley testified he heard in total three shots, which is corroborated by the number of bullets in Mr. Henshaw’s body. Mr. Stockley screamed no shooting in here, before any bullets were fired. The KLATV sound man captured that bit of audio. The guards confirmed that Mr. Stockely’s shouting distracted them and accounted for them missing their target,” Mrs. Graves looked back at Mrs. Henshaw, “at the crucial moment of firing at you, your poor husband rose up suddenly and took the bullets destined for you. He saved your life.”

“I never meant to shoot him. I couldn’t believe it. How I wish they had shot me. I was in shock.” She started to cry, “I’m the one who should be dead.”

“Mrs. Henshaw, let’s stick to facts. So you saw him shot, fall to the floor, what did you do then?”

“Like I said, I rushed to him.”

“Which way was the gun pointing?”

“To the floor.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because I had no intention of shooting anyone.”

“We know that Mr. Stockley struck you so hard with a crow bar across your back resulting in crippling and condemning you to a wheelchair for the rest of your life. Do you remember screaming?”

“No.”

“Do you remember any pain from the blow?”

“No.”

“On the audio recorded by the KLATV sound man we heard all three gunshots that struck your husband. Unfortunately for you the camera was pointing in another direction and did not capture the images of the shooting. You must have screamed, but we could not hear it over the sounds of the gunshots.”

78 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “If I did, I don’t remember it.”

“Do you remember arching your body in pain?”

“No.”

“Do you remember if your arms went up into the air from the blow?”

“No.”

“Do you remember if you doubled up your fists from the pain?”

“No.”

“Objection! Your Honor!” screamed out Twitchell.

“Sustained! Now Mrs. Graves, unless you can prove what you have been suggesting, then I hereby order the jury to discard the last series of suppositions by Mrs. Graves.

“Do you remember shooting your husband?”

“No.” Before any more objections could be raised, Mrs. Graves said, “I have no more questions, Your Honor.”

79 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

CHAPTER NINE

“Chicas, Chicas, Chicas.”

Oh that revolting smell! Some days it would not go away. The memory of it stayed with her all day, hanging on as if it were the dearest thing to her and underpinned her whole life. She had put it all behind her; nevertheless, it left a taste of grinding bitterness that slowly wore her down as the years passed. Yet some days, without warning, it would all flood back into her consciousness giving rise to thunderous outbursts of anger, which to those around her were inexplicable and unbearable to explain even if they were willing to listen.

“Don’t touch Jasmina!” she screamed out in her sleep. It woke her with a start. She heard noises coming from the sitting room. “Alex,” she called out. “Is that you?” There was no reply, “Who’s with you?”

Suddenly there was a rush of men shrouded in black from head to toe entering her bedroom and before she could call out anything else, tape was stuck over her mouth and a small muscular man picked her up like a limp rag doll and hauled her out of the room. Lexy raced out of his room to see what was going on.

“Who the hell are you?” he shouted out. Before he could say anything else two men in black appeared in the hall and forcefully pulled him to the ground, taped up his mouth, hands and ankles. Wilma tried to scream but it was impossible. They carried them out the back door into a waiting black van in the alley. Their kidnappers or rescuers, Wilma was not sure which, jumped in, shut the door and drove off calmly and slowly.

“Conchita, that used to be your name.” The man nearest to her called out. He took off his balaclava revealing a delicate face with fine features similar to hers. “I’m Alfonso, tu primo, (your cousin) maybe you don’t remember me, but I’ve never forgotten you. We used to play together when we were kids.”

She nodded her head.

“Once we are underway I will remove the tape from your mouth. As for now, we all need to be quiet and calm.”

Wilma and Lexy were laid out in the back of the van out of sight. They drove for what seemed like an hour. Alfonso at last approached her. “This is going to hurt. Try not to scream.”

She nodded, closed her eyes and held her breath.

He grabbed one end of the tape and ripped it off her face quickly. “Ah!” she gasped.

“Did you bring my chair?” she asked.

“No, but we brought one for you.” He pointed to the front of the van. “See, there it is.”

“Untape Alex!”

Alfonso nodded to one of his men to do so. “But you must be quiet,” he whispered to Alex.

Alex looked defiant even though we he was tied up. There was no expression of defeat in his face. The tape was nothing more than a nuisance to him. The man ripped it off his mouth. Alex did not even flinch.

“Cut off the tape on his ankles and wrists,” Wilma insisted. Alfonso motioned to his man to do so. As soon as Alex was free, he suddenly sprang to his feet, leapt toward Alfonso and head butted him as hard as he could, knocking him back. The other two men grabbed him and tussled with him.

80 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “Don’t hurt him!” called out Wilma alarmed.

Although Alfonso was dizzy and he looked bleary-eyed, he stammered, “Alex, we mean you no harm. We’re your family. Please calm down!”

“You stupid idiot!” he lambasted Alfonso. “Do you know what you’ve done? Tomorrow is summing up day. Now that Mommy is on the run like a criminal, they will reach a murder verdict. Take us back to the house now!”

“It’s too late for that. We knocked out the guards. There’ll be hundreds of police around there by now. We can’t go back.”

“Then drop us off here and now!”

“Your mother was going to prison one way or another. It was only a question of how long for? We’re taking her home, where she belongs with her family.”

“And where is that?”

“Mexico.” He felt his forehead. There was a prominent bump forming. “Damn, you have a hard head. I feel a headache coming on like nothing before.”

“Mexico. I don’t want to go there. I don’t speak Spanish.”

They all started to laugh. Even Wilma restrained a giggle from escaping.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“Oh, Alex you don’t know how happy I am to have our family back together. Your Great Uncle can’t wait to see his missing niece and you of course. We’ve heard so much about you. We’re all very proud of you.”

“And now you’ve turned us into fugitives.”

“Don’t you worry about that! You can come back anytime you like, but your Mommy won’t. She’ll be home where she belongs.”

“Mommy, do you want to go to Mexico?”

“I ran away from Mexico. I never wanted to see that rotten country again. Especially Mexican men. But what would you rather I did son? Go to jail or take my chances in Mexico?”

“We all missed you awfully you when you suddenly vanished. Poof. One day, we were playing hide ‘n’ seek and the next we never found you again. It’s been the longest game, but we found you now, eh Conchita. Oh father has so many questions for you Conchita. He will be so pleased to see you.”

“Why do you call her Conchita?” asked Lexy.

“That was her name. She changed it when she went across the border. Your mother must’ve chosen that name. Am I right?” he directed the question at Wilma.

She nodded.

81 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “Wilhemina was your maternal grandmother’s name. It’s how we figured out she is Conchita. Father spent a fortune on private detectives to find her. The Mexican Police were useless. Then one day, her face was on TV and in the newspapers. I recognized your Mom immediately. I never forgot her face. It never left me, not for one day.”

“Huh,” Wilma sniggered. “You poor man.”

“Actually Conchita is a nickname. Your mother’s real name is Inmaculada de la Concepción.”

“What?” Lexy looked confused.

“The name means the immaculate conception, as in Mary the mother of baby Jesus.”

Lexy shook his head, but he asked nothing more.

Alfonso studied Wilma closely for a couple of minutes. “You have not changed much. You still remind me of that girl of 14. The one I loved, whom I was to marry. You were my father’s most-loved niece, but when you turned 12 you became nasty. You used to beat me mercilessly. At times you terrorized me.”

“Did I?” asked Wilma doubtfully. “I remember you, but not beating you.”

“Why did you leave us like you did?”

“Tomorrow is Jasmina’s birthday. Twelve. It’ll be her turn.”

“No, Papi, not with Jasmina, por favor. Es una niña.” (she’s a child)

“You were 12, sweetheart.”

“No, Papi, por favor.”

“Oh, she won’t mind,” his speech was slightly slurred, “Huh, that’s funny, she won’t mind.” He glanced over to her. She laid in her bed on her back, with her arms raised above her head, her hands twisting around, making fists then opening them and laughing to herself. “She’s got no mind. Look at her, she’s beautiful. Prettier than you even.”

“No, Papi, with me, not Jasmina.”

“Those Mormons were going to pronounce murder. I just know it. Your mother would’ve have done 15 years minimum.”

“Maybe they would’ve found her innocent,” said Lexy.

Wilma raised one eyebrow, “Son, you must be the most optimistic person in the world.”

“No bad thing,” sentenced Alfonso. “This world needs more like him.” He turned to look at Lexy, “You and I are going to be great friends. You’re going to have lots of friends. Twelve cousins and most of them have children. You’re going to love Mexico.”

“You think so?” asked Lexy thoughtfully. “I have 5 brothers and sisters, you know.”

“Well now you have a bunch of cousins too, all from my mother’s side of the family,” said Alfonso.

“What if they catch us?” asked Lexy.

82 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “Going out of the US is no problema primo. It’s coming in, now that’s a different story.”

“I’ve been telling you, on her birthday.”

“But she’s not right, she won’t know what’s happening to her.”

“Even better.”

She had anticipated that night for months. She had planned it. She knew there was no way to make him change his mind. She promised to make him happy, do anything he asked of her, but it was not enough. Nothing was going to stop him. The rate of his breathing increased. She had learned to force herself to relax, tried even to convince herself that she was enjoying it. “She won’t be like me. She’ll feel nothing. She won’t please you like me,” she tried to persuade him. “Just look at her.”

“Oh, I’ve been looking and I like what I see and what I like I will have.” He shoved hard into her. She reached under the long pillow that went all the way across her bed and stealthily pulled out two knives under the cover of the dim light and brought them down to her sides. He pulled out and shoved in again harder than before twisting his body and contorting his face into that expression of glee that always preceded his ejaculation. He withdrew again for another stroke. She struck him from both sides, right into the soft flesh below his rib cage. He screamed. She could not tell if it was from pain or the pleasure of the orgasm. She felt his penis inside her pulsating flooding her with semen, but then his whole body tensed when it should have relaxed. He wore a look of utter horror as he realized his life was about to end. His face contorted until it looked like his nose had moved to where the right ear was, while the lips completely disappeared, the eyes sunk so far in their sockets that she thought they would pop out of the back of his head. Then as if by divine intervention his face morphed into an expression of heroic effort as he tried to roll off her, but as he did, she pushed the knives downward toward his front until their points sliced through his flesh nearly cutting into her own. He was still screaming. She sliced them across from one side to the other opening up his belly. She felt hot liquid spew out covering her naked flesh. He lifted his right arm as if he was about to strike her. She withdrew the knives and rammed them both into each side of his neck. Blood spewed out of his mouth covering her, and then he collapsed on top of her with the knives still in place. His eyes were wide open. The earlier look of horror and helplessness was now replaced with total blankness. There was neither evil nor good in them. She glanced over at Jasmina, who lay on her bed as always whenever their father visited their room, with her arms raised above her head, twisting her hands, doubling her fists, opening them and laughing. She only ever went to sleep after he left their room.

She moved slowly to extricate herself from under his dead weight. His blood was turning cold. Jasmina suddenly turned to look at her. Wilma froze in place, not knowing what to do. At first there was the same blank look she had just witnessed on her father’s face a few moments earlier, and then Jasmina smiled, giggled, looked away and went back to her imaginings.

As she slid out from under him, his guts spilled out onto the bed. Torrents of blood gushed everywhere. Her father’s inner organs slid along bloody trails and crashed onto the hard tile floor bouncing and squirming like worms released from a hot tin can. She vomited forcefully as if a steel hand wrapped itself around her intestines and yanked them out. The stench nauseated her. She glanced at Jasmina who continued with her relentless imaginings, completely oblivious to the blood changing its color from bright to dark red and the miles of intestines creeping all over the floor overrunning her vomit. Wilma staggered out of the bedroom and tiptoed down the hall to the bathroom. She spotted her youngest brother Ramón, 5, peering out of the small crack in his bedroom door with a look of terror on his face. She waved her hand at him to go back to bed. She threw herself into the bath and started to run the taps. Tears came rushing down her face. It was over, no more.

“Primo, what does that mean?” asked Lexy.

“Cousin,” responded Alfonso. “Actually, your mother is my cousin, but I will call you primo if you don’t mind.”

“Why are you taking this risk?” asked Lexy.

83 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“Papi (daddy) has been looking for your mother for 35 years. He never forgot his brother’s family. It’s nearly driven him mad. Your grandfather was his only brother. His older brother. He looked up to him. Papi is 66, and six months ago was diagnosed with cancer. He won’t live more than a few more months.”

“So you’re like fulfilling a dying man’s request.”

“Yes, you could say that.”

“Huh,” Lexy scratched his head.

For 35 years she had gotten away with it. Her mother died ten years earlier, her sister passed away at 22. No one else in her family ever talked about it, not even her youngest brother Ramón, now a policeman.

She laid naked in the bath, her mind empty of thoughts and her heart void of emotions. She was just a corpse now, just like Papa. There was nothing. Life was over. She reached for the shaving blade she had carefully placed on the edge of the bath earlier that night just before her father came to her bed. She started to cut into her left wrist. She flinched and the blade cut into her index finger. With an unwanted reflex reaction she dropped the blade and it fell into the bloodied bathwater and disappeared from view. Tears burst out of her eyes. “Oh God, please let me do this.”

She immersed both hands into the dark water and frantically felt around for the blade. “God no. Please, please have mercy on me. Release me from my misery,” she mumbled quietly not wanting to rouse the whole family.

Her mother tiptoed into the bathroom with her fingers pressed to her lips. She whispered, “May God forgive us hija.” She bent over and pulled the plug to let the dirty red water out. “You’re a brave girl. I’m sorry I’m not like you. I’m so ashamed of myself, so ashamed. I’ve been such a coward. Oh I’m so ashamed. But we now have to take care of the young ones, but first we have to bury your father, then we’ll leave at once.”

Wilma glanced at her mother, raised her left arm, with the cut wrist in order to disguise it from her mother. She wrapped it around her neck and pulled her mother toward her. “Mama, you’re not a coward and don’t be ashamed. He was going to do it to Jasmina, Mama.”

Alfonso sat there and stared at Wilma. She closed her eyes. She was tired. She felt Alfonso’s gaze upon her. She opened them and he looked away. He said, “I think we should all try to get some shut eye. We have a long ride ahead of us.” Wilma allowed herself to drift off to sleep. She wanted it to come fast and deep, for the next day she would need all her strength to face her uncle.

Soon she heard Lexy snoring. The sound comforted her. When she awoke bright sunlight was bursting through the windshield. She had to look away. Lexy was fast asleep. A blanket had been thrown over him. She sat still and observed him without saying a word. Alfonso was already awake and sitting in the front seat of the van.

He turned around to face her, “I can’t tell you how happy I am to have found you. I’ve always loved you, ever since we were children. I never married. It’s as if my whole life has been waiting for this day.”

“Really!” said Wilma surprised.

“Yes, really. I know it sounds crazy and maybe I am.”

“You certainly are. You’ll soon learn to despise me like everyone eventually does.”

“Oh, don’t say that. I know something terrible must’ve happened which caused the whole family to leave. Something to do with my Uncle.”

84 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “What makes you say that?”

“I just know.”

“What do you know?” she challenged him.

“I just know, I don’t know how or why, but I just know it was not your fault.”

“Not my fault. What makes anyone think it was my fault?” she said almost hysterically.

“You must know what happened to him. For God’s sake if you’re in any way implicated in my Uncle’s disappearance or death, don’t tell anyone, not me, not my father, not my mother, not even Alexander.”

Just as he finished his sentence the van hit a pothole and the undercarriage shook and trembled violently. Lexy’s eyes snapped open.

“Are we in Mexico?” asked Lexy.

“No, not yet, but we will be by this evening.”

At last the van left the bumpy track and sped along a paved road. Wilma tried to close her eyes, but could not. Lexy leaned over onto her and fell fast asleep again.

During that day, they made two stops in small towns. On each occasion the van drove into a residential area and using remote controls opened garage doors of private houses. Not until the doors were firmly shut behind them did they emerge from the van. Alfonso explained that in this way they would not be spotted. At each stop they changed vans. The stops were just long enough to go to the toilet and have a quick bite. Their last stop before the Mexican border was a small town in Texas. The van parked in a garage of a non-descript small bungalow. They got out, took the wheelchair and carried Wilma down to the basement. There they entered through a false door and continued their descent into what seemed like another set of stairs. Eventually they reached level ground. They placed her in the wheelchair and the long walk underneath the border began.

“Sr. Excelentísimo Alcalde,” (Your Honorable Mr. Mayor) “I beg you. I beg you.” Her father shut the door in her face. She could barely hear what was being said in his giant study. She remained standing in the hall unable to move. “Don’t hurt my son. Please don’t hurt him. He’s a good boy. He has a young wife and a kid on the way. He needs the money. He only took a little, just enough to fix the leak in the ceiling.”

“You tell your piss ass son, that I never want to see him again. He’s lucky he’s alive. It’s because of you we have spared his life Sr. Cuencas. You know he has to learn his lesson. What kind of example we would we be setting if we let him get away with it.”

“Oh, thank you for sparing his life, but don’t hurt him. He has to look after his family now.”

“Don’t worry, Sr. Cuencas.”

Lexy neither complained about the long walk, nor said a word during their trek. He had accepted their new fate and was co-operating. After what seemed like 30 minutes they arrived at another set of stairs and climbed up into another house, wherein they boarded another black van with blacked out windows and drove on again through the night. By this time Wilma found it impossible to stay awake and fell into a deep sleep.

Lavender, rosemary and thyme mixed with lemon blossom wafted through the wide open front windows of the black van as it bumped over dirt roads. She was in Mexico. She never imagined she would return. They brushed into each other with every dip and hump, twist and turn so that they felt like they were one whole body and not six separate

85 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 beings, each with his own space. For there in the back there was no possibility of keeping any decorum. Lexy sat on one side, while one of Alfonso’s hands on the other making sure she came to no harm.

The occasional cloud of dust burst in upon them as they overtook a slow vehicle, making her hold her breath for a few seconds. The dust clung to them and despite her attempts to keep it out of her lungs it coated her throat just as the rancid smoke and stale alcohol fumes from her father used to. At last a waft of Jasmine reached her nostrils rescuing her from sinking back into an unhappy and miserable time. She inhaled deeply. It reminded her of childhood before 12, the happy years, when all was innocent and life was a wonder. How she used to laugh, joyous unrelenting bouts, which often ended with her sides hurting so much she had to force herself to sit down and stop it.

Her father was so attentive, kind and loving. He had a good sense of humor and played with them as if he too were a child. How she loved those times. It was as if he were two different people. One she adored and the other she detested. It was she who changed at 12. It was her fault for reaching puberty and bringing out the evil in him. She wished she could’ve stayed 12 forever. Despite the sexual abuse, she still loved him, even after all these years. It made her feel she was dirty and wrong to love him, but she couldn’t help it. Feelings of love and hate for the same person were supposed to be mutually exclusive. She could never reconcile the two. How could she accept to love him if she never forgave him? Pardon him, she knew she never could. Her anger and her incapacity to deal with it made life unbearable.

Jasmina never left her side, nor did she want her to. They slept in the same bed, until Wilma turned 12. She looked after her sister as if she were part of herself. The two were inseparable. She never minded it for one moment. It was pure love and sheer pleasure. How she longed for those years, how they had escaped her so completely, so much so as if her life had begun unhappily at 12. The gay Conchita died at 12.

Her mother was so grateful to her. She often told her she should have been the daughter and Conchita the mother. “You will be a better mother than I have been. Wilma placed her hand gently on Lexy. How his all vanquishing love for her reminded her of Conchita, the child before 12. How he put life back into that dead and buried person. He had taken charge and became her care-taker, despite her attempts to discourage him. He expected nothing in return and was happy enough with the way things were. Damn, damn why couldn’t she be the same?

She must have fallen asleep because she was awakened by a sunray that broke through the dawn and hit her straight in the eye. The driver put the visor down to shield his eyes and put on his sunglasses. They were heading straight east judging by the sun. The landscape was totally flat. There was no sign of civilization ahead of them.

“Sr. Cuencas, calm down,” her father was saying, “We’ll find out who killed your son. He must have been working for the Alpha Cartel as well as us. He probably stole from them too and they killed him.”

“No, he would not do that. I know he was stupid and greedy, but he would not let me down like this. He was a good boy.”

“I am sorry Sr. Cuencas, but this is what happens to those who don’t follow the rules.”

“Dios mío. It’s all my fault, I should’ve sent him to university in America, but he wanted to help me. Now, he’s dead. His mother will kill herself.”

“Now, now, Sr. Cuencas, you have a grandchild on the way. You and Sra. Cuencas need to be around for him. You should go and be with your wife, Sr. Cuencas.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.”

Wilma leapt behind the big high-backed sofa that was in her father’s waiting room. She heard the door shut followed by Sr. Cuenca cursing under his breath. “Hijo de puta.” (Son of a bitch).

86 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 They bounced along a dirt road throwing up behind them a huge cloud of dust like a mini tornado chasing but never catching them. The driver seemed in a hurry for he ignored the potholes and bumps. Wilma was glad she was belted in. In spite of being tied down, she could feel herself fly up then crash down again. At times Alex let out a little yelp as he landed back down into his seat after the rear wheels had left the ground then crashed down again compressing the shocks to maximum only to spring up like a jack in the box reaching for the sky. Wilma felt nothing from the waist down.

“Go on, give it some Gonzalo,” cried out Lexy to the driver.

“Hey man, I’m trying but I’ll never beat your record.”

“No man you won’t,” sentenced Lexy with a hiccup as the black demon van rammed into another dip that came out of nowhere. They were going so fast that Gonzalo had no time to dodge them, so he just kept the mad vehicle on a course down the middle of the road. With every leap and landing Wilma heard the grind of metal against metal under the floor.

“This van has more skeletons than a graveyard,” called out Lexy as if lamenting spirits were underneath riding with them.

Wilma thought it was more likely the ground would impale itself into the cabin.

“Slow down!” ordered Alfonso. “We don’t want to break down. That would be a disaster.”

“Only a little,” shouted Lexy from the back. “This is fun!”

Wilma turned her head to look at him just as they hit another pothole. Lexy squealed and grimaced at the same time. It was obvious he felt the bangs, unlike her, but nevertheless he was enjoying this insane drive as if he were on a roller coaster in an amusement park.

Gonzalo followed Alfonso’s advice and eased off a bit, but this only served to prolong the effect of the bumps, so Gonzalo tried to evade them by weaving from side to side. The combination of the jouncing and swerving were too much for Wilma and she began to feel nauseous.

“I’m gonna be sick,” she announced from the back.

“Slow right down Gonzalo!” ordered Alfonso. He turned around and asked, “Do you want us to stop?”

“Yes, please. Just for a few minutes till my stomach settles.”

Gonzalo said, “We’re nearly at the Carretera (main highway) then it won’t be bumpy.”

“Stop now!” ordered Alfonso.

Gonzalo stopped with a flustered look on his face. Their mini dust storm that had doggedly pursued them blasted past just as Alfonso swung open the door. The inside filled with sand in an instant. Wilma’s stomach started to heave just as Alfonso lifted her out of the seat. She tried to force it down, but failed as a torrent of vomit sprayed out. She lifted her head up and it projected out in an arc going up, but as Alfonso stepped back out, the disgusting mixture of food and bile came back down landing on Alfonso’s back and right shoulder. There was no reaction of revulsion from him. It was as if nothing had happened.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” blurted out Wilma as she tasted her own puke. This made her want to throw up again, but she held it back this time and it rebounded in her mouth.

87 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 Julio was already out of the van and brought her wheelchair around. Alfonso gingerly placed her in it. “Sorry, we’ve made you ill.”

“I’ve suffered from car sickness from when I was 14, from that …” she stopped herself. It was something she never ever talked about. Had she become so delirious that she was about to reveal her hidden past?

Lexy leapt out of the van as if he had springs in his legs landing clumsily and nearly falling over. He stretched his arms above his torso with a loud groan, “Aahh! That was fun,” he announced to Gonzalo. “Are you okay Mom?”

“I’ll be fine son.”

The sun on her face felt good. Julio approached her with a thermos in his hand. “Some coffee, Ma’am?” as he handed her a wet towellette.

“Thank you,” she replied gratefully, “but no coffee. I don’t think I can stomach it.” She wiped her face and hands. “Perhaps of bit of water?” she requested.

“Of course,” Julio went back to the van and brought out a bottle. He loosened the top and handed it to her. She took the top off and sipped a small amount, swished it around her mouth and spat it out.

Alfonso came back with his shirt off. He had a muscular hairy chest, just like David. She felt a pang of pain rip through her. How she luxuriated in running her hands through her husband’s hairy chest as they laid next to each other after making love. How she had forgotten. Alfonso had a clean black T-shirt in his hand. He lifted it up to slide it down over his head and she watched as his hard muscles rippled as he pulled it down. She could still see the outline of his breasts showing through. He looked at her, smiled and winked.

She felt a hot fuse ignite in her waist sending a blazing current up her body which exploded upon reaching her head. She was already feeling light-headed and this teenage relapse made her feel young again. She looked away, but realized he had noticed her flush. “Are you feeling better now?” he asked smiling.

“Oh yes, much better,” she replied without turning to look at him. She was keenly aware that her refrain in engaging his eyes made her attraction blatantly obvious or was it only a reminisce of her dead husband who used to make her insides flutter in anticipation of what he was going to do to her once he had stripped her of clothes? The thrill of the buildup to his touch so excited her that when his fingers at last alighted upon her skin they electrified her making her whole body flinch and jolt lifting her inches off the bed.

How David used to delight in her response, which aroused him so much that he had to have her then and there. How pleased he used to look when he found her wet and ready to take him. After Lexy’s birth and adoption, the guilt and recrimination set in. As imperceptible as they seemed, they weighed heavily on them so that it became impossible to feel. How could it be possible she was suddenly getting those old sensations back, considering she felt nothing physical below the waist? How unfair!

Lexy had run back along the road they just traversed. He stopped suddenly to examine a pothole. “This one’s at least 10” deep and 48” in diameter. Oh man, you couldn’t have missed this one Gonzalo.” He ran further on and shouted back, now barely audible to them because of the distance, “Wow! This one’s massive. It’s as big as a grave. You could fit a whole person in it!”

“Lexy,” called out Alfonso. “Let’s go!”

He turned around to look at him and began to step off, but suddenly stopped. He pointed ahead to something in the distance, “What’s that?”

Alfonso looked around to where Lexy pointed. He faced Lexy again. “That’s a cenotaph,” he called out.

88 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “A what?” Lexy shouted back.

“A” started Alfonso, “Come back here and I’ll explain.”

Lexy bounded back. Now all of them were looking at the tall object on the horizon.

“That’s our landmark,” said Alfonso to Wilma. “That’s where the Carretera is. It’s a smooth run from there until we turn off to the La Gran Hacienda de Mármol.” (The Great Marble Villa).

“What is it?” asked Lexy as he stopped next to Alfonso out of breath.

“A cenotaph.”

“What is that?”

“A memorial to the dead.”

“A memorial to the dead,” repeated Lexy. “What dead?”

“People who’ve been killed in the war.”

“War?”

“Yes, your President’s Bush and ours Calderon’s war on drugs?”

“How do you fight drugs?” asked Lexy puzzled.

“C’mon, get in and I’ll explain on the way.”

“War on drugs,” muttered Lexy as he bent over, picked up his mother and carried her to the van wherein Julio buckled her in. Lexy sat next to her. José was already in the back. He hardly ever spoke. At one point Wilma thought that perhaps he was a mute. He nodded his head in affirmative whenever he was given an instruction. At times Wilma felt him staring at her from behind with a cold-blooded look that made her afraid of turning around to look back at him.

Lexy sat down and belted himself in. Gonzalo fired up the engine and now instead of going at demon speed, he crawled along so slowly that it was a struggle for him.

“Can we stop at the thenopath?” asked Lexy.

“Cenotaph,” Alfonso corrected him. “It was first nicknamed el cenotafio de Santa Muerte (Saint Death). She is a relic from the Aztec culture of worshipping death. She is represented as a skeleton wearing a crown. She has never been sanctified by the Catholic Church and many people oppose this name, especially priests who refused to go there to bless the dead. However her name has been changed to Dame Catrina or la Calavera de Catrina. Calavera means Skeleton, but many people still refer to her as Santa Muerte. Dame Catrina was made famous by a Mexican artist Diego Rivera around the time of the Mexican revolution in 1910. She appears in a massive mural painting 20 meters long as an elegant lady skeleton, which symbolized the decadence of the ruling class. You’ll see everywhere images of women skeletons. Us Mexicans are obsessed with death.”

“I want to stop there?” insisted Lexy.

“Just for a minute or two.”

89 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “Thanks.” Lexy said no more and looked over at his mother. She was staring straight ahead as if fixated on the cenotaph rising above the horizon like the church steeples she had seen in every German village. Their sharp caps acted like magnets for her and she made David seek several out on a whim, only to arrive and find tiny churches holding up steeples as if they were built for the sole purpose of testing the architect’s ingenuity in a statement of we can outdo the neighboring town’s steeple. The churches themselves often held no more than 100 souls at most with standing room only. They were always surrounded by graveyards overflowing with tombstones, some so old that the engravings had long been worn away by the elements. In some cases the only visible markings left were streaks carved by the rain with their bases covered with green and brown moss.

In almost all villages in England, France, Belgium and Holland she had seen the cenotaphs honoring the men lost in the two world wars. Here in Mexico was another war. It was no ordinary one. It couldn’t even be considered a civil war. Like most it was driven by greed, but this one lacked vain and inglorious ideology.

The cenotaph grew in height as they neared it. Lexy was transfixed to that lone tall object in this semi-arid flat landscape with sparse grass upon which malnourished looking cattle grazed. They had all grown quiet as if they were paying their respects with their silence. This was quite unlike any cenotaph she had seen in Europe. It was a tall narrow building, more like a tower than a spikey column.

“This is the tallest cenotaph in Mexico. A woman began building it for her 19 year old son who was caught up in the crossfire of a shootout between members of the Golfo and Zeta cartels. That occurred only 18 months ago. Since then people have added to it and you’ll soon see it’s now as high as a four stories.”

“Wow!” exclaimed Lexy.

The Catholic Church tried to persuade the government to take it down, on the basis that it is unsafe. The real reason was that so many people still call it Saint Death Cenotaph. Anyway, there was such an outcry about it that they had to leave it standing as long as no one adds anything else to it and they remove all references to Santa Muerte. It pays homage to no less than 250 souls from all walks of life. Soldiers, ex-soldiers, narcos, children, women and even a couple of dogs and one cat.”

“I love cats,” called out Lexy. “They’re so cool. And I love how they purr. Like a Ferrari.”

“Like a Ferrari,” repeated Alfonso. “Here the cartel’s men drive around in pick-up trucks with rocket propellers and machine guns mounted on the back. The Navy do the same to fight them. This country is not like what it used to be.”

“This country was never like what it used to be,” interjected Wilma.

“Things are worse,” jumped in Julio with his comment. It was the first time in the whole trip that he had expressed an opinion about anything. Until then his only speech consisted in practicalities about eating, drinking, sleeping, refueling and checking the oil, water and tires’ pressure. “I lost my entire family to the cartels.”

“So from one hell to another,” lamented Wilma. Alfonso turned to look at her and studied her face. ‘What does he see in it?’ She asked herself.

She was about to ask him, when Alfonso said keeping his eyes fixed to hers, “In Mexico we don’t value life until it’s gone. We all lament its tragic loss, but what really grieves us is the love that goes with it. That’s what breaks our hearts.” He paused keeping his eyes bound to hers, “And I know what that’s like.” With this he turned around to face the front again to spare himself the agony of seeing no regret in her eyes. It hurt him to find no love in her. How he remembered her so differently. In Mexico a person can die, but love never. That he had learned from his father, who never gave up hope on finding his brother and family.

“Cats love you when they purr. That’s why the cat is on the cenotaph.”

90 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 As they neared the cenotaph, Wilma could see that it leant to the right and left at odd angles as it rose up, unlike the leaning towers so common in Italy which only inclined in one direction, this one’s base was straight, but the next level twisted to the left, the third to the right and the fourth to the left as latter builders tried to correct the deformations of previous constructors by building up at different angles to counter the imbalances.

“It’s all crooked,” observed Lexy.

“Just like Mexico,” lamented Julio. “You see the top three levels,” he pointed to it. Wilma nodded her head. “You can see that they look like a Z placed on top of the ground floor.”

“C’mon Julio!” said Alfonso.

“Many people refer to it as the cenotafio de los Zetas, claiming it was purposely made like that to honor the Zeta Cartel’s dead.”

“That’s ridiculous!” countered Alfonso. The mother who built it for her son meant it to be only one level and for her boy only. Her son had nothing to do with the Zetas.”

“You try telling that to a Zeta,” sentenced Julio. “They appropriated it like everything else in Nuevo León.”

No one said anymore until Gonzalo pulled up in front of the elaborate and colorful construction. It was built of breeze blocks. There was probably no concrete in them with the requisite iron bars and wire to hold them together. Most likely it had no foundation, like most poor people’s homes in Mexico. Every part of the cement blocks was covered in paint with the names and faces of the dead positioned in a helter-skelter arrangement.

No pre-planning or forethought had gone into the design. It just developed organically with one addition after another all by different authors. It was precisely this incongruent accumulation that made it so spectacularly beautiful and breathtaking. The predominant colors being green, red and white of the Mexican flag giving the whole structure an uncanny uniformity that defied logic. Here was an object that depicted boldly and sadly the failure of the Mexican government, with its politicians who had sworn allegiance to its flag, yet at the same time its builders subconsciously and unmistakably paid homage to everything Mexican, its people and even its corrupt politicians.

Each portrait was painted by a different hand. Regardless of the quality of the depiction, one extraordinary feature shone out like a torch that struck the heart. It was a joyous expression of looking forward to life with eyes radiating love. Wilma knew right then and there that she wanted to love each and every one of them back, because they could no longer love. She began to cry uncontrollably, not for the dead, but for her own dead love, for which she never grieved. This unruly citadel of love represented by the Saint of Death made her realize that her face could be there too. That of when she was 12, before her father had forced himself upon her. How she had loved him. How he had extinguished her sense of love, not for others, but mostly for herself. She blamed herself for what her father had done, when he told her he was going to do the same to Jasmina. She knew that she would be to blame if she did not stop him.

Lexy sat down on the dirt path leading up to cenotaph and leaned back and burst out crying. Under his breath he muttered stutteringly, “Thish, Thish, …. ish… is, the mmmm … mosht….mosth …. bootiful thing.” Wilma heard him over her sobbing.

She pushed herself forward and into the cenotaph. It was ablaze with candles right up to the very top. It was cavernous, like an atrium with small steps vicariously placed into the walls, which zigzagged perilously upwards. Metal beams had been placed in some sections going all the way across to keep the walls from caving in creating metal crosses on which people had hung rosary beads and written prayers to their beloved murdered relatives. From the lowest beam dangled a throne with La Calavera Catrina’s skeleton attired in rich colorful silky clothes with a crown twice the height of her skull. At once she was strikingly beautiful, yet disgusting.

91 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 Alfonso explained, “I’ve been told there are 3,575 candle holders on these walls. They are all replaced and lit once a week.” The whole inside smelled of candle wax and wick. The walls were black from their soot. Wax dripped everywhere. “There is so much wax on the walls that some people believe it is the wax that holds it up, while others claim that God keeps it from falling down.”

Alex followed Wilma inside, “Wow!” he exclaimed out loud, but then realized he should be quiet. He rushed back out and ran around the building and back in again as if by doing so he could contain himself. He stood off center with his mouth agape looking up. His eyes fixed onto Dame Calavera. He remained still for at least five 5 minutes, until Gonzalo put his hand on his shoulder and said, “It’s time to go hijo.”

He turned to Gonzalo and said, “This house of the dead makes me feel alive.”

“Hombre, this place gives me the creeps,” whispered Gonzalo afraid to raise his voice beyond a few decibels.

Lexy laughed, “You believe in … ghosts?” he managed to say without slurring the Ss

“No, it just reminds me of reality, our mortality and the death of Mexico.”

“Then let’s go!” said Lexy. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I hope my face never ends up on one of these cenotaphs that have popped up all over Mexico. We are better at preserving the dead than protecting the living.”

They came out of the memorial and found Julio standing on the top of the van with binoculars glued to his eyes. “What’s he doing?” asked Lexy.

“Looking out,” replied Gonzalo.

“Looking out. Yeah … looking out, for what?”

“Zetas.”

“You mean drugs mafia?”

“Yes.”

“What would they do to us?”

“Kidnap you and your mother in return for a reward on your capture and return to America.”

“They would do that?”

“Ay hijo mío they have done much worse. This place makes me muy nervioso. Vámanos. Let’s get the hell outta here.”

The road turned smooth and Gonzalo kept his foot pressed down hard on the gas pedal making the van exert all its power to reach 100 mph, but only when the road ahead was clear. Whenever he had to slow down because it was dangerous to overtake due to oncoming traffic, there was clear frustration in his body language, which caused his muscles to tense and his head to twitch to the left incessantly as if that motion would make the obstruction move more swiftly out of his way.

92 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 Wilma glanced over at Lexy who was staring fixedly ahead into the unknown future. She marveled at how he acquiesced to the events that dictated his life and how it contrasted so sharply with her attempts to keep control over her life, which included giving him up. Now he was her sole support and comfort. Life had betrayed her by rewarding her with Lexy.

Suddenly Gonzalo slammed on the brakes hard. The van lurched and shuddered for a few seconds until he eased off the brake pedal.

“Hijo de puta!” cursed Gonzalo. A large truck loomed ahead like a solid wall inching along the road as if the Earth did not spin on its axis or orbit around the sun, as if there were neither day nor night. The road curved slightly to the right and it was impossible to see around it. Gonzalo knew the stretch of road well and that this curve went on for three miles before the road straightened out again. As if sensing the impatient driver behind, the truck driver attempted to speed up, but as soon as he did black smoke bellowed out the exhaust pipes, which flew over the trailers like coal smoke out of a steam engine and struck the black van squarely on the windshield. The stink of burnt diesel permeated the inside in seconds.

Julio began to wheeze and cough. His face turned purple and he was trying to say something, but instead he sounded like a steam train putting on the brakes.

“Slow down,” ordered Alfonso.

The truck driver ahead eased off his decrepit engine and the black smoke no longer reached them. Gonzalo edged out into the oncoming lane. The truck driver was waving his hand for him to overtake. Gonzalo pushed down hard on the accelerator and raced past the truck. Ten minutes later they came up behind a small truck loaded with live chickens. Feathers were billowing out of it and flying around doing precisely what chickens could not do naturally.

“Hijo de puta!” Alfonso suddenly called out. A gunshot rang out. Wilma saw a rifle barrel sticking out of the passenger window. Then another shot and she saw a steer to her right stumble and fall. Blood was pouring out of its right haunch.

“Why did he shoot it?” called Lexy from the rear alarmed.

“As you can see there are no fences to keep the cattle in. This road was built through open grazing land and the farmers were not given anything to help them put up fences to protect their herds from becoming road kill or from causing accidents that have resulted in many deaths. So the truck drivers have taken it upon themselves to kill any cattle they see within 10 meters of the road so as prevent accidents. There have been cases of farmers shooting at drivers to protect their livestock.”

After a few minutes of reflection, Lexy announced, “I’m not sure I’m going to like Mexico,”

“Wait till you get to the hacienda, you’re going to love it there. We even have our own little chapel,” said Alfonso proudly. “We will be there by tomorrow morning.”

As night fell, Wilma drifted off to sleep. She awoke when the van lurched to a stop in front of a large metal gate to a compound surrounded by high walls. The sun was out. It was bright and felt hot. A heavily armed guard stepped out from a tiny shack next to the gate. “Buenos días Sr. Aflonso! They’re waiting for you.” He waved and the big metal doors swung open with a loud creaking groan.

This was to be her prison. The vehicle traveled another 10 minutes until it came to a stop in front of a large two story hacienda. It was built in a neo gothic style. Its façade looked more like a European church rather than a typical Mexican home. There was a welcoming party of about 30 people.

93 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 As soon as the van’s side door slid open, Mariachi music started up. It was like arriving in Mexico Village at Epcot in Disney World. Lexy awoke with a start. “Where are we?” he asked astonished.

“We’re here,” said Wilma, “at my Uncle Alfredo’s house. “

He looked out. “Wow! I didn’t expect this.”

“Neither did I,” remarked Wilma nonchalantly.

“Your uncle must be beaucoup riche.”

Wilma smiled, “Sí, muy rico, hijo mío.” (yes, my son, very rich)

Julio unloaded the wheelchair and Lexy placed his mother in it. She had to squint against the bright sun. Lexy was admiring the nine men who formed the Mariachi band. “I want a uniform like that and a sombrero,” he laughed.

Julio wheeled Wilma toward the house along a red carpet lined with people on both sides who tossed flower petals at them as they passed. A ramp had been placed over the center of the five steps leading up to the house. Wilma was pushed up and into the entrance. Not only were the floors tiled in marble so were the walls. Now she understood why it was called the Great Marble Hacienda. It reminded her of Hearst Castle. Julio pushed her into the courtyard in the center of the hacienda. In the middle of it was a large rectangular pond with three fountains spewing out water cooling her down. Julio rolled her through to the other end of the courtyard and into an expansive room with a four poster bed, in which was propped up her Uncle Alfredo. He was a shadow of the young man she knew.

“Conchita, my darling,” he called out with a powerful voice that unsettled and unnerved her. His eyes shone like new born stars. He had the same winning smile she loved as a child. “Look at you,” he called out. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

She felt like crying, but no tears were forthcoming for her eyes didn’t even moisten. She should have needed to restrain them instead she found herself in a quandary whether to force them out, which would be contrived and insincere or to just smile, but it was not going to be spontaneous, so she ended up approaching him like a little girl, pensive, hesitant and expecting to be admonished.

Alfredo’s smile waned as she neared him. He sensed her vacillation and apprehension, while she intuitively realized he was dealing with a rush of emotions which were overwhelming him. He tried to speak again, but his speech came out choked and garbled. He breathed deeply for he needed air and as he exhaled a flood of tears burst out that left him sobbing and shaking.

By then Wilma had reached the edge of his bed. She sat there unsure as to whether she should comfort him. “These are tears of joy,” he finally managed to mutter as he wiped the non-stop stream cascading down his hollow cheeks.

Suddenly he burst out at the top of his voice startling her. If she weren’t in a chair she would’ve jumped back out of fright. “Why the Hell didn’t you let us know where you were?”

Lexy stood next to her and reached down to take her hand. It was then she noticed her upper body was shaking uncontrollably. She fought hard against the urge to tell her uncle what kind of brother he had. Perhaps it was time he knew. Everyone should know what she had done and the secret she had endured for 35 insufferable years.

“Get out of my sight!” he ordered.

Julio hesitated. He glanced at Alfonso.

“Get her out of here! She’s not the girl I knew.”

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Just as Julio was about to spin the wheelchair around, Lexy said, “You kidnapped us. What d’ya you want?”

The old man looked at Lexy for a moment then said, “Something worth more than money. Something your mother has no capacity to appreciate. Something that tragedy has taken away from all of us. I was a fool to think I could bring it back. Look at me. I have everything, right? I can have anything I want, but one thing eluded me.”

“What was that?” asked Lexy.

“Ask your mother. She knows.”

He looked up at Alfonso, “Get them out of my room.”

“Yes Papa,” replied Alfonso and waved at Julio to take Wilma out. As they exited, they were greeted by a matronly woman, whom Wilma recognized instantly as her Aunt Octavia. She wore a wizened look that belied a hard life only decades can foster. There was empathy in her eyes. Wilma knew instinctively she would not judge her.

“Welcome back,” she bent over and kissed her on the forehead. “Don’t worry about him,” loud enough for her husband to hear. “He’ll be dead soon enough and leave us in peace. Come with me.” She waved Julio away and took control. “You too Alfonso are dismissed. I will take care of our guests.”

She pushed Wilma, “You were such a happy child. I know that child is still in you. It’s in all of us. It doesn’t desert us. Even all the bitterness and cruelty of life can’t take it away, hard as it might try.”

Wilma had to tighten her chest to keep her emotions in check. “I died many years ago tía (Aunt) Octavia. You can’t resurrect me. It’s too late.”

Octavia stopped, walked around in front of the chair to face Wilma. “You brought three lives into this World. They’re alive because of you. If you don’t want them to be like you are now, then you’ll have to resurrect yourself even if it costs you your last breath. Give them what was taken from you.”

Wilma felt herself teeter between imploding and exploding. It was a delicate balance. She had to hold her position. Her aunt stared hard at her while she stood back.

“I can’t,” said Wilma at last. “I don’t know how.”

“Then you’re lost, my dear poor child.”

“What’s it been like living with uncle?” asked Wilma.

“Hell on wheels, prone to violent tempers that come out of nowhere. He never got over the loss of his brother. It has embittered him to such a point that it’s made all of us around him miserable. I’ll be glad when he goes over to the other side. I’ll have some peace then.”

“How did he make his money?”

“How do you think? You’re in Mexico. I don’t ask him. I don’t want to know. Your Uncle was so happy when you killed your husband.”

“What?” asked Alex stunned.

“Oh yes, if it weren’t for the unfortunate accident, we would never have found you. He’s been angry and resentful that his brother disappeared so suddenly. He went mad looking for you all. Your grandfather was like a god to him.”

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Wilma felt queasy. Color left her face.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” remarked Octavia.

“She needs sleep,” said Lexy. “She’s tired.”

She went around behind the chair and pushed her onward into a large bedroom. It was furnished luxuriously. It was obvious here they housed their most important guests.

“I’ll take charge now,” said Lexy to his great aunt.

“You don’t have to, we have maids for that.”

“No,” insisted Lexy. “I do it, no one else.”

“Okay, our talk can wait.” She left the room.

Lexy bathed her as he had every night since she came out of the hospital, changed her clothes and put her to bed.

“Don’t you want to know what happened?” asked Wilma.

“It don’t matter,” replied Lexy. “We’re together now. I want it to stay that way.”

She could no longer hold back. The tears started to flow, at first slowly, then gradually increased until they were soaking her face. Lexy brought her a tissue. She wiped them and blew her nose. “I don’t deserve you, Lexy.”

“None o’that, I won’t have it,” he said emphatically.

“I gave you up. I abandoned you. I didn’t want you. Doesn’t it bother you? Don’t you hate me? Don’t you want to know why?”

“It won’t change a thing. It won’t change how I feel about you.”

“How do you feel about me?”

“You’re my mother. I love you.”

“But that’s not enough.”

“It is for me. What else is there?”

She closed her eyes. There was bitterness, hatred, contempt, emptiness, loneliness and worst of all constant pain. She felt her blood boil.

“Get out!” she ordered him coldly. She didn’t mean it, but it was too late to retrieve it, the deed was done. How could she explain to him her actions when she herself did not understand them? How could she apologize for giving him up at birth? It was unforgivable. She could not expect a pardon. It was unfair to ask. After all she had never forgiven herself. It would be better if he hated her. It would make it easier to accept what she had done. Perhaps this was his way of punishing her, but he was too naïve for that, or was he?

96 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “Lexy!” she called out as he was about to open the door to leave. He turned to look at her with his head cocked to one side, face pointing slightly upwards as an angel, eyes looking up. She could not tell if it was a gesture of inquisition, hostility or indifference. “I’m sorry,” she blurted out.”

“I know,” he said and went out closing the door gently.

How does he know? He couldn’t. How could anyone know what she had been through? He never had to look guilt in the eye and stare it away. Hate had not invaded his heart, filling it until there was no room for anything else. She was poisoned, damaged. If it weren’t for Lexy’s childlike love for her, she would have killed herself. Living was torture, inflicting pain with every breath. The guilt for what she did to her father could be considered justifiable, but the rejection of Lexy was irreconcilable, especially as he held no grudge, not a shred of animosity. How could he love without feeling the opposite? There was no joy without sadness, no laughter without tears, no pride without humility, no reprieve without remorse, no sincerity without guile, no life without death.

When she awoke later that day, she heard animated voices coming from the courtyard outside which the fountains could not disguise. They were of children running around, screaming, shouting, laughing and talking. Lexy was amongst them. She clearly heard his voice over the others. “Eso no.” (Not that.) He was already learning Spanish. She tried to close her eyes and go back to sleep, but her mind was racing with one thing after another going in and out as if a machine gun was firing bullets through her brain. Each thought was an image like a painting telling a 1,000 words. Edvard Munch’s painting ‘The Scream’ came to mind, with an obscure face screaming depicting pain, grief and horror. It made her head reverberate as if it were a shred of cloth hanging onto a pole with a hurricane wind battering it relentlessly trying to force it to let go and be freed from the anchor enslaving it.

In her mind, Wilma saw Jasmina twirling her hands around each other, laughing at something she was imagining. Mother and her shame. “I’m so ashamed. I’m so ashamed.” Father and his breath. His eyes popping out of their sockets as the knives penetrated deep inside his neck. “Blot out the lust.” Jasmina clinging to her now crying and crying. Mother joining in the weeping too. Conchita and her mother standing with their arms around Jasmina. Those vivid memories were there, but Wilma was removed from them, as if she were an outside observer looking at complete strangers. Nothing like it would ever touch her again. She had to be immune.

There was no end of dirt. Digging, digging and digging. Mother and oldest daughter with pick axes and shovels, the younger daughter pushing the dirt away with her bare hands. Even rolling in the earth as if by doing so she would cleanse her sister’s and mother’s sins.

“No, it’s better this way. You’ll see. It’s better this way.”

“Eso no!” called out Lexy as he roared with laughter amongst several screaming children playing joyfully.

The tests. The tests. They were wrong. They were wrong. How could they do this to her?

Jasmina clutched her arm above the elbow and squeezed it until Wilma thought she would pass out. Her sister died.

He’s Downs. Take the boy away! No, don’t! Yes do! No, don’t! Yes do!

Pistol in hand. Where’s the trigger? Pull it back! Pull hard! No, pull gently! No, don’t pull! Yes, pull, pull, pull! No, let go! Drop it!

Bang! Bang! Bang!

“Fuego! Fuego! Fuego!” (Fire!) She heard the neighbors shouting as they calmly drove away. She looked out the back of the car and saw the flames devour the house as if it were a papier maché devil. Then there was a massive explosion that rocked the ground. Her heart leapt to her throat, choking her and making her cough as if she were inhaling the smoke billowing out of her home. Her unhappy home. A huge ball of fire shot up in the air. She instinctively ducked fearing it

97 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 would head their way and consume them too. Her younger brothers and sisters were all crying in a suffused way that characterized her suffering of the previous two years. Jasmina was laughing as if it were the most amusing thing she had ever seen. Conchita too should have been rejoicing. The end of misery. The end of silence. The end of everything as it turned out to be. If only she had known, she would have preferred to keep on suffering.

Horse neighing. Hooves clumping and crashing against the walls. The animal falling with one last look of utter horror. Writhing on the floor. Fido. Fido. Fido.

Sirens. Sirens. Sirens. Flashing lights. Blue, red and yellow. The shrills of police cars, ambulances and fire engines merged into one making the inside of her head thump as if it had been removed from her body and hung in the middle of a mega loud disco, wherein the brain vibrated like a tuning fork unable to keep up with the unreasonable beat that demanded more tolerance than it was able to give.

Yelping. A dog yelping. Where is it? Why is it screaming?

Blood spewing out of the mutt’s nose. Blood gushing out of Papi’s sides covering her. The crow bar raised high. Nigel swinging it. Sharp and violent pain. Snap. Crack. Wrenching her in two halves. One works, the other fails. Nigel should’ve aimed higher. He should’ve struck the head and killed her.

What was David thinking when he stood up? Who was he trying to save? Her or the other woman? Rebecca wearing angels wings fluttered above her head. “You killed my happiness.” Wilma swung, but Rebecca dodged her swipe like a fly. Wilma countered, “My happiness was maimed. Made lame. What’s worse?”

“What do you want? Some of my magic dust? On you it has no effect. If anything its mere contact with you will turn it caustic and deadly, like poison gas, you angel of death.”

Breathe! Breathe!

Cariño. Cariño. Dear. Dear. The last time she heard those words were from her mother. She pulled on her hand, “Agárrame, mama.” Hold me.

She snapped her eyes open. “Tia!” Was this another thought flashing through her mind?

“It appears you were having a nightmare, my dear,” said Aunt Octavia trying to comfort her.

“No, I wasn’t.”

“You’re disturbed, my girl. Sometimes our troubles come to us in sleep.”

“You have no idea what I’ve been through.”

“Of course not,” said Octavia, “but I know what sort of man your father was.”

Wilma remained quiet.

“I’m right to say, was, aren’t I?”

She maintained her silence.

“Your father was a letch. He couldn’t keep his hands off anything female. He even tried it on me. I never told Alfredo. If, and it’s a big if, if he had believed me, his honor would have forced him to kill his brother. Alfredo would not have believed me.” She paused, “Your father knew I was in an impossible position. My silence made him even bolder. Then thankfully he suddenly disappeared as if God had heard my prayers. Your Uncle Alfredo turned him into some kind

98 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 of martyr, almost saint like. His older brother never did anything wrong nor was he capable of it. Alfredo has resented me for my lack of reverence toward to his idol.”

Wilma looked at her puzzled by this confession.

“Don’t say anything to anyone. Wait until Alfredo is dead and hope he doesn’t find out the truth before.”

Wilma nodded her head subconsciously in agreement. She immediately regretted it. She never meant to give an impression of admission of guilt. She only wanted to indicate she understood.

“You see, you can confide in me. God knows you need to in someone.”

Wilma started to shake. “My dear girl, are you cold?” she asked concerned.

“I feel a chill.”

“Ay the air is too high. I’ll turn it down.” She found the remote control and it beeped a few times, while she pointed it in the direction of the air conditioner.

“Can you help me into my chair and take me outside?”

“Of course, my dear.”

While helping her, Octavia told her of the massive manhunt mounted in the US after her disappearance. “You were already a celebrity. Now even more. You can write your memoirs and it would be a best-seller.”

“I’ll never do that.”

“I suppose you’d prefer to forget.”

“Yes, forget my life ever happened.”

“Or you could start anew here. This is your chance. Your uncle has done you a great favor. Or would you rather be in prison?”

“At least there I could do no more harm.”

“My good girl, Lexy was right when he said you’re depressed.”

“He said that?”

“Oh yes, he doesn’t miss a thing.”

“Huh!”

Aunt Octavia wheeled her outside. Lexy spotted her immediately and ran up to her.

“Mommy, they have a half Olympic pool here, like the one I used to swim in in San Diego.” He slurred his words from his excitement.

He wore his swimming trunks with no shirt. It was the first time she saw the flesh of his body. She’d never seen him naked. Never changed his nappy. Never took in his baby odor. He was sweating and she could clearly see his well- developed chest and shoulder muscles.

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“I’ll show you the pool,” he said enthusiastically. Lexy took control of the chair from Octavia and pushed his mother to the edge of the water with an entourage of 11 children on his heels sparring and laughing.

“Not too close,” she pleaded. He pulled her back, put on the brake and jumped in, “Yeehaw,” he called out making a big splash. His head bobbed out, he looked in her direction with a big smile, “I’ll teach you to swim,” he called out gleefully.

“Oh no, you won’t.”

“Are you chicken then?”

“I don’t like the water.”

He jumped out of the pool in a single leap. Picked her up. “No!” she screamed at the top of her voice. She had no choice but to hang onto him, thinking in this way he could not throw her in. Instead he ran and jumped in while she clung on screaming, “No! No! Don’t!”

She closed her eyes and mouth and held her breath for the inevitable immersion. She didn’t feel the plunge into the water, but she was conscious of it enveloping her head. She opened her eyes. Lexy pushed upwards and she shot out of the water while he held her in his arms like a small child. Several more children dove in surrounding them. She remembered her cold rebuke of earlier in the morning, which prevented her from admonishing him now.

The children and adults, who had witnessed her baptism in the water started clapping.

“Well done!” called out Octavia.

She squeezed Lexy and kissed him on the head. “You’ll learn easily to swim. You have powerful arms from pushing the wheelchair. You’ll be a good swimmer like me.”

She squeezed him again. She clung to him, no longer out of fear of the water, but for the need to be as close as possible to him, to feel his form and relish in his love for her. She wanted with all her heart to love him back, to accept her failing, which was far greater than his. She knew she had to stop thinking that way, not about herself, but about Lexy. Yet she still rejected giving birth to an imperfect child, even though he was better than any other human she knew.

“Lexy, I’m sorry, I’m a burden to you.”

“Never!” he replied robustly. “I’m the burden. I know very well what it’s like to raise a Down’s Syndrome. I grew up with several. I saw how Chrissy and James struggled. It broke them up in the end.” It was Chrissy’s sense of guilt about her own two Down ’s syndrome children that made her adopt others such as Lexy. In her early twenties, before she married, she had two abortions. She believed the extra chromosomes were planted in her children to punish her.

“I should’ve been taking care of you,” she said.

“Well now, I’m taking care of you.”

“I don’t deserve it.”

“Guilt will kill you, unless I drown you first.”

“Then drown me. I beg you.”

100 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “Okay,” he agreed casually with a shrug of his shoulders. He of all people understood her. She helped Lexy pull her arm away from his shoulder. He lifted her up high above his head. She was not afraid. He was going to do it. How she yearned for it. She knew she could face it. “Do it!” she commanded him. “Do it now!” He swung his arms back slightly, then tossed her into the water as far away as he could.

“Thank you,” she shouted gratefully just before her head disappeared below the surface. At last she was getting what she deserved. She sank deeply out of sight. The children in the pool became alarmed and agitated and started to swim toward where she had gone under.

“She can’t swim,” shouted Octavia.

“Dios mío!” (Oh my God!) One of the children called out alarmed. “Sálvala primo!” (Save her.)

However Lexy was unmoved. He remained still with an expression of calm. One of the children pulled on Lexy’s leg, “Get her, go get her!”

It was followed by a loud shout from the edge of the pool. “Let her drown!” It was Uncle Alfredo.

“No!” screamed Octavia.

“She’ll swim,” called back Lexy. Just then her head popped out followed by her arms. She expulsed air and water, inhaled deeply and sank back in.

Everyone in and around the pool looked horrified, wanting to rescue her, yet held back by the fear of defying the old man, or perhaps it was just curiosity to see if Lexy would save her.

Wilma’s head popped out again with a splash of waving arms. A torrent of water jettisoned out of her mouth, but before she could inhale she disappeared back under again.

Lexy dove underwater and swam toward her. He found her quickly. Her eyes were wide open, her mouth shut. He went to grab her. She pushed him away, but he was too strong. He looped his left arm under her armpits and pulled her out of the water. As she came up she was pounding him on the shoulders trying to force him to release her. Water and air shot out of her lungs and she took another breath, “Let me die!” she screamed.

“Yes, let her,” called out Uncle Alfredo.

“No! You’re going to live,” said Lexy to his mother. “You’re all I have left. You’re going to live for me, if not for yourself.”

“Why do you inflict on me this life of torture? I can’t live with myself,” she spluttered out of breath.

“Then you’ll live with me.”

“I don’t deserve this,” she had to give up trying to wrest herself free from his firm grasp.

She threw herself into his chest and tears flooded out. Lexy stroked her back gently and softly to comfort her. After a few minutes she calmed down. The children went back to their frolicking in the pool as if nothing had happened. Uncle Alfredo was wheeled away with a look of disgust on his face. Aunt Octavia remained by the pool pretending to ignore them.

“So, I’m to be obliged to you. I have no choice, but to make it up to you for the rest of my life.”

“Well, I suppose it’s better than the alternative. Guilt is the weighty hand of death that chokes life out of the living.”

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“I never expected this.”

“You mean you never expected me.”

“Yes, you’re right,” she paused not sure whether to continue, but then decided to desist with restraint. “I never expected a Downs syndrome child. But I never expected you to be what you are.”

“You expected a retard, like your sister.”

“I suppose I did.”

“Aren’t you glad I’m not?”

“Oh God, yes!”

“Then no more guilt. You have to promise to leave it behind.”

“It’s not so simple.”

“Yes, I’m aware of being simple. I should be the one with the hang-ups. I should be the one who feels dejected with low self-confidence. Different from everyone.”

“God knows you’re different. I now know what your father meant when he said I would be proud of you.”

“He said that?”

“Oh yes he did. He suffered the guilt too, but I denied him the right to feel it.”

“Like I’m trying to do with you now.”

“Yes, but this time it’s different.”

“Why?”

“Because now I can feel it. I’m allowing myself the luxury of letting it devour me, something I had suppressed so hard that it turned me into a monster.”

“A big sea monster,” and he made a scary face and growled.

She started to laugh. It was a real laugh. She didn’t know why it should be funny, but the laughter felt good. She began to giggle like she had done as a little girl with Jasmina. They used to laugh at nothing. They just did it for the sake of it. Lexy began to giggle too.

“You had forgotten to laugh,” remarked Lexy.

“Oh, I was just full of rage for the injustices done to me, my sister, mother and,” she paused, “you.”

Lexy shook his head in negation.

“Don’t you get angry sometimes for being DS?”

“Anger only leads to misery.”

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“You’re right about that,” she looked around the pool. The children were swimming and playing while occasionally tugging at Lexy to join in, “So teach me to swim,” she finally said.

After 30 minutes of Lexy trying to teach Wilma how to swim the crawl, she announced that she her arms were killing her. She could no longer put one in front of the other. Even though the muscles in her arms were much more developed from pushing herself around in the wheelchair than they were when she was able to walk, they had to compensate for the complete lack of any assistance from her legs in order to swim. Lexy carried her out of the pool and placed her in the wheelchair. Alfonso rushed over and offered to take her to her room. Lexy tried to insist that he do so, he posed the question of how she was to dry and change. She told Lexy that she could manage. Two of the children had already come out of the pool and they were pleading for him to come back in and play with them. One of them was tugging on his elbow pulling him toward the pool. Lexy conceded and leapt back into the pool with a big splash to the delight of the children.

Alfonso started to push her, but she stopped him. “Let me sit here for a bit and watch them. It will give me a chance to dry out too.”

“Sure,” he said and pushed her over to a table. “Luisa,” he called out at the top of his voice.

“Sí señor,” she appeared.

“Bring us a pitcher of lemonade.”

Wilma’s mind harked back instantly to her childhood and the lemonade her father loved to drink. He preferred it to tequila he used to tell everyone. She shuddered at the recollection of how his breath never smelled of lemons when he came to her in the night. It was always of tequila and cigarettes. Alfonso noticed her mood change from one of tired elation to melancholic bleakness.

“What’s the matter?” asked Alfonso concerned.

“My father,” she replied almost unconsciously.

“What about him?”

“He used to love lemonade.”

“And that makes you troubled?”

“Yes,” she blurted out.

“I think it best you forget him,” said Alfonso.

“Yes, I had done exactly that, but you bringing me back here has brought back all the unhappy memories of my childhood.”

“I am sorry.”

“Oh, you’re not really sorry.”

“Yes, I am happy that you are here, but I am sad that it upsets you. Is it too heavy a price for your freedom?”

“Huh,” she sniggered. “I am not free of those memories and never will be. They have ruled my life even when I thought I had succeeded in suppressing them.”

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“I was never free of the memory of you,” said Alfonso. Just as he completed this sentence Luisa arrived with the lemonade, placed the pitcher and two glasses on the table and left. Alfonso and Wilma stared at the pitcher which was releasing a potent lemon scent into the air, whilst their minds were busy resurrecting memories of years of unhappiness, loneliness and frustration.

“You’ve wasted your life,” said Wilma.

“No, not at all. My whole life has been preparing for this moment.”

“You never grew up.”

“You’re right. I am still 16. That was when you disappeared from my life. My father haunted by his missing brother and I by the love for you that never left me, not even for one moment.”

“I feel sorry for you.”

“I have no regrets. Not even one. Even if I had never found you again, I would still feel the same. Every other woman I met never measured up to you. I will never forget your smiling eyes and girlish laughter and how they looked at me like an angel from heaven enrapturing me forever.”

“Please Alfonso, don’t carry on with this.”

“Seeing you here in the flesh is almost too much to bear. It’s heaven and hell in one.”

“My God Alfonso, the kind of love you profess does not exist.”

“Oh yeah, then look at me in the eye and tell me that the love Lexy has for you does not exist either.”

“But he is not …”

“Normal,” he finished the sentence for her.

“No,” she didn’t mean that. He was not normal, he was beyond anything she had expected. He had more insight than Fabian and Lena. “You know what I mean,” she finally said.

“Oh yes, I know exactly what you mean. That I have a childlike mind like Lexy. A naiveté that defies belief. An innocence that is foolish, which in a grown man is unattractive and unbecoming.”

“Don`t compare yourself to Lexy. I am just baffled by this outpouring of love that I cannot accept because I don’t even love myself. Do you have any idea what that feels like?”

“I find that hard to accept that you can be so devoid of self-love. How do you survive?”

“I breathe, but I do not live. With Lexy I have felt fleeting moments of life during which I try to melt the thick layer of ice covering my heart. During these short seconds of consciousness, my beating heart feels like a giant ice cube inside my chest that chills me and pounds into my body so hard that it physically hurts, like someone slashing at my insides with icicles and ripping me apart from the inside.”

Alfonso reached out to grab her hand. She instantly withdrew it. “Please, don’t ever do that.”

“What are you afraid of?”

104 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 She said nothing and sat there holding her hands together with her fingers interlocked in a gesture of control and defiance.

“Do you fear love?”

“No, I fear people. They are cruel, even the ones who supposedly love you. In fact they are the cruelest.”

“My God girl, what did my uncle do to you?”

“What I did to him is what eats away at me more than anything. I loved him and I hated him. I cannot love for I know that only hatred will follow.”

“Perhaps you have just defined humanity. But love you must and hate you must when it fits. Do you think you could ever hate Lexy?

“Oh, I think maybe I did.”

“Because he was Downs?”

“No, because I gave birth to him, but I didn’t hate him. I hated myself. His birth brought back the memories of Jasmina and what my father ….” She stopped herself. She was telling too much. More than she had ever told anyone. Even David.

“¡Dios mío! (My God!)” exclaimed Alfonso. “It’s worse than I imagined.”

“Oh, poor dear little Alfonso.” She knew her voice was sounding sarcastic, but she could not avoid it. She was sorry for him, and at the same time, felt no respect for him. “You have been living in a fairy tale. Believe me you don’t want to be in my horror story.”

“Fairy tale! How could you say that after what I told you about how I feel? Do you think that my paralysis for loving someone else, anyone else, has been a dream? It’s been a nightmare. Do you have any idea how much I wanted children? How much I have suffered?”

She looked away from Alfonso toward her first born, as she used to call him, rather than by his name, as if he were just a phase in her life and not a permanent fixture in it.

“Of course, how could you know? I married a woman from one of the rich families in Valle Hermoso. My parents pushed me into it, thinking it would save me from my depraved celibacy and help the family fortune along the way. When I looked at her, I could not see you. I somehow expected she would be like you, but she was nothing like you. She was devoid of personality and lacked intellect. She never understood a joke. I never saw her really laugh. Her laughter when it came was forced and false. She obeyed every instruction of mine without question and in some cases was incapable of understanding them correctly. She was an embarrassment. I grew to despise her. She wanted to have my children. I could not bring myself to make love to her despite her begging. She even enlisted my mother’s help in trying to seduce me. I had to shout at her to put her clothes on and leave me alone. She kept trying to force herself on me, until one day I pushed her away so hard, she landed against a corner of the chest of drawers and cracked her head open. She had to be rushed to the hospital and ended up with 8 stiches. I asked her for divorce when she recovered and thankfully she consented.”

“You won’t be having any children with me Alfonso.” She rolled her chair out from behind the table and faced him. “Look at them!” she pointed to her legs.

Alfonso placed his elbows on the table and ground one fist into the palm of the other hand, while biting his lower lip. He was doing all he could to hold back the tears. “It makes no difference to me.”

105 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“Well it should. You can’t make love to me and even if you did, you will get nothing back. My hips are paralyzed just like my inability to love. I cannot love you. I am a cripple.”

Tears began to roll down Alfonso’s cheeks.

“You were in love with a 14 year old girl. That girl no longer exists. She died a long time ago and your love for her should have too. For God’s sake, Alfonso, grow up!”

She rolled herself away to her room. Alfonso did not follow.

106 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

CHAPTER TEN

The family gathered around the dining table. They were 20. Fourteen of them were relations from Octavia’s side of the family. There was so much chatter one had to shout just to be heard by the person next to him. The TV was blaring in the background. Wilma couldn’t help but notice that it was tuned to KLATV. She sat amongst them in her chair trying to concentrate on the conversations around the table. It was impossible. She kept reverting to wearing her fixed smiley face of restrained tension. Pretending to pay attention to the others and occasionally nodding her head in agreement to some non-controversial comment and expressing an “Aha” now and then. Uncle Alfredo was reportedly too tired to join them for dinner and was in bed already.

Suddenly Herrero’s face beamed out of the TV. Alfonso leapt out of his chair and shouted, “Silencio!” grabbed the remote control and turned up the volume.

“What a day it has been at the Salt Lake County courthouse today. The jury deliberated six hours and came back with a verdict of first degree murder for Mrs. Wilma Henshaw. She will be sentenced in abstention next week. Who knows maybe by then the authorities will have located her and bring her back to face justice.”

Octavia wrested the remote control out of Alfonso´s hand and switched the set off. Lexy went over to his mother. Wilma felt her face turn to stone, solid and hard, as if she had been petrified. She couldn’t even blink. Speech failed her. No, ‘it was an accident’ protestation was forthcoming from her. Uncle Alfredo had deprived her of the just punishment she deserved. She was aware of Lexy standing directly in front of her, but her eyes seemed to stare right through him as if he were transparent.

“Mother! Mother!” Lexy was saying, leaning over and looking right into her eyes.

“She’s in shock,” she heard Aunt Octavia. She came up to Lexy. “I’ll take her to her room. You stay here.” Octavia released the brake and wheeled her away. She felt like she was a boulder rolling down a hill gathering speed as it tumbled. Any moment she would crash into the rocks at the bottom and shatter into a million pieces. She was going in slow motion. She played out her whole life in her mind as she felt herself falling downward to an inevitable end that was always just out of reach. Whenever it seemed nigh, something unexpected turned up and arrested her descent, but never reversed it. All it served was to prolong her suffering. With this sentence by the Utah court, she felt that finally, the last straw to her tragic life had been heaved on. The suffering was going to end. All she had to do was to go back to the United States and turn herself in. That would be the easiest thing she had ever done in her life, yet for her there was no redemption, in spite of the remorse. Giving herself up was the cowardly way out.

Her aunt took her up the in the elevator to the first floor where her bedroom was located. She was guilty. It was as simple as that and she must pay the price, whatever it was, however it was administered. Suddenly her chair stopped. She was instantly overwhelmed by the most monstrous impulse that had ever seized her, interpreting the abrupt halt of the chair to be the end of her life. She grabbed the wheels firmly and rolled herself forward as fast as she could. She headed straight for the marble staircase leading to the ground floor. She heard Aunt Octavia shout, “Stop!” She gave the wheels one last long and hard push and launched herself down the stairs. The chair bumped and bounced nearly half-way down, miraculously staying upright and holding her safely in. It seemed like she would continue that way, when it suddenly flipped forward and catapulted her out like a tumbleweed flying across the bleak desert. She crash- landed on her back on the edge of the 15th step and rolled down the remaining 15 like a snowball. She felt herself shatter as she reached the bottom.

Searing intense pain flashed across her back. Her Aunt ran down and screamed. “Madre mía! Alfonso!” It was the end, but the initial violent and brutal agony was quickly followed by a dull pain that she felt from head to toe, which was impossible. She had the same feeling in her upper body as in her legs. She closed her eyes to complete the dream.

107 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 Wilma laid still. It was time for death to visit her, take her under its wing and whisk her away on a magic carpet far away where she would no more trouble a soul. A ghost needs no body. She was better off without it. She drifted off, not into sleep, but into a hypnotic state of lack of consciousness. She was faintly aware of a hustle and bustle about her person, but she was disconnected from it, even aloof. She was at last free of her earthly body. The vehicle which had left so much road-kill behind. The destroyer of all friendly eco-systems was being flushed away like some inorganic hazardous waste. The thought soothed her.

She had secretly yearned for the end and finally death had come. Now she could relax. She had never been at such peace with herself since childhood. There was not a single thought in her mind. Not even fear. No worry. No nothing. She lost track of how long she had lain there. It could have been centuries. She could well have turned back into dust long forgotten about, an infinitesimally small speck, which mattered not if it existed. Free of earthly shackles and worries that mired her human existence. She felt something touch her leg. It was bordering on the imperceptible. She was sure she imagined it. Perhaps death creates the delusion of life and resurrects the sensation of being alive, just to taunt her about what she was missing. Then she felt it again, ever so faintly, as if an angel was brushing past her leg, teasing her to divine the sensation, even enjoy it. Did she deserve it? Even to dream of it seemed a sin. She had been subconsciously longing for the unattainable perfection: life before 12. This elusive ideal made her earthly life unbearable, not only to her, but also to those who came into close contact with her.

The sensation returned and this time it had texture. It was of smooth masculine skin, quite unlike David’s that was rough from using his hands to repair cars, planes and boats. She brushed the sensation away, but it returned like a fiendish nightmare following her even in wakefulness refusing to let go, clinging on fiercely despite all attempts to make it face up to the reality. It was imagined and deceitful, preying on the mind of a delusional soul.

Next the sensation moved to the other leg like a lightning striking. Her whole body convulsed. It was just the muscles stiffening up from rigor mortis, she told herself. Nothing more. She was dead. Nothing was going to bring her back. She did not wish to return. So that was it.

Then she felt a whole hand on her leg: a full palm, four fingers and one thumb. It crawled up reaching her knee and the fingers tapped it wantonly desirous of a response. There was none and the hand continued its climb up to her pelvis. She felt herself stiffen and the hand withdrew instantly. Could it be her father pursuing her even into the after- life? What kind of hell had she fallen into?

The hand returned, this time to the other leg. Her muscles tightened. It was an involuntary reflex reaction. She was not even aware of it. The hand crept up past her knee, then thigh, making its way without any challenge up to her crotch. “Déjame!” she cried out in a low voice, afraid to draw attention to what was going on. The hand flew off her leg like a frightened bird.

“Conchita, mi niña! My dear child, it’s Octavia”

What was she doing there, thought Wilma? She opened her eyes to see her Aunt’s benign face beaming above as if she were Santa Teresa with a halo around her head. “Cariño,” she called to her. “The doctor’s here. He’s just examining you. You need not be frightened.”

She looked down the length of her body and at the base of the bed stood a tall man with a big thick moustache marring his otherwise handsome face. He wore an authoritative expression and said, “Wriggle your toes?”

“What?” she asked shocked at such an indiscrete question. She was a dead cripple. She could not move. This was not real.

“Wriggle your toes!” he ordered this time with a sharp edge to his voice, as if she was annoying him.

“Certainly not,” she replied.

108 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “You won’t or can’t?” he questioned her.

“You keep your hands off me!” she hissed at him.

“I know you can wriggle your toes,” his voice softened a bit, yet he maintained his firm professional demeanor.

“Go on, do as the doctor says,” pleaded Octavia.

Without thinking or intending to, her big left toe bent back toward her face. A stupefied smile started to form there, but she could not make up her mind whether to express gratitude for or betrayal by the heroic act performed by her large digitus. She halted her half-formed smile from completing its full expression.

“The other,” said the doctor uninterested in the effect this one tiny movement was having on her. To him she was just a mechanical object to be manipulated until it worked again. She restrained the impulse to move it. She was pleased with herself. At the point of congratulating herself for the victory, the doctor shouted harshly and impatiently, “Wriggle that toe!”

In fright the toe bent right back.

“Aha!” he exclaimed.

“Es un milagro!” beamed her Aunt. “Thank you dear Lord!”

“Miracle maybe” said the doctor, “but I’d wager it was the fall.”

“Esto es una pesadilla,” (this is a nightmare) lamented Wilma.

“This is no nightmare, Sra. Henshaw, es un sueño.”

“A dream, a dream gone wrong,” she cried. “A dream that can’t be. Do you have any idea of the hell I’m in?”

“Oh don’t! It grieves me to hear you talk so,” her Aunt was crying. “I knew that God would not desert you. He has answered my prayers. My girl, I’m so happy.”

“How could you be? You should have been happy for me if I had died. Why do I keep on living?”

“Because you deserve to,” retorted Octavia.

“I lost that right a long time ago.”

The doctor interjected, “You will need physiotherapy. Don’t attempt to walk. Your leg muscles are atrophied. I’ll need you to come to the clinic for X-Rays.”

“Dios mío, what are you doing to me? Why do you torment me? Why can’t you release me?”

“Lexy has been worried sick. He’s been at the chapel praying non-stop for you to recover. This is more than he had hoped for. You’re going to be all right.” Octavia wiped her tears away, “Don’t you worry. Lexy will look after you. Alfonso!” she called out.

Her son came into the room. “Sí, mama.”

“Go fetch Lexy!”

109 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 Wilma started to giggle, then burst out laughing uncontrollably thinking she had been dreaming. It was a laugh of overwhelming sadness followed by a flood of tears. Her aunt took her hand and squeezed it gently crying with her.

“You’re going to be happy,” said Octavia. “These tears are the first sign of it. You’ll see.”

“There’s no escape for me.”

“No, none. You have to face your ghosts my dear. They’re never as bad as one thinks.”

“I have taken life and I have escaped punishment, but I cannot escape from myself. Only death can do that for me.”

“There’s one person who wants you alive more than anything in this world.”

“And he’s held me hostage all his life.”

“You did that yourself.”

“That’s the worst part.”

Lexy burst into the room, out of breath for it took him a full 60 seconds before he could utter a word. When it came out, it was garbled. It sounded like a groan, “Mmmmmmmm,” he tried again and the same mumbled sound came out. He bent over, tried to regulate his breath and finally burst out with tears welling up in his eyes, “Mom, I lwove you. I thought I wost you forever.”

“No son, I came back from the dead. You brought me back.”

He came up to the edge of the bed, bent down and kissed her forehead in his abrupt, ungraceful way. He straightened up.

“Your mom just moved her toes,” Octavia imparted the news to Lexy and broke out again in a flood of tears.

“What?” Lexy asked astounded.

“She did. It’s a miracle. With God’s help she might be able to walk again one day.”

Lexy stood there with his mouth agape, and his tongue which never quite fitted his mouth, hanging out more than usual.

“Walk,” he scratched his head. “Walk!” he repeated.

“Maybe,” added the doctor, “it’s possible. I have seen this kind of thing before with men who had suffered torture wounds to the back.”

“Will she be able to swim?” Lexy directed his question to the doctor.

“Oh she sure can and if her legs are working, it will be the best thing to rebuild her leg muscles.”

“When you’re walking we’ll bury the wheelchair,” he said to his mother.

She reached out and took his hand and let the tears continue to cascade down her face. She was happy for Lexy, yet unhappy for herself that she still lived.

110 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 CHAPTER ELEVEN

“Mama, switch the TV off. Come for a swim.”

“Ssshh,” she waved at Lexy to be quiet.

“The Henshaw children who earlier had backed the $1 million reward for the capture of their mother are now asking for it be withdrawn. This request has led to all sorts of speculation. The Feds have been pursuing countless leads, mostly of false sightings. You don’t want to even slightly look like Mrs. Wilma Henshaw and be seen in a wheelchair these days. Some believe the children must know where she is, which explains why they no longer want the reward to be out there. Perhaps Mrs. Henshaw has been in touch with them. Obviously they are in a precarious situation. If they know where she is, but keep quiet about it they could be prosecuted for harboring a convicted killer.”

The following day Alfonso took Wilma to the clinic in the big black van. Lexy insisted on going too. They were told to sit in the back and out of sight, they did not want to take any risks.

The X-Rays showed her spinal cord intact. It had suffered severe lesions in at least three vertebrae where she was struck by the crow bar. They had been broken, but the disks where aligned. Two of them were compressed but they were not restricting the spinal cord. She would always have pain in that section of her back, but she had clearly regained feeling in her legs and the doctor was sure she would be able to walk again with careful therapy, including lots of swimming.

On their way back along highway 20, the van slowed down to a crawling speed as the traffic was bumper to bumper. Alfonso became agitated. They crawled along for about 10 minutes when Alfonso spotted police vehicles ahead. He ordered the driver to turn around and find another route.

When they arrived home, Wilma found the TV tuned to the local Mexican TV station. Her Aunt Octavia and Uncle Alfredo were watching:

“As you can see these poor devils have been tortured. 12 in all, one woman and 11 men. Then they were shot at close range by a large caliber gun and including a final shot to the head, typical of the Mexicans narcos execution. It looks like they were killed elsewhere then dumped here on highway 20.”

Upon hearing them come into the room, her Aunt put the TV on mute and jumped up to greet them. Wilma could not take her eyes off the screen as the camera moved from one face to another at close range. “Terrible, isn’t it, my dear?”

Lexy was observing too the pictures on the TV screen. His jaw had dropped as far as it would go and his whole countenance was that of someone who had suddenly been struck dumb, yet there was no obvious sign of emotion. Wilma watched him from her chair, wondering what might be going on in his mind. Sometimes he was like a small child with a development age of 10 and other times, he surprised her with wisdom far beyond even her years. One could never underestimate him. He was so happy there playing with the smaller children. He fitted right in with them and they loved him. On the other hand the adults all admired him for how he had accepted so readily his new life. He never lost his patience or became angry, although at times we would just go to his room by himself and stay there for hours until one of the young children beseeched him to come out and play with them or give them another swimming lesson. She always left him alone when he was on his own in his room. She could not bring herself to intrude on him.

Finally Aunt Octavia suggested to Lexy he go for a swim and he acceded without hesitation. Wilma watched him walk away, but he seemed to drag his feet. He was not rushing off enthusiastically as she was accustomed to seeing.

“Who are those people who have been killed?” asked Wilma of her Aunt.

111 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“We’re not sure, but we suspect that the Delta Cartel killed them.”

“Why?”

“They would have betrayed the cartel in some way. Often their workers get too greedy, so they….”

“Kill them.”

“I’m afraid so. It’s a nasty business.”

“Examples need to be set,” blurted out Uncle Alfredo.

“I’d say that was a pretty public example. At least they spared us the actual executions.”

“They’ll have videoed it and it will be shown to others to remind them in case they forget.”

“We’ve ruined this country,” remarked Octavia.

“Huh, the Americans did that with their money and hunger for drugs. No one can resist it,” retorted Alfredo. “You know, Sr. Ladrillo, the head of the Delta Cartel, has a Down’s Syndrome son. He must be about the same age as Lexy.”

“That’s right,” concurred Octavia.

“But we rarely have anything to do with them. We keep out of each other’s way,” said Alfredo. “José,” he called out. The medium height middle-aged man with dark skin and sinewy muscles, who had accompanied them when they were kidnapped, presented himself. “Take me to my bedroom!” José wheeled him out. José never spoke a word, not even during their long trip from Salt Lake City to the Hacienda. José just nodded his head and did whatever Alfredo or Alfonso asked of him. Despite his silent demeanor, he radiated an aura that instilled fear in all who met him, because it was obvious he would carry out any order, no matter how gruesome.

Wilma was left there on her own with Octavia. “That man gives me the creeps,” said Octavia. “It’s why I insist he never stays in the same room when I am with Alfredo.”

Wilma did not know what to say. The news channel had moved onto Sports. Octavia picked up the remote control and switched off the TV. “God has blessed you my child,”

Wilma said nothing. “He’s given you a new life, you’ll be able to walk again. It really is a miracle. You should be rejoicing.”

Wilma’s silence was not to be broken.

She was attended to everyday by a physiotherapist and Lexy made her swim each day until she could no longer. In her free time she sat by the pool watching Lexy swim and play with his cousins upon their return from school. They were all becoming expert swimmers. She usually sat there with a portable long wave radio in her lap listening to Mexican and American chat shows and occasionally the news.

“Father, Bryan O’Leary, 35, a Catholic priest from Acradia, CA, father of an adopted child was fatally shot today by police when they raided his motel room, where he had been harboring his son. We are not allowed to disclose the child’s name as per the Minors Protection Act. The child is safe and well and has been restored to his adoptive family.”

“According to Arcadia Police Department he was armed and shot at two Police Officers before he himself was shot dead.”

112 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 Lexy heard from his young cousins that none of the children in the village knew how to swim for there was no municipal pool. Lexy persuaded Alfonso to allow children to come to the Gran Mármol after school and Lexy would give them lessons. It was agreed, but his mother would have to stay out of sight. They feared word would get out about her whereabouts to the American authorities who would pressure the local police force to turn her in.

One hot morning, three weeks after the swimming lessons started, all occupants of the Gran Mármol were suddenly summoned to the quad with the three water fountains and told that Sr. Ladrillo, head of the Delta Cartel was calling on them that afternoon. Conchita and Lexy were told to stay out of sight, unless they are called for, and any mention of Lexy or Conchita to Sr. Ladrillo by any of the staff or family would be met with the strictest punishment.

The swimming lessons for that day were cancelled and the Hacienda was prepared for the visit. When he arrived, all of its occupants apart from essential staff kept out of sight. Sr. Ladrillo got out of his armored Cherokee four wheel drive jeep with blacked out windows. He was a squat muscular man with thick arms and legs that forced him to take slow deliberate steps, as if walking was an inconvenience he had to endure rather than enjoy. His built up oversized shoulders encroached so far up his neck that his chin was level with the top of them. It looked like his head was floating on top of his torso. He was ex-Mexican Special Forces, trained by the American Navy. He had reached the rank of Colonel, retired at 41, then joined the cartel and in less than three years he was heading it. His bearing demanded respect, but just in case that was not enough, he had a menacing gaze that made one feel fear and suppress any vain pride lurking under the surface.

He opened the back door on the passenger side and gently and lovingly helped his son out. He too was short and squat, but lacked the muscles his father had. He was pudgy with a belly. He held his head back forcefully with his chin pointing down, which made him look as if he had no neck.

Alfonso greeted them cheerfully and cordially while leading them to the cool inner forecourt with the fountains.

“Ay, what a beautiful place you have here,” commented Col. Jaime Ladrillo. Wilma was listening in from her room.

“Where is the Maestro (teacher)? I have brought Rodrigo here to learn to swim. I have heard he’s a very good teacher.” Rodrigo bounced back and forth from one foot to the other keeping his head down avoiding any eye contact.

“Ah, you want to meet our Alejandro,” expressed Alfonso mildly surprised. He could hardly deny the existence of Lexy as Ladrillo clearly knew of him.

“That’s why I brought my son,” he said, with a condescending intonation, then immediately attempted to recover from his previous tone with a humble plea, “I was hoping he would be willing to teach my son.” He looked Alfonso straight in the eye.

“Of course,” said Alfonso avoiding hesitation. “So this is not a business call?” enquired Alfonso.

“No, unless you’re going to charge me for the lessons, which I will happily pay for. No one has so far been able to teach him to swim and I thought your Downs nephew would succeed where others have failed.”

“Nephew?” Alfonso tried to look puzzled. Ladrillo stared at him.

“Yes, of course, he would be honored to do so, Col. Ladrillo,” Alfonso used his military title as a sign of respect.

“As you can see he’s wearing his swimming trunks and ready to go.”

“Yes I can see that. I will go and fetch Maestro Alejandro now.”

Presently Alfonso returned with Lexy.

113 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“Encantado conocerle,” (pleased to meet you) beamed Ladrillo. “Mi hijo (my son) Rodrigo.” He pointed to him. Neither Lexy nor Rodrigo said anything to each other.

Lexy reached out and took him by the hand and led the boy to the swimming pool. Alfonso and Ladrillo followed them. Lexy guided the boy down the steps at the shallow end into the pool.

“He’s not normally so docile and willing,” remarked Ladrillo.

“Maestro Alejandro has a winning way with people,” said Alfonso.

Alfonso and Ladrillo stopped at the pool by the deep end and observed the two Downs Syndrome boys. Rodrigo was shuffling back and forth from one foot to the other. From Alfonso’s vantage point Rodrigo’s slow and deliberate lifting of his feet in turn gave the impression of walking on water. His head hung low, but he kept furtively lifting his eyes in the direction of Lexy, who stood in front of Rodrigo and began to explain the basic strokes.

“How is your father?” enquired Ladrillo.

“Since Alejandro arrived here he’s been getting better.”

“Really! Is he some kind of miracle worker?”

“No, I don’t believe in such things.”

“You should be careful. Some people might think he is and you’ll have hordes of them making a pilgrimage to see him or just to touch his hand.”

Alfonso laughed uneasily. It was obvious Ladrillo knew precisely who Lexy was. It seemed everyone knew and it was only a question of time before the Americans came looking for him.

As if Ladrillo was reading his thoughts, “and how is his mother?”

“She’s getting better too.”

“Really! How?”

“She’s regaining the ability to walk.”

“Wow! You’ll have me soon kissing his hand.”

They were interrupted when suddenly they heard a loud splash from the opposite end of the pool. Rodrigo had immersed himself up to his shoulders in the water and was shouting at the top of voice, “Ayee! Ayee! Ayee!”

“I’ll be damned, son of a bitch!” exclaimed Ladrillo.

Rodrigo was slapping the water and splashing Lexy.

“I always thought he was afraid of the water. This lad of yours is an angel.” Tears were welling up in the eyes of this otherwise harsh man, who thought nothing of killing an enemy or anyone who got in his way, including the previous leader of the Delta Cartel, who he claimed was co-operating with Calderón’s government. Ladrillo recruited men exclusively from the military, which was his way of countering the ever more powerful Zeta cartel. He had told Alfonso when he took over the Delta Cartel that the man he took over from was about to inform on Alfonso’s family for gun running, which meant that Alfonso should be grateful to him. Whether it was true or not, Alfonso was not

114 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 going to question it. Ladrillo was astute enough to avoid asking Alfonso to stop supplying the Zetas with guns, for he knew that the Zetas already had established their own lines of supply and used Alfonso’s only when they needed extra weapons.

Alfonso brought him a chair and motioned to him to sit. The narco gratefully thanked Alfonso and sat down.

“Julio,” called out Alfonso, “bring us some drinks!”

A week later Lexy sat in front of the big TV looking horrified at the news of the discovery of a grave pit in which 72 bodies were found, including women and children. The same reel was being played over and over of masked policemen and firemen retrieving the cadavers. The bodies had been there no more than 2 days and the coroner pronounced that each and every one of them had been shot between the eyes with a single 9 mm caliber bullet at close range. It was yet another example of the extreme cruelty of the cartels. The big question was why they were killed in such a way and who did it. Due to their luck in finding the pit so soon, they would be able to identify each corpse and from that they would have lots of leads to work on. Wilma and all the household watched the drama unfold before their eyes on live TV unable to tear themselves away from it, as if it were superglue and the prospect of unsticking it would cause more damage.

What struck Wilma as strange was that the question of how such a thing could come to pass was never raised by the commentators. Then the president Don Felipe Calderón came on to make a statement.

“First of all, my deepest condolences to the families. We will notify family members as soon as we identify the victims. This is yet another example of why we must stay firm in our resolve to defeat these murderous drug cartels, who have no conscious. We are dedicating more men and resources to identify, capture and punish these vile criminals. These are crimes against human dignity and those responsible will be dealt with severely. They will not get away with it. I promise you that.”

“Hijo de puta!” shouted Julio from the back of the room and left in disgust. There was no reprimand from Lexy for the use of those foul words as he just kept his eyes fixed to the screen.

The next morning an armored car from Ladrillo’s estate arrived to take Lexy there. He wanted to see Ladrillo’s collection of fast cars. On the TV Lexy had seen the long queues of people laying wreaths and flowers at the entrance to the grave pit. On the way to Ladrillo’s, he asked the driver to go by the pit. Lexy wanted to see it for himself. “I’m not authorized to deviate from my instructions,” the driver told him.

“Well, call your boss and ask for permission.”

The driver did as requested. “Not during daylight. Tonight, when it’s dark. So you won’t be spotted and recorded by cameras.”

“Ah!” sighed Lexy.

Ladrillo had a large estate of thousands of acres. The driver took him straight to a large cavernous hangar. He parked inside. There was an assortment of 20 super cars, but Lexy’s eyes fixed immediately on the red Ferrari 599 GTB the same type his father had and the one from the poster in his bedroom in San Diego.

The driver opened the door and Lexy leapt out like a bolt of lightning and before anyone could stop him he ran straight for the Ferrari ignoring all the other incredible cars and ran his fingers over the hood caressing it. “No!” his driver tried to stop him, but he was overruled by Ladrillo from the opposite end of the hangar.

“Let him. He loves them as I do, but I am a jealous man Alejandro. I draw a line at …” before he could finish his sentence Lexy laid face down on the hood and began kissing it repeatedly in his clumsy childlike way, while wriggling around on it. “I lwove this car!” he called out.

115 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

Ladrillo couldn’t help but laugh out loudly and deeply. He approached Lexy and dangled the keys in front of his face. “Wanna take it for a spin?”

Lexy snatched the keys out of his hand in a swift movement that left Ladrillo in awe of the quickness of Lexy’s reaction. “Oh yeah,” cooed Lexy. Then he seemed uncertain, “Really! Can I?” doubting the offer.

“I know you can drive. I watched you on the Salt Flats.

He slid off the hood, jumped in, started it, revved the engine to 5,000 rpm, put it into gear and tore out of the hangar with the wheels squealing.

“God damn hot rod!” screamed Ladrillo laughing as the deafening roar of the engine reverberated around the hangar forcing everyone to put their hands over their ears.

The drug lord had an oval track of one mile in each direction. It masked its real purpose, which was used as a clandestine air strip only at night for smuggling contraband in and out of Mexico. They only flew at night to avoid detection by the spy satellites used by the US and the lights were installed underground and only brought out seconds before touch-down, then extinguished seconds after the landing. It required highly trained pilots to land in such conditions.

Presently Ladrillo joined Lexy on the track in a yellow Lotus Espirit with Rodrigo in the passenger seat shouting “¡Más rápido, Papa! ¡Más! ¡Más! ¡Más! ¡Ayee!”

He was reaching 220 kph on the straights and still he could not catch up with Lexy. Rather the lad lapped him not once, but twice.

“God damn, son of a bitch! He’s some kinda superman speed demon!”

“Stop Papa! I want to ride with Alejandro,” Rodrigo started to say over the roar of the engine.

“No, hijo,” responded Ladrillo as he slowed down and drove his Lotus back into the hangar.

“Papa,” Rodrigo beseeched his father. “Please!”

“No, son. It’s too dangerous. Your blessed mother would kill me if anything should happen to you.”

Lexy returned to the hangar 10 minutes later with the Ferrari. He got out of the car bouncing with excitement. “I lwove this car,” he boomed and threw himself face down on the hood and kissed it several times.

Ladrillo went over to him, “How do you go so fast?”

“I just go fast.”

“Aren’t you afraid?”

“Afraid of what?” he asked perplexed.

“Of having an accident.”

“Accident?” he paused, “I never think of that.”

“Never mind,” said Ladrillo.

116 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

Lexy spotted two small propeller planes in the hangar and he pointed to them and said, “I’ve flown in an F14 Navy jet.”

“No wonder you like speed,” said Ladrillo.

“It was amazing.”

“These planes are subsonic. They fly slow and low. C’mon let’s go to the house.”

They climbed into the armored car and the driver took them there. It was a modest house considering the collection of cars Ladrillo owned. It was a one storey hacienda with a small courtyard in the middle with a dainty fountain that was more ornate than practical. It was tiled in Andalucian style, which kept it cool.

The pool was at the back of the house to where Rodrigo led Lexy. It was a long S-shaped pool with cascades on one side that rose 6 feet above the level of the pool. The entire bottom of the pool was tiled in the green, white and red colors of the Mexican flag with the Mexican eagle in the center gripping a rattle snake with its beak and left claws, while standing on a thorny cactus plant. Rodrigo proudly told Lexy that from the air the pool looked like the Mexican flag was fluttering below.

While lunching they watched the TV billowing wave after wave of graphic photos of cadavers as the elite Navy sailors dressed like soldiers evacuated the bodies from the mass grave pit. After the Navy and the federal police had finished their work people were allowed to lay wreaths and flowers at the site. I want to do that,” Lexy announced to Ladrillo.

“Of course, tonight on your way home.

After the sun went down, Ladrillo accompanied Lexy saying it was unsafe to venture out at night alone. Rodrigo insisted on coming too. They had an armed escort with them. Ladrillo had delivered that afternoon a large wreath for Lexy to lay at the site.

Five-hundred meters from the site, Ladrillo ordered his driver to stop. There was a queue of people stretching 300 meters down the road. Lexy got out of the car and together with Rodrigo they carried the wreath bypassing all the people in the line. No one said anything to them for going ahead because they were carrying the biggest wreath anyone had seen at the site. It was even larger than the one sent by the President himself that bore his name and that of the Mexican nation in their national colors of red, green and white with the Mexican eagle going across the middle. By contrast, the main body of wreath carried by Lexy and Rodrigo was made up of Mexican thorn which made it difficult to carry. However the makers had put safety handles on it so it could be carried without causing injury, but anyone who got in its way was bound to be pricked, so people moved out of their way without any protest.

The wreath was laced with a selection of plants from the Anacardiaceae family, which when in bloom yield poisonous flowers. This was another reason that the procession of mourners let Lexy and Rodrigo pass. Only a few of the mourners bore a bunch of flowers and even less carried small wreaths to lay at the site. Over 200 candles were lit and they gave off enough light to see by. The dark Mexican faces around the site glowed like pumpkins at Halloween giving off a slight orange hue. “Make way!” someone called out to people blocking Lexy’s and Rodrigo’s way, when they reached the entrance to the grave pit, which was covered and sealed by the police with a corrugated iron sheet, typically used by poor people for roofing. The makeshift sheet was covered half way up with flowers and wreaths. Lexy and Rodrigo laid their wreath on top covering what was still exposed of the ugly sheet. Rodrigo knelt and crossed himself. Lexy followed and brought his hands together in front of him in a gesture of prayer not knowing how to cross himself.

“Let us pray,” said Rodrigo quietly. Lexy repeated after him loudly for all to hear.

117 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “Let us pray!” Spontaneously the entire crowd behind them went down on their knees one by one. Lexy turned around to see what was going on and it looked like a human wave subsiding, giving way to a power beyond them that was full of reverence, compassion and humanity.

“Bless these souls,” continued Rodrigo. Lexy repeated out loud after him.

“May peace be upon them!”

“May peace be upon the living too.”

“May they always serve to remind us of the dearness of life.”

“Amen.”

Lexy leapt up and reached for the nearest person to him, pulled him up and gave him his signature bear hug. “God bless you!” said the man. Lexy moved down the line hugging each man, woman and child in turn with Rodrigo on his heels. Each person saying to him, “God bless you.”

About half way along, he reached an old man, still on his knees, Lexy knelt in front of him and put his arms around him. “An angel!” called out the ancient man as he looked up into Lexy’s face with tears streaming down the crevices in his wrinkled face as if they were trying to water the old dried skin and make him young again.

“God Bless you!” called out Lexy.

The next person in line was a woman in her 50’s wearing a black mourning dress. She had the customary stout body of the devout widow who went to church every Sunday and had a cross of Jesus hanging over her bed and a picture of the Virgin Mary on the opposite wall. She was shorter than Lexy. She wore a scarf over her dark hair laced with a smattering of grey. Her eyes were narrow, almost like slits. Their formation was either genetic or from squinting too much in the sun from working outside, for her hands were rough and dark. “The Angelito (little angel) has come,” she announced. Lexy gave her a firm hug and squeezed her tightly, as soon as he released her, she knelt before him and kissed his hand. Lexy froze for a moment with his tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth. Finally he blurted out, “No kissing! Only hugging!”

“¡Sólo abrazos!” (Only hugging) was passed along the line by the mourners. One by one they took their turn in exulting in Lexy’s overly effusive embraces that made each and every one of them feel love and joy at a time of deep sorrow.

The people down the line who had already hugged him began to refer to him as Angelito de Abrazos, which was gradually shortened to Angelito de Abra, which in Spanish normally refers to a shape of land bordering the sea, which can be a bay, a protected beach, a cove or even a refuge for boats from the rough sea. In this case the meaning of abra was a refuge – The Refuge Angel. His hugs felt like a warm safe place to be, where love reigned supreme.

As Lexy and Rodrigo were about two-thirds of the way back to where Ladrillo waited, when suddenly they were illuminated with bright lights from a camera crew. Ladrillo ordered his escort to investigate. “Angelito,” called out a man standing next to the camera whom Lexy could not see, “What do you think of these murders.”

Lexy looked into the direction of the sound and walked up to the man who had posed the question. “Think,” he said.

“Yes, think.”

“Think. Can you think about this?”

The man stammered, “So you have no thoughts about this, but you must.”

118 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“No, I can only feel.”

“Who are you?” the journalist asked. Before Lexy could answer, one of Ladrillo’s men was upon them. He yanked the camera out of the journalist’s hands. Just as the journalist started to protest, a 4 x 4 large black pikup truck drove up to them and two men jumped out of it. “Any trouble here?” one of them asked. The journalist shook his head in negation. “We will return it here tomorrow, empty,” said the man carrying the camera and climbed back into the truck.

The other man approached Lexy and Rodrigo, “Come with us! Ladrillo wants to take you home now.”

“Yes, of course. I am sorry. We have taken too long,” apologized Lexy.

Lexy and Rodrigo climbed into the narrow rear seats of the 4x4 vehicle. Lexy turned around to look at the crowd as they drove away. They were watching them and doing the sign of the cross.

When Lexy returned to his great Uncle’s hacienda he went straight to his room without saying a word to anyone.

Octavia went to his room and told him his dinner was ready. He came out and she noticed he was subdued and not the usual loquacious Lexy. “Was everything OK at Ladrillo’s?” she asked.

“Oh yes, fantastic!” he replied lacking his usual enthusiasm.

“Ah, but I thought you would love it there. I am told he has some amazing cars.”

“He does and I drove one of them.” There was still no spark in his eyes.

“What was it like?”

“Amazing,” without passion.

“Something happen there?” she asked.

“No, not there. Rodrigo and I visited the grave pit.”

“Oh my God! You didn’t”

“Yes, we did.”

“Were you seen there?”

“Of course, everyone there saw us. There was even a cameraman, but Ladrillo’s men took the camera away.”

“I shall have to tell Alfonso. You mustn`t be seen in public. You’ll be exposing your mother and put us all in danger.”

“I feel so sorry for those people. They are poor people. They were there praying and many were crying. It was especially sad to see the old people there crying. It made me cry too.”

She put her arm around his shoulder as she walked with him to the dining room. “Yes, it’s terrible. I know. I know.”

“Why do they do it?”

“You mean kill them?”

119 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“Yes.”

“I don’t rightly know. I don’t understand it any more than you do Lexy, but you mustn’t let it affect you. You mustn’t think about it.”

“The journalist asked me what I thought. But I only feel.”

“We all feel, Lexy. None of us are immune to feeling as much as we try to control our feelings. Sooner or later they come out.”

“So I can feel. I don’t think about it.”

“Yes, don’t think about it.”

The next night Lexy insisted that Alfonso take him to the grave pit, but Alfonso refused saying it was too dangerous. So Lexy stole the keys to the van and drove himself. When he reached the gate, the guard told him that he had to check with the house first if he was allowed to leave.” While he was waiting another vehicle approached the Hacienda from the other direction and was waved on. Lexy took the opportunity to drive through the gate before it was closed.

Up until then Lexy had only driven a few times in super cars on airstrips. He gripped the wheel hard and drove slowly, not like he had the day before at Ladrillo’s. He was looking out for signs as he had no idea where he was going. He could not even discern any lights except ambient light coming from his left, but he was heading West away from it. Luck as always was on Lexy’s side. He spotted a man walking along the road with a dog on a lead. He pulled up alongside. It was medium sized mutt and as soon as the van approached them the dog started to bark and growl. Lexy shouted over the noise, “Can you show me how get to the grave pit they found three days ago”

The man looked at him puzzled and told the dog to be quiet. “Why you wanna go there?”

“I want to cry with the others.”

The man in his late 40’s reeled in his dog close and approached the driver’s window to get a good look at the driver. “Did you say you want to cry?” he asked to be sure he heard right.

“Yes, cry, because I can feel.”

“Bless you my boy.” He started giving him directions, but Lexy said that it was no good. He should get in the van and drive him there.

The man looked at him completely surprised then said, “You stole this van and don’t know how to drive, do you?”

“I only know how to drive supercars.”

“Yes, of course you do.”

“Please,” Lexy persisted.

“This is crazy, but all right I will do it, but you have to hold my dog.”

“I lwove dogs,” replied Lexy happily.

“Don’t touch his ears, he doesn’t like it. He might give you a nip if you do.”

120 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “Okay,” replied Lexy less enthusiastically.

The man picked up his dog and handed him to Lexy through the window. Lexy slid over to the passenger side and the man climbed into the van.

“I have not been behind the wheel in 15 years, not since my daddy died.”

“I am sorry about your father. My daddy died too, but not in a car.”

“Oh, so sorry. How?”

“Shot.”

“Oh, sorry, by one of our Mexican banditos?”

“No, by my mother.”

“Damn boy, you’ve had some bad luck.”

The man started out first slowly and confidently.

“Can you go faster,” Lexy asked him.

“Those dead people will wait for you my boy. Don’t you worry about that.”

“I know, but my uncle might be after me to stop me from going there. He was against it.”

“I see, well in that case, I will step on it as there is no traffic about.”

As they approached the scene they could see a large bonfire had been lit and it gave out light for miles around. When they reached the site there were three times as many people as the previous night. When Lexy climbed down from the van someone shouted out, “Angelito de Abra!”

He was immediately surrounded by a crowd and one by one they approached him and he hugged them in turn with each one saying to him, “God bless you.”

About 15 minutes after Lexy’s arrival there, Alfonso arrived with his mother. When Wilma saw what was going on, she instructed Alfonso not to interrupt. “Go and tell him that we are going to erect here a cenotaph in honor of the dead which will be in the form of two people hugging each other.”

Alfonso looked at her puzzled for moment, then said, “You do realize this is madness that he is even out here and even crazier that you are here. I don’t think I can handle it if you were taken away.”

“Your love touches me deeply, Alfonso, but I cannot love like you.”

“Sure you can,” he replied, “and this request of yours to build a statue dedicated to love proves it. You don’t even seem to care about yourself.”

“Oh, I cannot begin to tell you how happy it makes me to hear you say that. You see I have changed, but I fear that I may revert to what I was before I got to know Lexy.”

“I am not sure I like what I am hearing.”

121 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “Yes, I have been thinking about it for a long time. I must turn myself in, at least for the sake of Fabian and Leah.”

“No, you musn’t. We’ll bring Leah and Fabian here.”

“So they can live under house arrest like Lexy and I.”

“I am sorry, I was thinking of only myself.”

“So was I.”

“No, you must not blame yourself.”

“Oh, yes I must. I should never have held that gun in my hand. I must pay for that, even if it may seem unfair to you and Lexy. The only reason I have not done it so far is because of Lexy. I know it will break his heart. The one person who has given me solace in the worst time in my life, the one person who means now more to me than … “ she broke out crying. She covered her face and said through her tears, “Please go tell Lexy! I don’t want you to watch me cry.”

Alfonso got out of the vehicle. He started crying too. How love brings so much sadness, he thought to himself, and how impossible it was to let it go.

Before he stepped off toward Lexy, Wilma climbed out of the van too with her walking cane in hand, approached Alfonso, put her arms around him and hugged him. His entire body shook and he began to sob like he had never done before. How ironic that their inevitable parting should create a union, one that he had longed for ever since Concha’s disappearance when she was 14 and he was 16.

Wilma held Alfonso while he cried, then after a couple of minutes she said, “Let’s go and tell him together.”

“Yes, let’s,” he said. He put his arm out to her so he could support her walking. “Your recovery is a miracle. You are a miracle,”

“I think, Lexy is the miracle here. Just look at these people, look at how they adore him.”

“Ladrillo warned me about this,” remarked Alfonso.

“That they might turn him into some kind of savior.”

“He is, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he is. I wish he could save me,” said Wilma quietly.

“He has, has he not?”

Wilma nodded her head in agreement.

As they neared Lexy, the crowd made way for their passage. When Lexy saw them he approached them and hugged first Alfonso, then his mother, who was weeping. When he asked why she was crying, Alfonso told him of the cenotaph.

“Lwove, man lwoves man.”

A woman in her late forties within earshot of Lexy, who was waiting in the long line of mourners paying their respects, sang out with a voice of an angel, “God bless those who love! God bless our loved ones! God bless our

122 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 Angelito de Abra!” Those nearest to her repeated the blessing, and it was passed down along the line until it reached the front of the queue with a crescendo.

Lexy put his arms around his mother and he too cried. “I never felt so much love.”

Wilma’s body shook from the force of her sobbing. Some of the mourners left the line, surrounded them with their arms around each other’s shoulders. The circle grew and grew until it was 15 deep. Lexy looked around in wonder and called out, “Let us make a new cenotafio in the shape of this circle of people here tonight. We shall call it Cenotafio de Amor.”

“Dios bendiga (God bless) Angelito de Abra!” resonated spontaneously from the crowd.

The group of mourners started to sway from side to side as the woman with the heavenly voice began to sing:

Hace tiempo que me agobia la tristeza El recuerdo de su amor me hace llorar Me acompaña el sufrimiento Por doquiera que yo ando y no puedo yo vivir sin su calor Por Rigo Trovar

Long ago sadness has engulfed me The memory of your love makes me weep Suffering is my company wherever I go Alas, I cannot live without your warmth By Rigo Trovar

As the woman was finishing the first verse, a young man pushed his way through to Lexy. He introduced himself as Giovanni Gattavara an artist from Italy. He asked Lexy to allow him to make a mold of his face. “I will make a bronze statue of you that will go here,” he pointed to where Lexy was standing.

Lexy agreed without hesitation. “And yours,” said the young man to Wilma, “and yours too,” he said to Alfonso. “You three will make up the centre piece of the Cenotafio.”

Lexy said, “But anyone must be allowed to add to it as they wish.”

“Of course,” Gattavara agreed.

And so the cenotaph of love began. Within a month it grew to 85 statues forming 17 rings around the centre piece. They were made of bronze, copper, wood, cement, adobe, bamboo and even papier-mâché. Some were encrusted with colored stones and small tiles. Inscriptions abounded on each about the kind of person the deceased was. It drew national television coverage and caught the eye of Ronaldo Herrero from KLATV, who suspected that the young man and woman at the heart of it in bronze were none other than Lexy and Wilma. He contacted Fabian and Leah and offered to take them to Mexico to visit it. He assumed that their representation in the Centafio de Amor meant that they had not been killed.

When Leah and Fabian arrived there with Herrero they were able to substantiate that indeed the faces had a remarkable likeness to their mother and brother. Herrero started to make enquiries about them and he was told of Angelito de Abra, but no one knew whether he was alive or dead, or if he was one of the victims who was found dead in the grave pit.

123 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 The only Downs Syndrome person they knew of was the son of Ladrillo the head of the Delta Cartel. Herrero was advised to keep away from him, unless he had a death wish.

If indeed the figures in the Centafio de Amor were Wilma and Lexy, he was not willing to make this news public until he was able to establish with certainty what had happened to them. Such a task in Mexico was very difficult. There were thousands of people who had disappeared over the years without a trace. The authorities in most cases were unwilling to investigate for fear of ending up as missing persons too. He tried to ask local journalists to enquire about them, but none were willing to cooperate with him. Going to the police was out of the question. If indeed the Downs Syndrome in the statue was the son of Ladrillo, it could be very dangerous for him as a journalist to have anything to do with Ladrillo. He was told over and over again whomever he asked about them to go home if he wanted to live.

Herrero went to the cenotafio and left there a big sign with a picture of Lexy asking for any information that would lead to his whereabouts.

He went back the next day and the photograph had been taken down. He decided then that Lexy must be in the vicinity and that all the locals were too afraid to talk about him. He kept up his enquiries until he got a visit from the head of police, Capitan Morales, who insisted in the most diplomatic way that Herrero go home. Morales did not want to have to deal with a kidnapped or dead American journalist. Herrero knew then that perhaps he was on the right track, but decided to leave Valle Hermoso and play it safe from across the border in the US. But before he left he offered the policeman a large reward if he could find Wilma and Lexy, but Morales was insistent that he knew nothing of them.

Capitan Morales’ warning served to encourage rather than discourage Herrero, who in turn persuaded Leah to go to Valle Hermoso and make an appeal discretely to the mayor to help find her mother and brother.

Like the thousands of people who disappear every year in Mexico for reasons no one talks about, the mayor told Leah that it was impossible to know the real story. All he could tell her was that there was a Downs Syndrome man known as Angelito de Abra who had passed through their town and he was the spark for the Cenotafio de Amor. He told her to contact the artist who had made the bronze statue, but he did not know his name and no one seemed to know how to locate him. All he knew was that the artist was of Italian origin and perhaps he had gone back to Italy.

As Leah left the mayor’s office, a middle aged woman approached her and asked, “Are you looking for Angelito de Abra?”

“Maybe. Was he Downs Syndrome?” she asked.

“Oh sí señora. He gave me a big hug.”

“That sounds just like him.”

“Oh yes. He hugged everyone. That’s why he’s an angel.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“A few days after the discovery of the pozo (grave site). He came twice, at night. No one has seen him again, señorita.”

“Do you know where I might find him?”

“Ay, no señorita.”

“If you know, please tell me. He is my brother and I must find him.”

“Then you are an angel too.”

124 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“All I can tell you is that the first night he came with men from one cartel and the second night with a man from a different cartel and a woman. He hugged them and cried with them. He was sad about the people who had been killed at the site of the cenotaph. Please don’t tell anyone I told you this.”

“Why?”

“They will kill me.”

“But if he is an angel, then you have nothing to fear.”

“It’s best you go back to your home, my angel. This country is not fit for people or God. No one is safe here.”

Leah took out of her bag the latest photograph taken by a journalist of her mother and Lexy during the trail in Salt Lake City and passed it over to the woman.

She studied it for a few moments. “Well?” asked Leah impatient for an answer.

“There is a very strong likeness. It could be them. It was dark, but the woman was not in a wheel chair. She was walking with the help of a cane.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oh yes, quite sure. She held the cane in one hand and a man from the cartel helped her walk too.”

“What man from the cartel? I must find him. I will not tell anyone if you tell me who he is. I promise you that.”

The woman studied her closely. “No one can be trusted here. Not even you my dear Gringa. You see all those faces there in the cenotaph, they trusted someone once. They loved someone once, even more than life itself.”

“Please try to understand that I must find them before it’s too late and they too are killed.”

“All I can tell you is that the man on the second night was from the cartel that runs the guns here.”

“Runs the guns?”

“Poor girl, you have no idea what it’s like here. They control the smuggling of guns into Mexico from north of the border. Ask about them and you will find this man.”

“Thank you my dear lady.”

This was better news than she had expected. Before pursuing her enquiries further she decided to go back to San Diego and tell her brother what she had discovered. She feared that should she persist in her search she may inadvertently lead the US authorities to her mother who would bring her back to the US to commute her sentence. She decided to tell Herrero that she had not been able to glean any information about her mother and brother.

When Wilma was not swimming or being treated by the physical therapist, she spent most of her time listening to the news on her portable radio, either sitting by the pool or in her bedroom. Whenever Alfonso walked into the same room as her, she immediately left.

“In an open letter published today in the New York Times, Fabian Henshaw pleaded with the press to stop hounding him and his sister. He insists that they know nothing of the whereabouts of his mother and brother.

125 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 He worte: ‘Our lives have become impossible. Wherever we go we are followed by an entourage of 20 to 30 journalists. We cannot have normal lives. It’s not fair to us. Even after obtaining court orders barring certain journalists from following us, they just get replaced with others.’

As long as she is free and alive, this story will not go away. Stayed tuned to KRGC 93.5 AM, Radio Grande. The Grand Radio station of Rio Grande City, your Southern Texas source for all of God’s honest news. We will be right back after the following message from our sponsor.”

The press in the US was on a rampage ridiculing the American authorities for their incompetence in finding a female cripple, convicted of murder and her Downs Syndrome child. Radio chat shows were having a field day with people calling in with all sorts of opinions on the case.

“If they can’t find them, how can we expect that Home Security or the FBI can find terrorist?”

“Someone is hiding them. That’s all there is to it. This is like an Anne Frank story.”

“Do you think she is keeping a diary?”

“Oh yeah, she could publish it and it would be a best-seller.”

When her aunt queried her about dodging Alfonso, Wilma lost her composure and began to cry. “What is it about you and him? It’s best not to talk about it. You are a pair of fools. Your overt avoidance of Alfonso will be noticed sooner or later. So try not to avoid him so obviously.”

“Leah Henshaw seems to have dropped out of USCD. She hasn’t been seen on campus for two months. No one is sure of her whereabouts. Perhaps she knows where her mother is hiding and has gone to be with her. You’d think the Feds would have been watching her every move.”

“Well you would think so,” commented another person on the show.

“Thou shalT honor thy parents.”

“I feel sorry for her. Between the press and the Feds. She has no life. It’s no way to live for a young person.”

“It’s as if Fabian and Leah are serving the sentence their mother should’ve.”

“It would seem so. Perhaps she’s angry with them for their testimony during the trial which made her look pretty bad.”

“Now, what kind of mother would that make her?!

“We’re not talking here about a normal mother. She gave up Alexander at birth.”

“Now hold on! That’s not fair. Lots of mothers give up their kids for reasons we might never understand. It makes them no less human.”

“Don’t forget she shot her husband in cold blood.”

“I can tell you it’s best some kids are given up by their parents. Many of them aren’t worthy of having kids and raise them up bad.”

“All families are dysfunctional. They’re like a can of worms. You only have to lift the lid.”

126 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 Listening to these shows at once comforted and tormented her. They made her feel better about herself, because there were families far worse than hers, but whenever she was mentioned as an example of a bad mother and wife, she became depressed and refused to leave her room for days, not even for a swim and therapy. She was torn between her guilt for deserting Fabian and Leah, while on the other hand reluctant to surrender for Lexy’s sake. It was only Lexy’s insistent pleading that eventually succeeded in rousing her out of her deep self-pity. Once in the pool holding onto Lexy, as he helped her to swim, did she recall why she was willing to stay in Mexico.

Four months after the loss of her paralysis, she was able to stand and take a few steps. She tried hard to concentrate on her recovery. She was living for the moment. Gratified to see the contentment on Lexy’s face with each slight improvement.

In an interview on the radio, Fabian said:

“Late breaking news on KGRC 93.5. Fabian Henshaw gave an interview today. That’s coming up in a minute.”

“Hi, I am Mike McCaughy. I am a lawyer and I hate to see people cheated. Have your been injured at work? Did you have insurance? Did your company cover your medical costs? If not, call me today. I can get you compensation. No results no fee. Call me today on 645 4500.”

“Welcome back to Grand Radio of SouthernTexas. This is Mark Bryce hosting todays ‘Let the People Talk’. Our lines are open for your calls and comments. Here’s the number to call: 700-7000. In todays show we are talking about Mrs. Wilma Henshaw. Just to remind our listeners in April last year she killed her husband, David Henshaw, and the day before the closing statements of her trial she disappeared. The jury in the trial where she was tried in Utah found her guilty of 1st degree murder in abstentia. Wilma Henshaw is on the run from US justice for the killing and it is assumed she is with her oldest son a Downs Syndrome. The younger son and daughter are regularly questioned by police, who suspect they know where their mother is. Here’s what her son Fabian Henshaw had to say when interviewed by NBC radio this morning.

“Our mother did not run away. There is evidence she was kidnapped. We fear for her safety. The $1 million reward on capturing her could be putting her life in danger. She was a law abiding citizen and her shooting of our father was an accident. Also we are worried about our brother Alexander.”

“Do any of our listeners believe that?” asked Bryce.

“I am told that the switch board here has lit up like a Christmas tree, Yeehaw,” shouted out Bryce. “We have Mr. Tim Hennigan on line 1. Hi Tim. What do you think about this statement by Mr. Henshaw?”

“What a load of crap. She shot her husband out of jealousy that much is clear. She was enraged.”

“C’mon man, you never felt jealous?”

“Sure I have, but I never murdered no one over it.”

“Maybe you never loved someone enough to feel strongly like that.”

“Maybe I’m not the murdering type.”

“You got a wife or girlfriend.”

“Sure do and four boys.”

“Your wife never cheated on you?”

127 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “Never.”

“And you, you been faithful?”

“Always.”

“Then you have no idea what it’s like to be jealous.”

“Late breaking news. We learned this morning that Leah Henshaw was questioned by the District Attorney of the State of Utah this morning and she was released after six hours. They have taken away her passport and have made it a condition that she report every other day to her local Police station in San Diego. The DA suspects her of withholding information about the whereabouts of her mother.”

Wilma never stopped thinking that she should turn herself in for Fabian and Leah’s sakes, but Alfonso kept reminding her that her children would not want her to be in prison. “What about Lexy?” asked Alfonso. “He prefers you are here with him than in a prison.”

“And Beatrice?”

“His sweetheart?”

“Yes, her.”

“The daughter of the woman your husband had an affair with? You really want him to pursue his relationship with her?”

Wilma did not answer.

“It will inevitably bring you face to face with her mother.”

“Yes, but that is not fair to Lexy.”

“He is the only thing you have and you are the only thing he has.”

“Yes, but I have you too,” the words slipped out without any restraint. It was so easy to say them, but impossible to accept them.

“But you don’t want me.”

An excerpt from a radio talk show came to her mind just then:

“Children suffer for their parents errors. Leah and Fabian Henshaw are virtual prisoners.”

“Oh, I don’t know what I want.”

“You do. You want to be free to live your life. Free of the past. Regain what you lost.”

“You mean the life I lost with you?”

“No, I meant the one with Lexy.”

She was reminded of Lexy’s all engulfing, overpowering hugs.

128 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “Yes, of course, but that suits you, doesn’t it?”

“And?” he raised his eyebrows questioning her logic.

“I want it to be so, oh how I do, but it cannot be,” said Wilma resignedly.

“Yes, it can be, if you let it.”

“No, it cannot be,” she was emphatic.

“You are imposing your own prison sentence on yourself. Why should you do that? Have you not suffered enough?”

“Suffered, but I made others suffer along with me. David, Fabian, Leah, your father and not to forget you.”

“But you can stop all that now. You have been given a new life, take it.”

Whenever she considered letting herself be taken into Alfonso’s arms to hold and kiss her, her gut twisted around itself and her chest tightened such that she stopped breathing. In her case, the jitters were unlike a normal woman who felt excitement and elation when on the brink of the first embrace and kiss. Her desire railed against her disingenuous self-denial bringing her to the brink of violent rage, the same kind she felt when she took out her pistol and fatally shot David. She checked herself, she held no weapon. She took a deep breath. It was safe, yet she felt treacherous danger lurking around the corner waiting to pounce and deprive her of any chance at happiness, which in any case she knew to be an impossible invention devised to keep simple minds under control. How many people did she know in her life who were happy? She could not think of any, but for one glaring exception. Alexander Henshaw, with a smaller brain than the typical person, yet with insight beyond his intellect. ‘I don’t think,’ he had said, ‘I feel. I must feel.’

Alfonso sensed she was on the edge of taking the destined step he had been waiting for all his life. He stretched out a helping hand. She was glad for it. She took it, he paused as if he was hesitating, she felt herself begin to tremble, as if she were about to crumble and disintegrate. He stood up and pulled her to her feet then engulfed her with his strong arms, pressed her chest into his and squeezed her. The air she had been holding in rushed out of her lungs and with it her entire adult life up until that moment. Thankfully she was in his grasp, because her feet gave out from under her and she felt for the first time since she could remember light, as if there was no weight on her shoulders. If he squeezed her again, his arms would just go right through her body as if she were air. She put her arms around him and lifted her head up toward his lips. She felt hers quivering. They joined and her central nervous system came alive sending sharp burning pulses racing to every skin cell covering her body until she felt like she was alight with a fire consuming her whole. She was running out of air, pulled away from his lips and inhaled deeply, taking in the new life she was going to have now and stuck her lips back to his.

“This bizarre case took another twist today when Fabian Henshaw appeared on TV making an appeal for anyone to come forward with information about his mother.”

“Come home Mama and all will be forgiven.”

“We’ve heard his appeal, but what’s behind the scenes? He looked tired and haggard. He looks like he’s aged 20 years in six months. What an indictment on him. It’s not surprising he wants this nightmare to be over with.”

“I don’t understand all this controversy over this case. I don’t agree with all the media attention. Haven’t those children suffered enough? I even hate myself for calling in now and drawing more attention to this.”

“You think the press is to blame for this?”

“I sure do.”

129 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“Don’t you think the public keeps this case alive because it’s a public interest story that has touched all walks of life with so many different views? It really shows that there are so many shades of grey in life and how things are colored by our experience.”

“Of course life is not black and white.”

“Our courts would have us think so.”

“So would the newspapers.”

“That’s why this story keeps running. It’s never going to be an open and shut case.”

Uncle Alfredo too improved as if Wilma’s miracle was infectious. He became more tolerable to live with, her Aunt remarked. The whole household was merrier than Octavia could remember, which she attributed to Lexy.

“An open adopted child of 5 in Montana was kidnapped today by his natural father. They remain at large. The natural mother is assisting in the search. She made a public appeal for any information on the child so he could be re-united with his adoptive family, who have been devastated by this.”

While having breakfast on the terrace overlooking the pool one warm morning, Wilma and Uncle Alfredo were left alone and he asked her, “Why is it whenever I mention your father’s name, you get up and leave and your mood turns melancholic?”

She looked up at him and stared into his eyes, does he know? She wondered.

“Doesn’t it make you sad he’s dead?” he continued questioning her.

She looked away to conceal her true feelings.

“You adored him, didn’t you?”

“Of course, you know that.” He paused, “Should it have been different?”

Whatever she felt about her father, she could not bring herself to tell him the truth.

“Yes, it makes me sad when you talk about him.”

“It makes me happy. That’s what I don’t understand.”

“One man’s happiness is another’s misery,” she said almost without thinking.

“So I’ve heard it before. But why should it be so with you in this case?”

She looked away out to the distant mountains. She was not going to say more on the subject.

“I see,” said her Uncle, “You won’t talk about it.”

She switched on her radio.

130 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “What a waste that the taxpayer is footing the bill in search of Mrs. Wilma Henshaw. In total $21 million in Federal and State money has been spent on trying to find her. The State of Utah is determined to find her at all cost despite the FBI reducing their team from 40 to 2 agents.”

“The search has focused on the Southwest, but some say she could be in Canada or maybe even South America by now. If so, she would have passed through Mexico.”

“Still no leads on finding Mrs. Wilma Henshaw and her son.”

“The government wants to embed all people on bail with a GPS chip so that in case of escape they can easily locate them.”

“The Golden State of California proposes to rescind the law that permits open adoption. The Henshaw’s case has highlighted the need for this change. People with open adopted children are mounting a protest against it in a march on the California State Capitol today. Heavy security has been put in place to prevent hecklers from inciting any trouble or violence. It’s reminiscent of the pro-abortion movement in the 70’s, when the anti-abortionists attacked campaigners.”

“You’ve been listening to the granddaddy of all radio in Southern Texas, Grand Radio 93.5 am. Stay tuned. After the next commercial break we will be interviewing our mayor about race discrimination in his administration.”

Wilma switched off the radio and went up to her room.

131 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 CHAPTER TWELVE

Lexy became a regular at Rodrigo’s house. As Rodrigo’s swimming improved, a close friendship developed between the two lads. Lexy spent many days at Rodrigo’s house, driving the super cars, playing computer games, browsing the Internet, listening to music and shooting at the firing range on the ranch. Up until Rodrigo met Lexy, Rodrigo had led an isolated life. He was Ladrillo’s only son. His father had also been an only son, so he had no cousins. Rodrigo’s deceased mother was from Colombia and had no family in Mexico.

One evening in late January, the boys were getting bored and restless. It had been raining for three days solid. Ladrillo was away on business in the United States. Lexy noticed cars going in and out of the Hangar during the day, even in the heavy rain. “What do those people do in the hangar?” he asked Rodrigo.

“Come, I’ll show you.” He took a flashlight from the kitchen, threw Lexy an umbrella and took one himself. They walked for 10 minutes through the rain to the hangar. When they reached the side door, Rodrigo shone his flashlight on a numerical panel to the right of the door. He punched in a code. There was a click and Rodrigo pushed the door open and held it for Lexy. Rodrigo led him to the far end of the hangar. He produced a card from his jacket pocket and slid it through a reader on the side of the office door. They went in and Rodrigo closed the door behind him. He led Lexy to a desk in the middle of the room, pushed it to one side, pushed down with his foot on a square plate on the floor and stepped back.

Lexy heard the sound of a machine come on. The plate folded down out of the way and a staircase opened out leading to a subterranean floor. Rodrigo started to descend the stairs, but Lexy remained at the top. “C’mon!” called out Rodrigo.

“Should we go down there?” asked Lexy.

“No, but if you don’t tell I won’t,” replied Rodrigo. “C’mon man,” Rodrigo urged him. “It’s so cool down here. It will be our secret.”

“I like secrets,” said Lexy finally and he descended the stairs.

As they descended, the sound of their clumsy footsteps on the metal staircase ricocheted around the hollow concrete space. They went through a heavy metal door at the bottom of the stairs and into a machine room, which housed the plumbing, air conditioning equipment and heating systems. Rodrigo led him deep into the dark underground complex. Even with the flashlight, Lexy could hardly see where they were going. They reached another heavy door. Rodrigo punched in an access code on the panel next to the door and shoved it open hard. It moved back slowly. He held it open for Lexy, who entered and Rodrigo followed and let the door close behind him with a gentle bang. Rodrigo switched off his flashlight. Lexy could not see a thing. He had never seen such darkness. He put his hand up to his face and waved it back and forth. Nothing. For the first time in his life he realised what darkness was. It was as if neither he nor Rodrigo existed. He called out cautiously, “Rodrigo!” His voiced echoed around the cold room. There was a click followed by light flooding the room.

At first Lexy had to close his eyes because the light was so bright. He then opened them slowly. His earlier fear had now turned to curiosity. He saw before him rows and rows of racks from floor to ceiling packed with assault rifles, machine guns, pistols and rocket-propelled grenade launchers.

There were hundreds of boxes marked with the logos of multinationals such as Motorola and Volkswagen. What goes in them Lexy asked Rodrigo, “Dinero blanco. Este polvo es más poderoso que nada. Es invencible debido al fuerte apetito y adicción del ser humano a las drogas. Me padre dice que es un negocio sin fin, peligroso pero muy rentable.” (White money. This powder is more powerful than anything. It is invincible because of man’s strong appetite for and addiction to drugs. My father says that this is business without end, dangerous but very profitable.)

132 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “But drugs are bad,” said Lexy.

“Not if you sell them. They’re good. It’s money and my father says that all money is good money. There is no such thing as bad money, only bad people.”

“Can we try some?” asked Lexy.

“No man, that is only for the crazy Americans. This is bad shit man, real bad. It will really fuck you up.”

“Hey, hey, no bad language please.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Is this where the guns come from that we shoot on the range,” asked Lexy.

“Yep, my Dad says there is enough here for an army of 5,000.”

“Wow!”

“That was how many men he had under his command when he was in the army.”

“Your Dad is a badass cool dude.”

“Yeah, he’s real bad. And you wanna know the best part?”

“What?”

“My Dad buys all this gear from your cousin, Alfonso.”

“No way man.”

“Oh yeah,” asserted Rodrigo. “You’re cousin is as badass cool as my Dad.”

“C’mon, let’s go. I am feeling scared.”

“You chicken shit. You go around the track like a fucking maniac, yet you’re scared of a few guns.”

“Hey, hey, language please.”

“Yeah, yeah, language. Lighten up man.”

Rodrigo switched on his torch, went over to the light switch and turned off the lights. “C’mon, chicken, let’s go back to the house.”

“OK, if I’m so chicken come ride with me now in the Ferrari.”

“You nuts man. It’s pouring with rain. The way you drive, you’ll get us both killed.”

“Who’s chicken now, little sissy panties,” Lexy teased Rodrigo.

“Alright, you crazy fool. I bet you crash.”

“Hmmm.” Lexy scratched his head. “I don’t want to crash the Ferrari. I love it too much.”

133 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“Chicken!” screamed Rodrigo. “Then I’ll drive it.”

“But you don’t know how. Your Dad doesn’t allow you.”

“The hell with my Dad. I am going to drive. We’ll see who’s chicken.”

“Alright, I will drive first, then I will teach you, okay? And then you can drive. Your Dad will be mad as hell if we wreck the Ferrari.”

“Okay, big chicken.”

“Stop calling me chicken you little sissy panties.”

They made their way up to the hangar. Rodrigo made sure he put everything back in its place, so no one would detect that they had been below.

Rodrigo opened the hangar door and Lexy started the Ferrari. Rodrigo hopped in and Lexy tore out of the hangar in his usual fast way. As soon as the car hit the wet tarmac that fronted the hangar, the Ferrari’s rear started to fishtail. Lexy hit the brakes and the car spun round and round on top of a thick layer of water. “Whoa, this is fun,” shouted Lexy. He let go of the brakes and the car started to go in a straight line. He punched the accelerator and aimed the car for the track. Again it fishtailed. Lexy hit the brakes and the car spun round and round. “Yeehaw!” screamed Rodrigo. Just then the track on one side was flooded with lights.

“Oh shit!” screamed Rodrigo. “A plane is coming in to land. Hurry get the fucking Ferrari back into the hangar. Lexy let go of the brakes, the car straightened and this time he gently pushed down on the accelerator and guided the car back into the hangar. They hurriedly closed the hangar door and ran out the side door, forgetting their umbrellas inside. By then the plane had landed and the landing lights on the track were switched off. Rather than go back for the umbrellas they ran back to the house. When they arrived they were soaking wet. They went around to the side of the house to the pool and jumped in fully clothed.

“Man, it’s cold in here,” screamed Rodrigo.

“Freezing more like,” shouted Lexy. “This is crazy. Let’s shower and get some dry clothes on.

“Remember, our secret?” Rodrigo reminded Lexy.

“Yeah, our secret man. Cross my heart and hope to die,” replied Lexy.

One late March afternoon with the sun shining and temperature of 23ºC Alfonso was sitting by the pool watching Lexy teaching Wilma how to do the Butterfly stroke. It always made Alfonso grin when Lexy’s head came out of the water with his arms swinging out and forward, his tongue hanging out slightly, his eyes looking like little black slits and his neck tilting back. It reminded Alfonso of a turtle swimming. Wilma concluded that he was laughing at her when she tried to imitate Lexy. She shouted at him, “Go away! Stop watching us!”

Just then Alfonso’s attention was diverted when Julio hurriedly approached him. Julio spoke to him, but she could not hear what he said. She did not wear her hearing aid in the swimming pool. Alfonso stood up and announced, “Col. Ladrillo has arrived with Rodrigo.”

Up until then Alfonso had kept Wilma out of Ladrillo’s sight. Wilma started to get out of the pool.

“Stay here,” he said. “Col. Ladrillo has arrived. It’s time you met him.”

134 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

Alfonso left the pool and returned a few minutes later with Ladrillo and Rodrigo. All three sat at the poolside table. Upon seeing Rodrigo, Lexy shouted, “Hey, Rodrigo, come into the pool!”

The boy stayed put, but his father encouraged him to go in. “C’mon son, go and play with Lexy. You asked me to bring you here and now you just want to sit and do nothing?”

“Yo que sé,” replied the boy with a gesture of indifference, raising his shoulders slightly, turning his head to the left 40 degrees, looking over his shoulder at Lexy.

“C’mon, Rodrigo,” Wilma encouraged him. “My lesson with Lexy for today is over. I am sure he would prefer to horse around with you than teach me.”

It was the first time she had seen Ladrillo face to face. She had only ever seen him two times before, from above when she had spied him through a tiny crack in the curtain in her first floor room. They were only brief glimpses of his profile and back. Seeing him front on and next to Alfonso, she noted that he was slightly shorter than Alfonso, but his shoulders were much wider. There was an aura of power about him that even Alfonso succumbed to.

As she came out of the water the two men stared at her. She should have felt uncomfortable, perhaps even awkward or insecure, but instead she was overcome by a sensation of confidence she had never known before. She had lost weight with all the swimming she was doing. Instead of the rotund figure she had rolled about in for decades, she had become slender with rounded hips and toned legs, while her large breasts had become firmer and slightly smaller. She was wearing a bikini, which was something she never wore during her marriage.

She kept her posture straight and upright as she slowly walked over to her sun lounger trying not to limp, bent over and picked up her towel, dried her hair on the left by tilting her head sideways then repeated the process on the right. It allowed her the ability to look laterally and see the two men still staring at her, not saying a word. She smiled inwardly to herself as she put the towel down and picked up her swimming robe, slid it over her shoulders and tied it tightly around her to accentuate her narrow waist even more.

By this time the two men were standing, as if at attention, to receive her. She felt like saying ‘At ease boys.’ She smiled widely as Alfonso presented her to Col. Jaime Ladrillo.

Ladrillo stretched out his arm to shake hands, “I am so honored to meet you.” His grip was firm and his hand felt solid like a brick, which is what Ladrillo means in Spanish. Indeed, she thought, the man lives up to his name.

“The honor is all mine,” she responded smiling while looking him straight in the eye. She was following Alfonso’s example of deferring to this powerful man.

Ladrillo cupped his left hand over her right hand and without taking his eyes off her he said, “Alfonso, I now see why you have concealed this beautiful jewel from me. You should be very afraid that I will steal her from you.”

“I am glad you understand,” replied Alfonso.

“Really gentlemen,” said Wilma first looking at Alfonso, then back at Ladrillo, “such flattery will win you hearts, but use it judiciously. Us women are too often gullible and will believe any nice thing a man says. It means you can take advantage of us.”

“That maybe so for some women, but I don’t see that in your case Mrs. Henshaw.” He had called her by her married name and not Conchita, the name everyone else used in the household. Even the servants, nurses and doctors called her señora Conchita. Upon hearing Mrs. Henshaw, her confident composure dissolved. She politely withdrew her hand from Ladrillo’s.

135 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “Well, gentlemen, I am sure you have business to talk about.” She waved her right hand about nervously. She didn’t mean to. She knew not what to do with it. She missed the safe feeling of her hand wrapped tightly inside Ladrillo’s. She had to get away. “Will you excuse me, Col. Lardillo?”

“Of course, I hope to see you again.”

“That would be an honor, Col. Ladrillo.”

She turned and started to walk away. She felt deflated. Her limp was back. No matter how hard she concentrated and tried to walk composed and self-assured, she could not. The mention of the Henshaw name reminded her of who she really was. She didn’t like who she was. She wanted to be Conchita, the little happy girl.

Ladrillo called out after her, “Perhaps you can come to see the ranch on one of Lexy’s visits.”

She could not turn around for her eyebrows pulled down hard toward her eyes, her nostrils flared and her lips formed a long rectangle across her face exposing clenched teeth. A whimpering wave was rising from inside her chest. It was on the verge of engulfing her. She had to disrupt it no matter what. She bent her head down toward her chest to disguise her face and pretended not hear Ladrillo. She could blame the lack of hearing aids later if anyone called her out for not responding to Ladrillo.

Alfonso spoke on her behalf, “I am sure she would be honored to visit it,” she heard faintly as she departed the pool area. Once inside the Hacienda she hurried up the stairs, went into her room, closed the door firmly, leaned against it and slid to the floor crying unreservedly.

______

When the Ferrari’s speedometer needle reached 200 mph Wilma closed her eyes. This act of cowardice allowed her to ease back on the screaming, which started when Lexy had accelerated out of the hangar. Her vocal chords were so hoarse that she felt a burning pain in her throat. Lexy had launched the car out onto the track so fast that the rear wheels were screeching and the smell of burning rubber was nauseating. The noise was intimidating. She had never heard anything so all consuming. She felt it was going to pummel her into thin air and blast her along its sound wave into the ether. Her right foot instinctively lifted up beseechingly searching for the brake pedal, but she was on the wrong side of the car. No matter, she slammed her right foot down hard into the floor, then did the same with the left foot. Her arms reached out to the dashboard as if they could somehow stop or at least slow down the car. It was impossible to reach it. The G-force was so strong that her back was pinned to the seat. The only defense left her was to scream. But Lexy just pushed down harder on the gas pedal. She couldn’t even tilt her head forward, her eyes wouldn’t blink. Her chest felt as if it was about to cave in. The weight against it forced her to inhale deeper than she had ever done before, the massive intakes of air had also enabled her to let out blood curdling screams.

For the first time since she had begun her acquaintance with her son she felt betrayed by him. He should have eased off on the speed and taken the car gently around the track, but no, he kept up the relentless speed as if consumed by a demon’s spell from which he could not escape.

After the first roar of the take-off, she heard nothing except her own screaming voice. Upon closing her eyes, the silence she had hoped for was replaced by a deep and constant overpowering moan of the engine shooting through her body as if her flesh had become air and served as a conduit for the sound waves. Every cell in her body reverberated outward as if the engine noise was coming from within her, like music that emanates from inside one’s head when listening to a Beethoven symphony through headsets with the volume turned up to maximum.

She opened her eyes and saw the speedometer needle pointing at 230 mph. She closed her eyes. She realised Lexy could not have heard her screaming over the noise of the 12 cylinder engine, which Lexy had proudly showed off to her before they started out. 591 bhp he had told her.

136 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 With her eyes closed she had no perception of speed apart from the oppressive G-force still pressing into her rib cage. She had to push hard against it to inhale and even then she could not feel her chest expand outward. She felt her heartbeats in her temples pounding making her head twitch as if she were being subjected to electric shock treatment.

Suddenly her upper body flew forward, but was violently halted by the two seat belts strapping her in place, while her head kept going until her chin crashed into her chest, the muscles in the back of her neck stretched to near breaking point. They tried to retreat but instead started to go into a spasm. She had to stretch out the muscles in her neck to stop them from seizing up. The G-force that had earlier glued her in place was now replaced by a forward momentum that pressed her chest into the belts so hard that she feared her shoulder blades would snap. Her eyes were open again, but all she could see was the floor with her feet pressing down into it with such force that she feared they might break under the pressure.

Abruptly the car swung sharply to the left, her body tried to follow, but the seat belts and curved sides of the seats kept her body in place, but her head snapped violently to the left testing its limits of flexibility. She was relieved that at last the car was going slower than before, but the feeling was short-lived. Just before Lexy reached the apex of the curve, he punched the accelerator so hard that the car leapt, the rear wheels jerked to the right trying desperately to stay in line with the front. Her head flew back, her eyes were staring at the roof of the car. Mercifully she spotted the roll bar above her head. She reached out with both arms and wrapped her hands around it and squeezed hard. She closed her eyes and imagined David’s hands wrapped around her wrists as he pounded into her hard and furiously just as he always did before he ejaculated. She felt him deep inside her. She shuddered and he let out a deep and loud manly groan as he soaked her. She opened her eyes. She was sweating profusely. How much she had missed David’s collapse on top of her after his climaxes and the sensation of his body weight pushing down on her almost crushing her. How good it had felt as if she was absorbing him into her body so they would become one. How she willed him to stay on top as long as possible until she tired from the effort of forced inhalation.

She opened her eyes, 250 mph. She kept them open for the rest of the ride. She made herself think of the past with David, so as not to think of the present ordeal she was going through on the race circuit. She had years of experience of blocking out the past and concentrating on the present. Now she had to do the opposite. David was the most pleasant thing she could recall, the man who loved her, who stuck by her when she gave up Lexy, who went on to have two more children with her knowing there was a risk that she may have another DS child, of how she loved his heavy handed touch, the way he covered her entire face with one hand and squeezed twisting her face into grotesque shapes that made him laugh.

How at first she hated him doing it, but with time she grew to like his rough caresses, how he patted her hard on the back with his big hands. Sometimes they felt like slaps, but it was his way of effusively showing his affection. Even when he caressed her it was more like rubbing or a firm massage with the occasional squeeze that made her wince, sometimes painful, but she never complained. She just sat there tolerating his rough attention. David on the other hand expected nothing form her in return. It was enough for him that she was there.

When he made love to her every Sunday morning, he was always the one who initiated the sex. She looked forward to it and when he was absent on Sundays she missed the love-making. What she missed the most was his thrusting power, his weight crushing her. At times she imagined he was trying to snap her in two and how it thrilled her that he could actually break her if he did it for long enough, but then he would ejaculate and his 6 ft. muscular frame collapse on top of her knocking the wind out of her. He covered her completely. His head rested above hers as he was a foot taller. Sometimes he covered her face completely and blocked her breathing. Rather than protest immediately, she remained still, holding her breath, imagining she was suffocating until she ran out of oxygen, then the survival instinct would take over and force her to twist her head to one side and inhale deeply.

When the car stopped inside the hangar, she was sorry it was over. She couldn’t get out of the car. Lexy opened the door and looked at her worried. “Are you okay, Mama?”

“Yes,” her voice broke up, almost incoherently, she was sobbing softly, which she had not realized until she spoke.

137 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “Were you scared?” asked Lexy.

“Scared!” she looked over at him as she raised her hand to her face and wiped away the tears that had been streaming down her cheeks. “I have been more scared before in my life. Much more. This ride was kid’s stuff.”

Lexy looked puzzled. “Then why are you crying?”

“The past son. The past. The happy past that will never be with me again in the present.”

Col. Ladrillo joined Lexy. He looked into the car at Wilma and an expression of kind concern came over his face. “Is your mother alright?” he directed his question at Lexy.

“She’s just sad,” replied Lexy.

Ladrillo pushed his way past Lexy and squatted by the passenger seat with his eyes level with Wilma’s. He reached in and undid her seat belts and looked her over. “Dios mío!” he exclaimed, “you are soaking wet! Let me help you out,” he offered.

“Why do you love these cars so much?” she asked without making any suggestion of taking up his offer to help her out of the Ferrari.

“They remind me of beauty and the nearness of death. Of how valuable life is, which can only be appreciated if you keep dicing with death, the inevitability of it, but also that we can bring it on early or hold it off. When I am behind the wheel of one of these cars, I have control over my destiny. I could drive so fast that I would lose control and kill myself or I could hold back and live. It’s just a question of how hard I press down on the accelerator. A millimeter more than the limit spells the difference between life and death. In a way, it’s exhilarating and at the same time terrifying.”

“Humm, I felt both now.”

“Then why do you look sad?”

“Loss,” she burst out, sobbing again. She could not control herself. It was as if the deathly ride had made her vulnerable and defenseless.

“I too know all about loss. You see, I lost my wife.” She looked at him questioningly. “I know about the loss of your husband.”

“It was an accident.” Her sobbing turned intense.

“Of course it was. Sometimes I think life is an accident. Like a roll of the die, you never know how it will end, until it ends and when it does you’re none the wiser, because you are dead.”

“Your wife, how did she die?”

“Cancer.”

“When?”

“Seven years ago and it still seems like yesterday. It’s as if I will wake up tomorrow and she will be there in my bed lying with her arms around me.”

“I’m sorry,” she blurted.

138 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“Let me help you out. Let’s go to the house. There you can shower and put on some fresh clothes.”

She offered him her hand. He took it firmly and guided her out. Lexy took over and walked her to Ladrillo’s car and they drove to the house.

Rodrigo was in the sitting room playing a computer game being projected onto a large TV screen from an Xbox.

The maid took charge of Wilma and guided her to a bedroom with an en-suite bathroom. “I will bring you some clothes, señora, and put them on the bed for you. I think they should fit you. You have the same shape and height as she did.”

The maid left the room before Wilma could confirm that the clothes were of Ladrillo’s deceased wife. The water pressure form the shower was almost too much to bear even with the taps turned down. If she turned them down too far the water cut out and came out of the faucet. She stood under the torrent and felt the water blast her skin like 1000 needles all at once stabbing her, but gradually she accustomed to it and it felt good. It was invigorating. She was overcoming her sadness. She emerged 20 minutes later from the bathroom with a smile on her face, but as soon as she saw Ladrillo’s wife’s clothes laid out on the bed, she turned melancholy again. She searched for her sweat soaked clothes, but they were no longer where she had left them. The maid must have taken them to wash. She had no choice but to put on the dead woman’s clothes.

The ensemble consisted of a burgundy skirt, a white blouse and a short blazer that matched the skirt. They fitted her perfectly. The maid had also put out a pair of shoes with 2 inch heels and a make-up bag. The shoes were a bit big as her heel on the left popped out when she walked, but the shoe stayed on her foot. She felt like Sra. Ladrillo, a woman she never knew, but now occupied the garments she once wore. She marvelled at how fresh they seemed considering the woman died seven years earlier.

She picked up the make-up bag and went back into the bathroom. It was full of the most exquisite and expensive make-up. There were brands in there that she never dreamed of using, because they were too expensive. Some of them were cool to the touch from being stored in a refrigerator. She applied the make-up enthusiastically. She had stopped putting it on since David’s death, even when she appeared in court in Utah.

She checked herself over several times in the mirror making sure that she was not overly made up. The effect had to be subtle, but it did not seem so after not having applied it for so long. No matter how much she tried to diminish the amount of make-up on her face, it still seemed too much. Finally she decided that it didn’t matter. She went back in to the bedroom. She hesitated to go out. She sat on the edge of the bed. She felt nervous about coming out looking like ex-Sra. Ladrillo. She never wanted to be someone else. Impersonation was alien to her. She was good at forgetting the past and getting on with life as if the past never existed. It was obvious that Ladrillo like Alfonso was stuck in the past, which she knew can never be resurrected.

She was about to take off the blazer when there was a knock on the door.

“Sí,” she called out anxiously.

“It is I,” called out Ladrillo. “Come and join us for lunch.”

“Of course,” she replied. She stood up, went to the door and opened it.

Col. Ladrillo looked at her as if he had known her all his life and she had always been at his side. He made no remark that she may have reminded him of his wife. He pointed the way for her and she followed closely.

“Do you feel better now?”

139 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “Oh yes,” she glanced over her shoulder at him, “I feel great. I feel like a new woman.”

“Indeed,” he said. “You look great.”

“Thank you,” she said. “You are very kind.”

“No, I mean it, you are a beautiful woman. I can understand perfectly why Alfonso loves you.”

She stopped and turned around to face him. “How do you know about that?”

“It’s blatantly obvious. You can tell by the way he looks at you.”

“Hmmm,” she mused.

“Do you love him?”

“I am not sure.”

“If you’re not sure, then you don’t love him.”

“Do I remind you of your wife?”

“Very much.”

“You’re still in love with her.”

“Very much.”

“And you want her back?”

“Very much. You are very much like her.”

“You love her,” she emphasized her.

“Do you still love your husband?”

“Of course,” she replied firmly. “I always will. No man can take his place.”

“Of course not. Only a fool would think otherwise.”

“Then we have something in common.”

“I think we can be great friends.” Ladrillo smiled at her broadly.

“I hope so,” she said gratefully, turned around and continued to the dining room.

Lexy and Rodrigo were already sitting at the table. As Wilma and Ladrillo walked in, Rodrigo stood up as if in shock at seeing a ghost. “What are you doing in my mother’s clothes?” he demanded.

“Hers were dirty and we had to give Conchita something to wear. You don’t mind, do you son?”

Rodrigo looked flustered. “No.” he sat down.

140 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 As Ladrillo pulled out a chair for Wilma to sit on, Rodrigo turned to Lexy and said, “Your mother can borrow my mother’s clothes, but can I borrow your mother?” Rodrigo burst out laughing.

Lexy looked stunned. He turned to his mother as if asking her how he should respond. “Of course,” responded Wilma looking directly at Rodrigo, “You can borrow me all you want, but only if Lexy agrees.”

Lexy turned to look at Rodrigo, “Sure,” Lexy confirmed nonchalantly.

“That’s very generous of you,” chimed in Ladrillo.

“Rodrigo, I now declare you my brother,” announced Lexy and burst out laughing.

Wilma glanced over at Ladrillo and he was smiling happily. “Thank you,” he whispered to Wilma.

After lunch, Lexy and Rodrigo went back to playing on the X-box, while Wilma and Ladrillo stayed at the dining table.

“Col. Ladrillo,” Lexy called out over his playing on the X-box, “On the way home, can you take us to the Cenotafio de Amor? I want to see if there are any new statues and say a prayer for them.”

“Of course, son.”

Ladrillo turned to Wilma and said in a serious tone, “the second time we took Lexy to the Cenotafio de Amor, there was a journalist there with a camera.

“Ah!” exclaimed Wilma with a tone of alarm.

“We took the camera away. The journalist is a Mexican TV reporter, but strangely the camera had an ID sticker stuck above the serial number that read KLATV.

“Oh my God!” Wilma was now even more alarmed.

“Don`t worry. When we returned the camera to him, we questioned him. He won’t say a word. We know where his family lives in Monterrey. He has a wife and three children.”

“Oh God! You intimidated him!”

“It’s no secret that your uncle Alfredo is hiding you here. Alfonso has made sure that no one opens his mouth. The only journalists that stay alive here are the ones who can keep their mouths shut. The only news that gets out is when a new mass grave site is found and then it’s not the local press who covers it. Journalists are brought in from Mexico City controlled by the President’s propaganda machine. They stick around for a few days, mainly filming the police and then they go back to Mexico City. So you see the US government can’t touch you here. They would have to kidnap you like Alfonso did.”

“How do you know about that?”

“C’mon, it’s obvious.”

“But sooner or later they will come for me.”

“Maybe, but I fear Herrero is very persistent and clever. He may find a way to get to you, just for the sake of a story, but he will be risking his life to do it.”

141 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 Ladrillo changed the subject suddenly, “It’s uncanny how life takes us down paths we don`t mean to go.”

“You mean like me shooting my husband?”

“I mean like my wife getting cancer.”

“But she could not have helped that.”

“No, that’s just it, she couldn’t help it.”

“But David’s death could have been avoided. If only I had not produced that pistol. If only he had not given me that pistol.”

“Yes, if only, life is full of ‘if onlies’, but however they come about, we are helpless to control them.”

“Trying to be in control is what got me out of control.”

“No matter how much I tell myself not to feel guilty about Catalina getting cancer, I still feel responsible. I could not prevent her death. It made me so angry. That’s why I am…” he stopped himself.

“Lexy said to me when we first arrived here in Valle Hermoso, ‘Guilt is the weighty hand of death’.”

“That young man of yours is a credit to the human race. Do you still feel guilty about the death of your husband?”

“Oh, it’s eating me alive.”

“You know something?”

“What?” she asked.

“Since I met you yesterday, I realise that maybe I can fall in love again.”

She had to suppress a laugh. She looked straight into his eyes, trying to see into his soul, to fathom out the mysterious power behind this enigmatic man full of self-confidence, unlike her David whom she ruled with ironclad control.

“Do you think you can allow me to love you and the memory of Catalina at the same time?”

She wanted to say Yes and No at the same time. David lacked confidence in himself. Alfonso was pathetic in that he never freed himself of her and remained true even after more than 30 years of unrequited teen-age love. Ladrillo on the other hand exuded manly essence in abundance. The thought of him gripping her in his arms and kissing her made her swoon. She felt herself blush.

“No,” she finally blurted out. “It’s impossible.”

“Of course,” said Ladrillo with a twinge of sadness. “I am sorry to have put you on the spot like this. I was out of control. It was silly of me.”

“No, it wasn’t,” she replied strongly. “But it’s impossible.”

“I know. It’s Alfonso.”

She knew he was right, but asked anyway, “What’s he got to do with it?”

142 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “He’s in love with you. He will be terribly jealous.”

“I will not be his hostage,” she hissed.

“But you are.”

“Like it or not,” she admitted bitterly. “I am his prisoner.

“In a way, yes, but also his property. If I lay a hand on you, he will seek retribution.”

“Oh Hell! The punishment never stops. What is it with Mexico? I had a good husband. I’ve made such a mess of my life. If only I hadn’t killed my …” She stopped herself. She was about to say ‘Father’. She cleared her throat, “Are you afraid of Alfonso?”

“No, but I need him on my side. Together we are keeping the Zetas in check.

“The Zetas?” She had heard them mentioned at the Great Marble Hacienda, but never paid any attention as to what they were about.

“It’s a gang. Well, they like to call themselves a cartel. They were hired by the Golfo cartel to protect them, then they became more powerful than their bosses and took over from them.”

“What cartel does Alfonso head then?” asked Wilma.

“SAMRA,” he replied. “It’s ARMAS (weapons) backwards.”

“And you?”

“The Delta Cartel.”

“And what’s your business then?”

“Narcotics,” he said resignedly.

“I see. So I am wanted by the heads of two criminal cartels, Herrero for a story and the US government for prison.”

Ladrillo looked at her and shrugged his shoulders.

“This is insane. It’s ridiculous. I’m short, nearly 50 and on the American wanted list. Both of you could have any woman you want. Why me? Why me?”

143 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 CHAPTER THIRTEEN

When Ronaldo Herrero heard about Fosa 72 as it was first known when discovered, because they found 72 bodies there and that two Downs Syndrome men were spotted there, he decided to investigate.

When the Mexican journalist told him that his camera was wrenched out of his hand by cartel narcos, while interviewing one of the Down ’s syndrome men, Herrero suspected that this could by his Alexander Henshaw. If he found him, he would find Mrs. Henshaw. The Mexican reporter told him that it was common for journalists to be intimidated and their equipment confiscated by the cartels and it did not necessarily mean that one of the DS men was Alexander Henshaw.

Herrero shaved his head and his big signature moustache and went to tell his editor he was taking a vacation.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” ordered Barry Katz.

“Never,” laughed Herrero.

“I don’t want to bail you out of jail in some awful South American country again. Do you know how much it cost to get you out of that prison in San Salvador?”

“Yeah, yeah, you told me a million times. I got you a good story though, didn’t I?

“It wasn’t worth it. The increase in advertising revenue didn’t cover the cost of getting you out and not to mention the fucking legal bills and the minor detail that you might have been killed, you stupid son of a bitch. If you had, it would have saved the station a lot of money.”

“Oh, I’m so touched that you didn’t leave me to rot there.” Herrero went up to Katz’ desk, bent over him and kissed him on the forehead. “Your fucking charm doesn’t work on me Herrero. Just remember you’re a fake Latino, a gringo and a stupid goy to boot.”

“I give you a kiss of gratitude and this is what I get.”

“Even though you are a vain, conceited ass-hole Herrero and every time I see you, I want to dive for cover, I still can’t help but like you. God only knows why. Just be goddamn careful.”

Herrero went to the Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV), reported that his driver’s license was lost and obtained a new one with his new photo with the shaved head and the name Ron Smith, his real name.

He crossed the border from San Diego to Tijuana by foot and from there he rented a car using his Ron Smith driver’s license and credit card. No one would be alerted that he was the sensationalist journalist Ronaldo Herrero from KLATV. He drove to Monterrey with a stopover halfway in Cabeza Prieta National Wildlife Refuge. There he met up with the journalist whose camera was taken away by the cartel’s men.

Herrero produced a photo from his top shirt pocket and handed it over to Juan Antonio Melo. “Was that him?”

Melo studied it for several moments, then handed it back to Herrero without making any facial expression. Melo exhibited no body language other than a total indifference. He didn’t even blink. “Well?” asked Herrero sounding impatient.

“I can’t be sure,” pronounced Melo.

Herrero leapt out of his chair and pounded his fist hard on the table, “What the fuck have I been paying you for, you stupid spineless son of a bitch! Don’t you go fucking wasting my time!”

144 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

Melo was unperturbed by Herrero’s outburst. “It was dark. I couldn’t see that well.”

“You were shooting at night. You had the god damned lights on, didn’t you?”

“Of course I did. But I was looking at the screen. The image on it is so small.”

“You’re a liar! You’re just scared shitless. Did they torture you?”

“No.”

“Well they should’ve.”

“If they had, I‘d be dead. These people don’t just torture. They also kill you and it’s always ugly.”

Herrero sat down and looked at Melo for a long time without saying anything. Melo had a long face, untypical of Mexicans with their round faces and puffy bun like cheeks that seemed pumped up with air. Melo’s were hollow and deep set with a long narrow nose slightly hooked at the end like an eagle’s beak. His face looked that of a desperately hungry vulture, looking for his next meal, hovering high above, expressionless, knowing that death was everywhere, it was just a matter of spotting it. Just like an investigative journalist knowing that there are scandals to be discovered everywhere, but here in Mexico there was nothing to be discovered. It was more a question of whether one had the guts to report them. But no one did. It was not worth it, because life was worth more, even it was under humiliating conditions.

“Go home, Sr. Herrero.”

“Or what?” objected Herrero.

“You’ll be killed.”

Herrero laughed under his breath.

“If you go after this woman and boy, it will be down a one-way street from which you will not be able to find the way back.”

“Either you’re a journalist or a narco collaborator. If you’re the latter I’m dead anyway, if you’re a real journalist, an honest journalist, one that wants to bring down the narcos that are destroying Mexico, then you have to find a way to make Mrs. Henshaw come to us.”

“Oh yeah. So I call Mrs. Henshaw and ask her to surrender herself to us. You need patience Sr. Herrero. Sooner or later an opportunity will come up and you have to be ready for it.”

“Like what?” asked Herrero derisively.

“Her father was the mayor of this town from 1960 until he disappeared mysteriously in a fire at his home in 1969.”

“Oh!” Herrero raised his eyebrows.

“The house burnt to the ground and all the family was presumed dead including his then 14 year old daughter Inmaculada de la Concepción. His brother is none other than Alfredo Agustus Rodríguez Martínez, who heads the SAMRA Cartel, which controls gun smuggling from the US to Mexico in Nuevo León. Your Sra. Wilma Henshaw I suspect is his niece.

145 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “Go on,” said Herrero sounding conciliatory.

“I have some people digging there. I bought the land four weeks ago. It cost me a fortune. A big gamble if we discover nothing.”

“What are you hoping to find there?”

“Bodies.” Replied Melo. “There were no bodies found after the fire. Not a bone anywhere. So the police reported, but an old retired fireman who was at the scene after the fire told me they found scarred bed springs with what appeared to be burnt blood on them. There would have been a lot of blood for some of it to still be on the bed springs after the bed burnt.”

“Whose blood was it?”

“No one knows. They didn’t have DNA testing in those days and since then the blood spattered springs have disappeared. Magically bounced away into oblivion.”

“Vanished!” remarked Herrero incredulous.

“Thousands of people disappear here every year without a trace. No one bothers to find out what happened to them, especially the police. So a few disappearing bed springs are not going to make the headline news here,” said Melo.

“Take me there!” ordered Herrero.

“Well, I tried to warn you, but okay if that’s what you really want.”

“Goddammit Melo stop fucking around.”

“It’s a construction site. That’s the excuse we are using to dig. You’ll have to wear a hard hat and look like you are part of the crew. I don’t want to rouse any suspicion from the neighbors.”

“I may have underestimated you,” said Herrero.

“Being a journalist here is more dangerous than being a war correspondent. The narcos have informers everywhere. Even the police work for them. You can’t trust anyone.”

They climbed into a rundown old Nissan Primera, whose color had faded to a whitish green. The upholstery was stained with what looked like oil. In places it had suffered cigarette burns. Herrero’s door creaked disconcertingly as he opened it. As he closed the door, it squealed like a poodle puppy being squeezed by the jaws of a rabid Doberman. Melo fired up the engine and it roared into life with a back fire. The noise was deafening. It was obvious the muffler had fallen off a long time ago. Melo crunched the gears into first and stomped on the accelerator hard. Herrero heard the tires squeal even over the roar of the un-muffled engine.

“Goddamned piece of shit,” cursed Melo as he double clutched and crunched the gear into second.

Herrero wanted to ask why Melo drove such an awful car, but he would’ve had to shout to be heard over the noise of the engine and he didn’t feel like it. He figured he knew the answer already, but it was a journalist instinct not to assume. Everything had to be confirmed and double-checked. The lack of AC was beginning to make him irritable. He wound down his window and he felt the hot air dry the sweat that had built up in his armpits.

Valle Hermoso was a typical North Mexican town, with wide streets lined with two stories buildings, with the ground level being used for a business or a shop and the second as a home. Each building was painted with bright luminescent colors and the all the doors were of steel. All windows on both levels were barred. Signs with “Perros Peligrosos” with

146 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 images of vicious dogs were on every visible wall. The advantages of the noisy engine were that he could not hear the barking dogs or the Latin music blaring out of every car with 20 something men bursting with testosterone. Each one pretending to be a rich narco with a tall leggy, dyed blond in the passenger seat.

He observed just then such a one dash past them only to be forced to stop at the next red light. He glanced over at Melo’s car as he pulled alongside. The young man rolled up the windows in his car to block out the noise from the old Nissan. Melo glanced over to Herrero and smiled from ear to ear. “I hate those cocky bastards,” he shouted.

When the light turned green Melo waited for the penis brained young man to go first, then he pulled out looking left and right before venturing into the intersection, in case any “gilipollas” dickhead was running the red light. Most of the vehicles on the roads were old pickup trucks covered with dust and here and there he spotted large American made 4-wheel drive SUVs with blacked out windows. These ferried about the narcos, politicians and crooked businessmen.

As they progressed the streets became wider with medians planted with grass, oleander and palm trees. No houses could be seen. Only high walls with tall, guarded gates. The walls were all perfectly stuccoed either adobe or white. The pervasive dangerous dogs placards were posted on the walls here just as they were in the poorer section of the town. In spite of Nuevo León being the second richest territory in Mexico, it nevertheless did not escape the rule of the drug barons, who imposed well justified fear in poor and rich citizens alike. Kidnappings were a way of life. Melo’s use of an old car served a purpose. It made him a less juicy ransom target.

Several gold and silver crosses hung from the car’s rear-view mirror. They would be useless at warding off any potential kidnapper or bandito, for they too prayed to God and had crosses with a suffering humble, Jesus over their beds. They are all equal in the eyes of the Lord. In Mexico it seemed that each man deserved what he earned no matter the means.

Melo parked in front of a non-descript recently painted wall with a large iron gate with two leaves. As the two reached it, the gate opened a small crack and they squeezed through it.

“Me oíste llegando,” chuckled Melo to the man who had pried the gate open.

“Sí, Sr. Melo,” answered the short squat stoutly built man.

Melo turned to Herrero, “He heard the car. It saves me having to knock.”

There were three JCB earth diggers buzzing around the site and six men in teams of two going over the ground with metal detectors that each JCB had freshly uncovered.

A tall thin young man approached them. He had his hair cropped short in a military style, wore spectacles too small for his large bulbous eyes. They rested on a long thin nose which ended in an upward curve. His ears stuck out like two parabolic satellite dishes. He looked down at the ground as he approached them. When he reached Melo, he looked up. In spite of the jutting out eyes, which should have expressed surprise or amazement, they displayed disappointment.

Without any kind of greeting, he said, “Nada, Sr. Melo,”

Melo said, “This is el jefe,” he pointed with his head toward Herrero, “This is José Luis, the on-site manager.”

José Luis glanced obliquely at Herrero. He said nothing.

“How deep have you dug so far?” Melo asked José Luis.

“Two and a half meters and nada.”

147 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“Go deeper then,” ordered Melo. He looked around the site. “What about under that Oak tree?”

“We haven’t looked there yet.”

“Put one of your JCBs over there. Dig up the tree if you have to.”

Just as José Luis turned around to pass on the order from Melo, one of the men with a metal detector signalled to the JCB he was paired with and pointed to the spot where he stood. The digger swung around and he jumped out of the way. The digger moved forward scooping dirt out of the ground, when it suddenly struck a metallic object. The noise ricocheted around the plot. Everyone’s attention turned toward it. The order to dig under the oak tree was not passed on.

José Luis and Melo raced to the spot. Herrero followed. José Luis jumped into the small hole the JCB had made. One of the men with the metal detectors handed him a shovel and he dug away the dirt, hitting metal each time he cast the shovel down. Gradually he revealed the source of the noise and proceeded to remove the dirt from the top. Melo turned to Herrero and said, “I think we have found another fosa, which is a pity.”

“A pity! Isn’t this what you were looking for?”

“Not quite. I was hoping to find the ex-mayor here and maybe his entire family. Not a mass grave. Those are discovered with too much frequency these days in Mexico. If this is a fosa, we are not allowed to go in. We have to call in the police. The mayor may be amongst them, but then it’s out of our control. Whereas, if we find just a body or two, we can have a first look before calling the police.”

“After so many years there’ll be nothing but bones in any case,” commented Herrero.

“No, there are never just bones. We usually find jewellery, teeth and sometimes even a wallet and don’t forget DNA.”

“Can’t you just have a look in the fosa anyway?

“If we go in, the police will know we’ve been in.”

“Can`t you just say that someone else got in before you.”

“No, they won’t believe us. Their forensic people today can tell by the dust if it’s new or old. Humans shed skin and they will find ours there.”

“Not if we wear hermetically sealed suits and we can use a remote controlled camera mounted on an extractable arm, go in and take pictures. This way we will hardly disturb the site.”

A few minutes later José Luis had exposed the metal cover completely. It was 5 feet long and 2.5 feet wide with a handle in the middle on the left and three hinges on the right. Across the top of the door was a steel bar with a slit on its left extremity that fitted over a hook welded onto the edge of a wide metal frame surrounding the door. A large padlock was stuck into the hook securing the door.

José Luis looked up at Melo, “Cut it!” he ordered. One of the men produced a large bolt cutter and handed it to José Luis. He was unable to cut it on his own and he enlisted the help of another. At last the steel lock snapped. They lifted the bar out of the way and tried to open the lid. It refused to move. They tied one end of a chain around the handle and the other to the JCB bucket. José Luis instructed everyone to stand well back in case anything snapped. The JCB bucket went up slowly and tightened the tension on the chain. It strained. The chain stretched tighter and tighter until it seemed like it was about to snap, then suddenly the handle began to bend upward while the metal lid remained implacable.

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“Stop!” shouted Melo to the JCB operator while he waved at him frantically crossing his arms in front of him in opposite directions, but the bucket kept going upward slowly pulling on the handle while the door remained fixed to the spot. Just as it seemed the handle was about to snap off, the door flew open. The tension on the chain released suddenly and it lurched upward with such force that it pulled the door completely off its hinges. The door lunged upward toward the bucket and knocked into it hard, then crashed back down falling straight through the opening it had been blocking and in doing so, it wrenched off the handle and disappeared down the hole.

“Hijo de puta!” screamed Melo at the top of his voice at the JCB operator, who still did not seem capable of hearing him.

Melo raced toward the gaping hole, while all Herrero could hear was the rattling of bones knocking into each other as the door crashed down to the bottom with a loud clump followed two seconds later by a burst of a black cloud of dust that smelled of rust and decay. Melo had to step back out of its way. Once the dust had settled, Herrero moved toward the opening and looked down into it. Melo joined Herrero by his side. The sun shoe into one corner and Herrero counted seven skulls. He could not see any skeletons.

“Cabrón!” called out Melo. “The old mayor had a reputation for cutting off people’s heads, but it was always denied. It seems to be true.”

“How?” asked Herrero.

“He hung them with razor wire until their heads separated from their bodies.”

“Urgh!”

Melo looked over toward the large tree where he had earlier ordered the JCB operator to dig. It had two thick branches growing out at 90 degrees angles from the trunks. “That’s a perfect tree for hanging,” he shared his thought with Herrero.

“José Luis,” he called out. “Go and dig under that tree. But do it carefully and slowly.”

“But,” José Luis started to protest.

“Just do it!” Melo cut him off.

He turned his attention back to Herrero. “What a fuck up! The police are going to make my life hell from now on.”

“So let’s go in and have a look. It can’t get any worse,” commented Herrero. “You never know what you might find. It might change everything.”

“Oh believe me it can get worse. I could be killed. Man you don’t understand this country. I am not even sure I do.”

“I tell you what, I will cover this story. Fuck the Mexican police. They will not get away with covering it up. Remember I am an American journalist. It’s not going to be so easy for them to silence me.”

“This is nuts. Suicidal.”

“You send the men home. You film and I talk. No one has to know about this until you and I are back in LA. No one needs to know of your involvement.”

“I bought this land in my name. They will know.”

149 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “You will become an asylum seeker then.”

“Do you think that will keep me safe from the likes of Alfonso. He kidnapped Wilma Henshaw right from under the noses of the American police. In fact, he most likely bribed them.”

“This is turning out to be even better than I thought and we have yet to go inside that grave,” said Herrero.

“Man, that is all you can think about. You don’t give a shit about my life. You’re worse than those fucking narcos.”

“I don’t go around killing people and feeding the habits of millions of drug addicts. I don’t kidnap people. I don’t smuggle arms to fight a government. You knew the risks when you got into this. If you don’t want any part of it, then you can walk out now. Go and forget you had anything to do with it. I will even pay you for your trouble and your airline tickets to wherever you want to go.”

“Goddamn it!” sighed Melo.

“Let’s see what we’ve got first before you condemn yourself to death.”

“Sr. Melo,” called out José Luis from where he had been digging under the tree. Melo and Herrero looked his way. He waved to them to come over.

“I found something.”

He pointed to the ground and they saw the bones of a foot sticking out.

“Send your men home and you take the rest of the day off. Don’t say anything to anyone,” instructed Melo. “If anyone finds out that you have been involved in this, your life may well be over. The same goes for the crew. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, of course.”

As José Luis turned to go, Herrero asked Melo, “Can you trust him and them?”

“What do you suggest I do, kill them all?”

“I guess you have to rely on fear.”

“It’s the only thing that works in this country. Everybody is afraid of the cartels.”

As soon as all the workmen left the grounds, both Melo and Herrero got down on their hands and knees and dug away the dirt with little garden hand shovels.

It took them three hours to uncover most of the skeleton, which was miraculously still intact, except for two fractured ribs on one side and one broken rib on the other.

“It looks like he was stabbed,” surmised Melo. “That explains the blood found on the bed springs. The man would have bled a hell of lot with these wounds if the knives were very long. They would have severed several internal organs.”

There was no jewellery on him except for a large golden ring on his right ring finger. Melo tried to remove it but it was stuck. He got some water and poured it onto the finger to loosen it up. It took him 30 minutes of patient work to remove it without breaking the bones.

150 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 He cleaned it off. The top was in the shape of a Khamsa, a hand with an eye in the middle. It was the Jewish symbol to ward off the evil eye. Melo explained that it was a rare piece of Jewellery in Mexico. It was worn by a few well to do Mexicans from the 1600s to 1800s. They were descendants of Jews converted to Catholicism during the Spanish Inquisition. They settled in what is today Monterrey during the reign of Phillip II. The first owner of this ring was not born in this century. The wearer of this ring would have inherited it probably from his father. It had probably been passed down through several generations. He had only ever seen one such example of this in the Museo Metropolitano de Monterrey.

“Look at this,” Melo showed Herrero an inscription on the underside of the top part of the ring. Herrero could see four Hebrew letters. “That’s Yahweh, God in Hebrew,” Melo explained.

“Do you know who might have been the owner of this ring?” asked Herrero.

“I don’t have a clue,” replied Melo. “There won’t be many people who had such rings, but they will be mostly dead by now. For all I know this man may have lived in the last century or he could be the old mayor himself.

Melo fetched the camera and started to film. Then he turned his attention to the mass grave. They found 17 skeletons. All were separated from the skulls. They also found three razor wires that were probably used to de-capitate the victims. When they finished filming in the fosa, Herrero was the first to climb up the aluminium ladder and as he stuck his head up above the ground, he could barely see in the waning light of dusk a pair of tall black leather boots. When he tried to look up to see who wore them, the right foot of its wearer rapidly pulled backwards, then flew forward and connected with his mouth. The force of the kick pushed Herrero backwards taking the ladder with him, even though Melo was at the bottom holding it. When the angle of the ladder to the ground reached 90 degrees, Herrero lost his grip and crashed to the bottom landing on top of Melo. The ladder continued backward, hit the opposite wall, bounced back and caught Herrero on the side of his head knocking him out.

When Herrero revived, he felt a thumping against his forehead as if someone was banging it repeatedly against a solid stone wall. His skull would crack from the inside any second. He put his hands to either side of his head vainly hoping that this simple gesture could stop the hammering. It was no use. He squeezed hard, but it intensified the effect. He put his right hand to his mouth, he felt a warm liquid on it. His mouth was completely numb, as if the dentist had just anaesthetized it. His lips were swollen. He smelled his hand as he could not see a thing. He felt the ladder on top of him and threw it off to one side. His whole body ached. He felt under him. It was Melo, he realised with horror, “Melo!” he tried to say, but his numb mouth and tongue prevented him from even understanding himself. He turned himself around on his hands and knees and felt around until he found Melo’s head, “Melo!” he tried to call out again, but Herrero only made an incomprehensible grunt. He felt under Melo’s nose. Not detecting any sign of breath there, he frantically tried to find a pulse in Melo’s neck. There was nothing. He put his hand on Melo’s chest. Nothing. He turned over onto his back and tried to scream, but he had no control over his vocal chords.

Herrero closed his eyes, but that simple motion of shutting the eyelids served to strengthen the pounding in his head. He opened them again and laid there in silence. Above him he heard the buzzing of diesel fired electric generators like the ones KLATV used when the news crews covered stories away from the studio in remote places. Maybe Barry Katz had arrived there with a KLATV crew and they were about to rescue him, or maybe his editor was putting flowers on Herrero’s grave. There would be no eulogies from such a man. Only, “I told the poor son of a bitch he would end up like this one day.” No rotting in prison for Herrero, just left in some unmarked grave pit. He told himself that if he got out of this alive, he was going to interview Mrs. Henshaw even if it’s the last thing he ever did, then he would turn her in. Eventually, in spite of the thumping pain in his head, his eyes closed.

151 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Wilma too had become a regular at Ladrillo’s. There she felt like the woman of the house. At Great Marble Hacienda she was eclipsed by her matriarchal Aunt. Rodrigo adopted her as if she were his mother and Ladrillo kept telling her how wonderful it was to have a feminine touch around the house.

Ladrillo never spoke of his work, but he told her he left the military because of his disenchantment with his career’s progress. He had been passed over three times for promotion to General, because he did not have the right connections. She also learned that his wife did not want to have more children after Rodrigo’s birth.

“Why?” she asked him.

“She was afraid of having another DS child.”

“But I went on to have two normal children. It doesn’t follow that she would’ve had more DS children.”

“She was young. Only 18 when she gave birth to Rodrigo. She wasn’t a candidate for having a DS child. And she felt that he would need all her attention and it would be unfair to the others. “

“She sounds like she was a wonderful, selfless woman.”

“Yes, she was. It was so unfair she died so young. She made me promise I would take good care of Rodrigo always. She told me that I should remarry, but never forget my promise to her.”

“And you haven’t.”

“No, I have not. My first responsibility is to him and second to honor Catalina’s memory.”

“Have you not felt lonely?”

“Alone, yes, but not lonely. At least I thought so, until you came into our lives. You’ve made me, and I believe Rodrigo, realize that we missed the company of a good woman.”

Wilma was deeply touched by Ladrillo, one of the most feared men in Nuevo León, humbling himself before her. She felt useful for the first time since her children left home to go to university. Ladrillo and Rodrigo needed her more than Lexy seemed to and it made her realize that Lexy too had been in need of her and his father too.

She fidgeted in her chair at Ladrillo’s admission as well as her own. It seemed too easy. Almost natural. She didn’t have to do anything. There was nothing to hide, she was just herself and others around her liked her that way. But what was just herself? She knew not. Who was she? What was she?

“I am not a good woman. I have done very bad things.”

“So have I,” said Ladrillo, “but that doesn’t mean I’m not a good man.”

“But you cannot be both,” she countered.

“That’s the question you have struggled with all your life. You think you’re bad because you gave Lexy up for adoption, but what do you think your two younger children think of you?”

“They probably hate me since I killed their father.”

152 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “That was an accident,” said Ladrillo emphatically. “They see you as a good person. Try to tell them otherwise. They will fight you on this one. Of that you can be sure.”

“I am not so sure.”

“Go and tell the 15 cancer charities that I donate half my earnings to that I am evil. They won’t believe you. They wouldn’t even believe me if I told them myself.”

She started to cry. Tears welled up in Ladrillo’s eyes. He reached out and took her hand and held it. She let him. They had become co-confidants. Two souls in conflict with themselves, trapped between opposing camps. Criminal on the one hand and pious on the other. In her case the murder conviction. The killing of her father and in Ladrillo’s case the killings he carried out in his quest to maintain control of his cartel. He had a justification for continuing. Lexy was hers.

“Most people in my position do not live long. Sooner or later it will catch up with me. I know it’s inevitable. To survive for however long I do, I cannot relax my grip for one second. The very people my predecessor hired to protect him became more powerful than him. They are merciless. They think nothing of killing hundreds or even thousands of people with no justification whatsoever; just to instil fear in the masses. That is why I am fighting them. Someone has to. Our government can’t. And to fight the Zetas, I need gun power. I need troops better equipped and more determined. I know that my end will be violent. Those who live by the sword die by it.”

She squeezed his hand. He did not return the gesture. “My only fear is what will happen to Rodrigo. How will he cope when I am not here? He has already lost his mother.”

“I keep thinking that I should turn myself in,” said Wilma.

“I wake up with that thought every day.”

“So why don’t you?”

“What good could I do in prison?”

“But what about your conscience?”

“My conscience has not stayed constant throughout my life. When I was a teenager I was idealistic. I thought I could change the world. I joined the army with that idea in my head. I would fight evil if it tried to encroach on our freedom. I was eventually assigned to the anti-drugs corps. The army that our President Calderón created to fight drug trafficking. We were hopelessly ill-prepared and ill-equipped to deal with it. The politicians would not listen to us on the ground. We ended up doing nothing more than patrolling areas controlled by the drugs cartels and to avoid unnecessary altercations, we let them know our movements so they would get out of the way. Whenever they attacked a police station, we were always too far away to respond quickly. Even then we took our time in responding hoping they would be gone by the time we got there.” He paused and shook his head. “I was not fighting. If anything by not facing them we were aiding and abetting them. This country will pay a heavy price for this one day, maybe even all out civil war.”

“Are you telling me that you are fighting the Zeta cartel?”

“Someone has to.”

“You are a brave man.”

“No, a very foolish one. I have made enemies on all sides: the Zetas, the government and other cartels that want to muscle in on our territory.”

153 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“You must be careful. Can’t you just leave here? Take your money and Rodrigo and go far away?”

“That’s the cowardly way.”

“I call it survival. I’ve been a coward all my life. I tried to kill myself when I was young. I even …” She stopped herself. “It was the only time in my life that I showed any real courage.”

“But you didn’t go through with it.”

“No, I didn’t and not because I was cowardly. I dropped the blade and before I could find it I was interrupted by my mother.”

“What made you take such a step?”

“Oh, I can’t speak of that.”

“You must have been desperate.”

“Oh, I was.”

“I never felt suicidal even after my wife died.”

“But the very nature of what you do is suicidal. Maybe you don’t kill yourself, but you, as you said, will be killed. You are lucky.”

“Lucky! How can you say that?”

“Your misery will end, when you are killed, but mine, I will have to endure it for many years. How I have wished so often that my life will end soon, but no, the suffering lives on. It’s made me a resentful and angry person. I take out my frustrations on everyone, even my younger children had to grow up with it and finally in my killing of my husband. There is a rage inside me that knows no bounds. I can’t control it. David’s death has only made it worse. Inside I feel like I am going to implode at any moment at the slightest provocation.”

“That’s odd,” remarked Ladrillo. “I don’t see that.”

“I have learned to disguise it, even from myself, but it’s always there, boiling away just under the surface waiting to pounce on any unlucky soul in my way when I lose control.”

“When Catalina died, I was very angry and I still was until I met you.”

Wilma shifted uneasily in her chair. She cleared her throat. She felt a powerful urge to throw her arms around his big shoulders and give in to him completely. For the first time in her life she had the strength to take the initiative. The memory of the abuse at the hands of her father was gone. Passion was flaring up from her core. She felt herself flush red and her body began to quiver. She felt slightly dizzy. She reached up with both hands and grabbed Ladrillo forcefully by either side of his head and pulled him to her. When their lips touched a jolt of electric shock made her hold him even tighter. Just then Lexy came racing into the room crying out, “Mama! Mama! Mama!”

Wilma rather than instantly releasing Ladrillo, held his head still, unfastened her lips long enough from Ladrillo’s to ask, “What is it Lexy?” Then went back to kissing Ladrillo, who looked at Lexy out of the corner of his eye feeling uneasy about consummating the kiss.

“Ah! Ah!,” stammered Lexy, “Th… The… They … They … f… f… found another mass grave.”

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Wilma let go of Ladrillo, “Oh!”

“Where?” asked Ladrillo.

“They say it’s where there once was a house of a former mayor of Valle Hermoso.”

Wilma jumped up instantly, “What!” Her face drained of blood.

155 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 CHAPTER FIFTEEN

When Herrero regained consciousness, he opened his eyes and looked around. He was in a hospital bed, with a Mexican Federal Police Officer sitting asleep in a chair opposite. He looked toward the window. It was dark outside. As if the policeman sensed that Herrero was awake, he stirred in his chair. Herrero closed his eyes and pretended that he was still unconscious. He kept them shut until he heard the policeman get up and leave the room. He opened his eyes and looked around. There was no one else in the room. He felt his mouth and his lips. They were still swollen. Thankfully his headache was gone.

He gingerly stepped out of bed. All he had on was a hospital gown open at the back. He quickly ripped it off, put it on the other way around and tied it at the front. Stealthily, he tiptoed up to the door. He heard nothing outside. Judging by the faint light beginning to filter through the window he calculated that dawn was just breaking. He opened the door slowly and looked down the hallway in both directions. The lights were dimmed and he saw no one. He stepped out and closed the door behind quietly, then started on his tiptoes toward a lit sign “SALIDA” at the far end of the hall. The light inside the Exit sign blinked off and on alternating between bright illumination as if it was about to stay on permanently then disappointingly going off, then lighting up again, but so faintly that the letters “SALIDA” could hardly be discerned. He glanced nervously over his shoulder and noticed a shadow moving at the end of the corridor. He saw a door immediately to his left, opened it quietly and went in. He heard snoring and looked toward the bed. There was an old man lying in it face up with his mouth wide open and his eyes shut. He stood there motionless and listened until he heard between the snores a pair of boots go past the room he hid in. He reached for the door handle and slowly turned it. The old man stirred and gasped. Herrero turned back to look at him. He was still asleep. He opened the door, but before he could step out, three men bolted into the room. One grabbed him by the head, another stuck tape over his mouth, then two of them firmly holding him by each arm lifted him up until his feet were off the ground and carried him out to a waiting black van, where there was one more man.

“So Mr. Ron Smith,” the man said, “more popularly known as Ronaldo Herrero of KLATV, what the fuck were you doing on my uncle’s land?”

One of the kidnappers reached around and ripped the tape off Herrero’s mouth. He wanted to scream out, but restrained himself.

“Fuck you Alfonso.” Herrero figured out who the man was that had been waiting for them in the van.

Alfonso punched him hard on his already sore mouth. Herrero felt a rush of blood spew out and dribble down his front. “You hit me again like that and I won`t be able to answer your questions, you imbecile.”

Alfonso struck him again on the mouth even harder. Herrero felt his head fly back as if it was about to leave his body. He tried with all him strength to hold it in place, but it was impossible. “You are one fucking stupid son of a bitch Herrero. Did you think you could come snooping around here and get away with it?” Alfonso laughed and slapped Herrero on the back of the head just as Herrero succeeded in bringing it forward again. “What happened to Melo?”

“What!” Herrero just about managed to mumble faintly. There was a hint of surprise in his question, his voice was so muffled he could hardly hear himself. He felt his lips and they were throbbing with blood running out of his mouth. The side of his face was burning and pulsating.

“You’re going to kill me,” Herrero barely managed to say, “just like you did Melo.”

Alfonso slapped him hard on the left side of his face. Herrero felt four thick fingers like hot branding irons singeing his skin that was already on fire. “Don’t play games with me you Gringo reporter,” shouted Alfonso. “His poor widow and three young children are devastated.

“Son of a bitch!” mumbled Herrero under his breath.

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“How did that fuck face retarded Capt. Morales get there before me? Did you let him know about the Fosa?”

“So you’re not so smart, are you Alfonso? Melo’s death was an accident. Even you with all your guns and muscle men, you can’t control everything. But it was a policeman who caused the accident. That’s how I ended up in hospital instead of dead. I don’t feel one bit sorry for that two-timing son of a bitch Melo. Capt. Morales is going to come after you with all he’s got. He’s two steps ahead of you.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I know by what we found at your uncle’s land. We found a corpse wearing a Khamsa ring. Morales will be paying a visit to your father to enquire about that ring. He will want to know how your uncle was murdered. He will want to interview the one witness under your protection, who would know the answer and he will have to arrest her and extradite her to the U.S. and maybe even claim the reward for her capture and gift it to the Mexican people. Capt. Morales may have done you and your father some favors, taken some bribes, but this is too tempting to pass up, even if you threaten him. With the mass grave he has uncovered, he’ll have the President himself behind him. The Fosa has already been on TV, hasn’t it?”

Alfonso nodded his head affirmatively.

“Your beloved isn’t safe anymore. If I were you, I’d,” Herrero paused. “You’re going to kill me, aren’t you Alfonso?” asked Herrero. “This whole thing with Melo was a trap to lure me here. Once on your territory you could get rid of me quietly.”

Alfonso nodded. “You journalists cause nothing but trouble. Most of the time you just tell lies and in your case you pray on vulnerable people. I despise your type.”

“I can help her,” offered Herrero.

“I don’t need help from you,” retorted Alfonso.

157 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The day of the anniversary of the accident, which had begun her recovery was upon them and as promised Lexy had planned a burial for the chair, because Wilma no longer needed it. Even the priest was brought out to officiate over its demise.

Wilma had invited Ladrillo to come and he had accepted. The ceremony was due to start at 15:00. When Ladrillo did not arrive by that time, she asked that they wait for him.

Everyone wore black. The men and even the boys donned black ties. The women wore small black scarves on their heads. Twenty-two people were present including the priest. He was the only one who dressed in white. His robe was elegant and laced with gold thread. He was an old man, with white hair and dark skin. Everyone had arrived at 1 p.m. and were served lunch. Only Ladrillo and Rodrigo had not come for lunch. The guests stood there somberly looking into the six foot deep hole, while occasionally glancing up to look at the priest. Julio placed the wheel chair next to where Wilma was standing. It was wrapped in pink and blue ribbons and on the seat stood a large floral arrangement with irises, roses, petunias, daisies and even orchids. After 10 minutes of standing in the hot sun, even the priest was sweating under the clothes. Some women took out tissues to wipe their brows to keep the sweat from dripping into their eyes. Finally it was the priest who broke ranks and went over to Wilma and said, “I don’t think Sr. Lardillo is coming. I also need to be at another ceremony at 4 p.m. Can we start the proceedings, please?”

“Yes,” Wilma acceded to his wish.

The priest resumed his position at the top of the grave. Lexy brought out a hand-carved wooden cross with an engraving on it, which read, “May the past rest in peace.” The whole family stood around the grave, while the priest said the last few words:

“Dear Lord, please take this vehicle, which has served its purpose well. It gave Conchita mobility when she could not walk. It was her support and comfort in her hour of need, just as You Our Lord are in all of our hours of need. We thank You Dear Lord for making such a blessed thing. It’s time for it to join You in Heaven for it has led an exemplary life never failing Conchita, not even for a second. It became part of her, a constant companion, reliable, sturdy and comfortable. It’s with a tinge of sadness that we wish it on its way to a higher life and purpose, Dear Lord. May it join You with our blessing. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.”

He looked directly at Lexy and made a motion with his right hand indicating that it was time to lower the chair into the grave. Alfonso assisted Lexy in lowering it gently into the hole with ropes that they had previously put in place for this purpose. There were no tears from any of the persons present as they watched it go down to its final resting place. Once it was firmly on the bottom, Alfonso slid the ropes out from under it and pulled them up. He nodded his head to Wilma. She picked up some dirt and threw it into the grave. Lexy followed suit, then again and again he kept picking up handfuls of dirt and tossing them in. The children joined in too. They were throwing and some even took to scooping the dirt in with their bare hands with relish and delight. A couple of children took to throwing handfuls at a time aiming directly at the flowers trying to topple them, but Alfonso had foreseen this and had them tied down firmly to the seat. One of the children ran off and came back a few seconds later with a large stone and just as he was about to hurl it into the chair, Alfonso called out, “Ramon, don`t!” The boy looked at him for a fraction of a second, then with a mischievous smile on his face hurled the stone into the flowers hitting them directly knocking them off the chair and into the bottom of the grave. Wilma let out a small giggle. Alfonso looked at her flustered, then the whole gathering broke out laughing and the adults too started picking up handfuls of dirt and throwing them into the hole. Even the priest joined in, not caring if he stained his beautiful white gown.

Suddenly Alfonso’s cell phone sounded. His father, who sat in his wheel chair looked up at Alfonso, who had become more and more the head of the family, while his father was relegated into the shadows. Wilma could see he was proud, but also jealous he was no longer in charge. Alfonso’s face turned black and he hung up. “¡Conchita, Lexy, venid conmigo ahora mismo!”

158 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

Lexy looked up from the mound of dirt he had been shoveling into the grave. He smacked his hands together to rid them of the soil clinging to them, stood up and brushed himself off as best as he could.

“Qué pasa?” he asked.

“Federales,” said Alfonso in a whisper. “You and your mother must go inside out of sight.”

“Of course,” said Lexy. They went into the house and up the stairs to Wilma’s room.

The police arrived and were shown into the courtyard in the middle of the Hacienda. They were three and the most senior man preceded the other two. He was a squat man with a big moustache.

Alfonso greeted him warmly, “Capitan Morales, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” He shook his hand heartily. “We’re honored that you should visit us.”

“Reports have reached me that you are filling your father’s boots even better than he did.”

“I could never do that,” replied Alfonso.

“Oh, don’t underestimate yourself. Now, may I speak to your father on an urgent matter?”

“Oh, what about?”

“I am sure you know we discovered a pit with 17 bodies in it. It’s on a property your father sold two years ago. It used to belong to your uncle Alberto, whose house there burned down and all traces of him and his family disappeared.”

“Yes, I have heard about the discovery of the fosa, but what has that do to with my father?”

“There was an 18th body found at the site. It was not in the pit with the other 17. It may be that of your Uncle Alberto.”

“Oh, why should you think that?”

“Your uncle was presumed dead when the house burnt down. The trouble is we cannot find any reports of bodies discovered at the house after it burnt to the ground. We have dug up every square meter there and we cannot find any other bodies. We want to establish now if the 18th body found was his brother.”

“And what about the 17 bodies you found in the pit, have you been able to identify them?” asked Alfonso.

“Not yet, but I can tell you there were no children, so we have ruled out that your cousins were amongst them.”

Alfonso nodded his head to José to bring his father out.

“Ah, Capitan!” Alfredo greeted Captain Morales, “Nice of you to come all the way out here rather than making me come to the station.”

Wilma peeped out of her curtain from her window to see what was going on.

“Not at all,” replied the Captain. He fumbled around in his pocket, then pulled out a large golden ring inside a small clear plastic bag used for holding evidence. From her vantage point, Wilma instantly recognized the Khamsa ring that her father used to wear with pride. The color drained from Alfredo’s face. He glanced up to the crack in the curtain

159 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 from which Wilma was observing them below. The policeman’s eyes followed Alfredo’s. Wilma instantly closed the drape, but could still hear them.

When Alfredo regained his composure, “It belonged to my father.”

“Could that mean that the body we found may be his? May he rest in peace?”

“No,” Alfredo replied irritated. “My father gave it to my brother upon his death.”

“As you are his closest living relative, we will need to take a DNA sample from you to verify he is related to you. If so, then we’ll know for sure it’s your brother Alberto. May he rest in peace.”

“Yes, of course,” replied the old man.

Wilma withdrew inside her room. She felt dizzy. Lexy rose from the chair he had been sitting in, raced up to steady her and helped her to the edge of the bed. She threw herself onto it face down.

It was back. The past was always her present. Tragedies were the only things that defined her life. “We didn’t finish burying the chair,” she cried out through her tears. “We should’ve finished it. Or maybe we should never’ve buried it in the first place.”

“Mama,” Lexy asked, “What ish it?”

“Oh, you might as well hear it from me.” She turned around to face him. She felt queasy as if she had too much to drink and was about to throw up. She forced the sick back down. No sooner had she done so, it rose up again, this time faster than before. She leapt out of bed and dashed to the bathroom. She made it as far as the sink and the vomit blasted out of her filling the air with a stench as vile as a 3-day dead corpse, which made her throw up again and again until there was nothing left in her gut.

“Oh my God!” Lexy came into the bathroom with a look of utter bewilderment and horror.

She started to cry again. “Why do you always have to see me at my worst and my weakest moments?”

“What’sh the matter, Mommy?” he asked with concern. “Shall I go tell them to call the doctor?”

“No! No!” she responded emphatically.

Lexy helped her sit down on the toilet seat then started to clean the sink. When he finished, “That’sh better. Not shmelly anymore.” He picked up a face cloth, wet it with warm water and wiped her face clean. “Why don’t you lie down again?”

He helped her back to bed. She laid down face up. “Lexy.”

“Yesh.”

“I have to tell you something.”

“Yesh.”

“You should hear it from me.”

“What ish it?”

160 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 She glanced over at him, then looked away and up to the expansive ceiling, similar to the one she laid under when her father took her.

“That policeman who was here has found the body of my father, your grandfather. You should know I killed him.”

“You killed your father! You mean like you killed mine!”

“Not in the same way.”

“Why are you telling me thish now?”

“Because the truth will come out. It always does.”

“What truth?”

“I didn’t kill him by accident as happened with your Dad. I hope you believe that. I killed my father Alberto deliberately. I was 14.”

“Why?” he asked without flinching or showing any emotion. It was asked as if it were coming from a child, a question to satisfy curiosity. It was not aiming to apportion blame one way or the other. In fact, its phrasing implied there was no culprit. It only sought an explanation of events.

“He abused me,” she paused, “do you know what that means?”

“Of course, he molested you sexually.”

She waited for judgment.

“He deserved to die,” pronounced Lexy.

She looked at him woefully. “You’ll be the only person who’ll believe me, especially after having killed your father.”

“Don’t shay that! It wash an acchident.” He paused, “I would’ve killed your father too.”

“No, not you. You’re incapable of that.”

“I’d defend you with my life.”

“Don’t ever do that! I’m not worth it.”

“You are to me. I wish you would shtop putting yourshelf down. I’m getting tired of it.”

He went to the bathroom and came back with the face cloth again. He wiped her face and gave her some water. “Now, get shome shleep!” he ordered and left the room.

She laid there looking up at that ceiling. As much as she wanted to close her eyes, the eyelids refused to meet as if they were stuck permanently open to remind her she would never have any rest until the inevitable happened. That was why she longed for death. She knew it took a special person to kill its own flesh and blood. That explained why she was capable of rejecting Lexy upon his birth.

Her father had been perfect. She adored him. He was loving, affectionate and spent as much time as possible with his children. But then he had a flaw, which gradually became bigger and bigger, she was not even aware of it at the time until the night of her 12th birthday, when he crossed the boundary of fatherly love into incest. She loved him with all

161 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 her heart, yet she knew it was wrong. A sense of right and wrong had been deeply ingrained in her by her mother and father. This made the shock, horror and humiliation of the betrayal even greater. She told herself to accept it. To go along with it, despite the sacrifice she was making. She expected any day an angel would appear and rescue her. She never said anything to anyone about it, but somehow others must have felt what she was going through. Why didn’t they come to her aid? Why did they just stand by and watch it happen. Especially her mother, whom like her father she adored and loved.

The halo which shone brightly around his head had burnt out and no one seemed to notice. Everyone just assumed the now moody and unhappy Conchita was suffering from the effects of coming into puberty.

Her father was always extremely careful to use condoms. She even thought of poking holes in them so she would become pregnant then the nightmare would stop, but he was too clever for that. He never allowed her to put them on. How she had loved her father for his doting on her, but then he betrayed that love every time he came to her bed. She envied Lexy’s ability to see things in plain black and white. He was right in that her father deserved to die, but she always regretted killing him. She would never ever feel again fatherly love, which every child craves and misses desperately when absent.

She wanted to tell all this to Lexy, she had the need for it, but he didn’t. She wanted to tell him how she understood how he must feel about the loss of his father. How she had deprived him of that fatherly love. She was guilty even though Lexy did not judge her so. She could not understand why he did not hate her.

There was a gentle knock on the door. “Adelante!” she called out in a dreamlike state. She heard the door open, but did not look to see who it was. She knew it was time she faced her demons. They were coming to get her.

“Conchita,” it was her Aunt Octavia.

“Yes,” Wilma turned to look at her.

“Well,” muttered Octavia.

“Well, what?”

“I’ve told your Uncle. I told him your mother killed him, because of his infidelity and that she confessed it to me before her death.” She paused, “He didn’t believe me. He’ll want to hear it from you. For my sake and yours don’t tell him the truth.”

“I’ve avoided the truth all my life, but it never left me.”

“So what does it matter?”

“It’s eating me alive like a slow cancer that eventually kills its host. You must have noticed I’m a walking corpse.”

“Not to Lexy you aren’t. I can understand why you don’t trust anyone after what you’ve been through.”

“Why you did nothing to stop it? You knew, didn’t you?”

Her Aunt stood silently by her bed. She reached out and tried to take Wilma’s hand, but Wilma withdrew hers, “Please forgive me,” pleaded Octavia.

“Get out!” she shouted.

Octavia stood riveted to the spot with tears streaming down her face. It reminded Wilma of her mother repeating over and over, `I’m so ashamed.’

162 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“Get out! Get out!” she shouted.

Finally Octavia started to withdraw from the room, when the door swung open. It was Alfonso, “Estás bien, Mama?” he asked.

“I’m fine, son” she replied.

Alfonso held the door open for his mother to leave. She reluctantly slid past him sobbing, while Alfonso observed her bewildered. He called out form the doorway, “Father wants to see you, Conchita.”

“Tell him in 15 minutes.”

“No! Now!” he replied firmly.

“He’s waited 30 years, he can wait another 15 minutes. Please go fetch Lexy. I want him by my side.”

“Very well,” he said, “I tell you Papa is in the foulest mood I’ve ever seen. I hope you won’t say anything that’ll upset him even more. I see you have already upset Mama. As you know his health is bad and this could topple him over to the other side.” He slammed the door shut and walked away.

She had the urge to rush to her uncle and tell him everything, but Alfonso’s words checked her. She laid there thinking about what to say. She had always known the day of reckoning for her crime would come, but now that it had arrived she was totally unprepared. It had always been so easy to keep the truth far away while in another existence, but now that her old life had caught up to her, was she still capable of persisting with the lie against her overwhelming desire to put an end to it? Would her uncle prefer it over the truth? To live a lie was preferable, when the truth was so ugly. Even the truth was sometimes considered a lie. Her accidental killing of David was deemed untrue.

Lies were to be perpetuated, even protected, while the truth rotted in perpetuity as if it never occurred. The truth should have come to her rescue. Time and time again it failed to do so. It would evade her again as always and she would go on living a lie. It held her in its grasp like an immovable concrete foundation. An ugly carbuncle erected by humans that defied time and the elements. It would remain there long after her death just as it withstood the passing of her mother and sister. It mocked her. It betrayed her. That was the worst part. It should have been her savior, her salvation.

She needed courage, which was why she asked for Lexy. He gave it to her with uncompromising love. To tell the truth was easy. The hide it behind a curtain of lies was hard, but the lies had proven to be faithful and reliable.

Lexy came into the room without knocking. He did not understand the rules of decorum and etiquette. To him they were falsities that he neither observed nor recognized. He was transparent, naive and clumsy in his manners, yet he left no one in doubt of his sincerity and well-meaning.

“Lexy, I’ve been summoned to see Uncle Alfredo. He’s going to ask me about my father. I’m going to tell him the truth.”

Lexy came the side of her bed. He said nothing in response to her decision. He gave no hint of encouragement or objection.

She rose from her bed. Her knees nearly buckled under. Lexy reached out and propped her up. She looked at him gratefully, “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t have the courage.”

163 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 Her hands shook slightly. Lexy steadily led her out and down the corridor to her uncle’s. He opened the door without knocking. Alfredo was alone. She saw out of the window the three policemen standing by the wheelchair grave. Uncle Alfredo did not turn around to face them. They approached. “Lexy, leave us alone!”

Wilma clung more tightly to Lexy’s arm.

“No.” said Lexy in defiance. “I’ll not lweave her alwone with you.”

“Conchita tell him to leave,” he said still looking out the window. “It’s best.”

“I will not,” retorted Lexy vehemently.

“All right! Have it your way.” He spun his chair around suddenly. On his lap rested a small revolver. He picked it up and pointed it at Wilma. “Well,” he started. Wilma began to shake uncontrollably. Lexy held her firmly. He displayed no sense of fear, as if the gun was a mere toy being brandished by an overzealous child who did not realize what he was holding.

Lexy stepped in front of her. “Go on! Shoot me, if you want to kill someone.”

“No!” screamed Wilma and tried with all her strength to shove Lexy out of the way, but he held his ground.

“Tell me the truth,” her uncle demanded, “or he gets it.”

“What truth?”

“This is no time to play games, when your son’s life and yours are at stake. Ah yes, you don’t give a shit about your children.”

“You don’t know what the truth is!” She shouted back and stepped to the side to expose herself. Lexy moved in front of her again without the slightest hesitation.

“When you came here, I asked you about my brother. You lied to me.”

“I didn’t come here. You kidnapped me.”

“Yes, because I wanted to know the truth,” he hissed at her.

“What truth?” she asked again trying to get out from behind Lexy.

“What do you mean? What truth?

“Which truth do you want?”

“There’s only one truth, the rest are lies. I wouldn’t be asking for it if I knew what it were, would I?”

“You only have to open your eyes to see it. You cannot keep ignoring it.”

“You killed him, didn’t you?”

“He abused me.”

He started to laugh. It was a deep cynical laugh. “Well, well! You expect me to believe that?”

164 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “No, of course not,” she replied matter of factly. “That’s one truth you’re incapable of believing.”

“He was stabbed to death. The coroner found knife wounds on both sides of his rib cage, but you know that already. The coroner worked out from the angles of the cuts to his ribs that he must have been laying on his back or front when he was stabbed. This means that he was probably stabbed while sleeping. And there’s more, as if that was not enough, the killer then stabbed him in the neck with the same two knives. Your mother didn’t have the courage to do such a thing. I tried to tell Alberto not to marry her, but he wouldn’t listen. She was feckless.”

Lexy suddenly leapt forward surprising the old man, who was too slow to react to Lexy’s yanking of the pistol out of his hand. Lexy held the weapon by the barrel, stepped back looking utterly perplexed as if something unexpected had happened, not of his own doing. He looked at his mother with an expression of confusion as to what he should do next.

“Go on, son. Give it to her! She can kill me too.”

“Shut up!” Lexy ordered firmly.

The old man started to laugh deeply, but he was immediately seized by a ferocious coughing fit that was choking him. His face turned purple from the lack of air.

Lexy took a step toward his mother as if he were going to hand her the gun, then stopped, took it by the handle and pointed it at Uncle Alfredo. This gesture halted the fit and Alfredo took a deep breath.

“I wasn’t going to shoot you. You see the policemen out there?” he gestured with his head toward the window, “I asked them to wait before arresting you so I could ask you about my brother first. You’ll be interrogated and convicted of your father’s murder. There’ll be no mercy for you, especially considering your past. And if they fail to convict you for the murder of my brother, they will extradite you to the US, where you will serve out your sentence there.”

“No!” shouted Lexy.

She felt the long awaited relief had arrived at last, but Lexy’s distress concerned her. She feared he might do something dangerous for all of them.

“We’re lweaving,” announced Lexy. It was more of a command than a statement. Wilma looked perplexed, not knowing what to do.

“C’mon!” he urged her.

“Give me the gun,” she tried to say calmly, but her voice quivered.

“No!” he replied emphatically. He approached the door. At the point of reaching for the handle, the door swung open wide. Alfonso was stunned to see Lexy standing there with the pistol in his hand.

“Madre mía!” he exclaimed.

Lexy too was surprised to see his cousin there. He stepped back pointing the gun at Alfonso. Alfredo called out, “Let them go! They won’t get far.”

Alfonso stepped out of the way. Lexy and Wilma rushed out of the room. Lexy kept calling out to his mother to hurry up. They reached the courtyard with the fountains spewing up water in a steady rhythm then falling back down with gentle calming splashes. They did not soothe her as they normally did. Instead, she felt her guts were boiling with trepidation. Just when she thought it was going to be over, the nightmare began again. Her only wish now was that

165 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 Lexy should come to no harm. “Lexy!” she called out. “Stop! I want to turn myself in.” The boy ran back to her, picked her up with one arm, as if she were a doll and ran out of the courtyard. He placed her in the back of the same black van that had whisked them out of Utah more than a year earlier, settled her in, climbed into the driver’s seat. They keys were in the ignition. He started up the motor and sped away from the house toward the back exit of the compound.

As he neared it, he pressed the remote control and the doors swung open. He raced through the gate and he sped along the dirt track as fast as the van would go.

“The police are following us,” announced Lexy.

“You’d better stop, Lexy, This is very dangerous.”

“No!” he refused firmly.

“What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” he cried out flustered.

“We won’t get away. We have nowhere to go.” She pleaded, “Lexy, let me just turn myself in.”

“No!” he replied.

Suddenly on the horizon appeared three police cars with their blue lights flashing. “Lexy!” she called out.

“C’mon, just stop. You’ll get yourself killed. It’s not worth it for my sake. I don’t want anyone hurt on my account, especially you.”

“No!” came back his firm reply. “You’re not going to prison and they’re not going to kill you. They’ll have to kill me first.”

“Oh Lexy, please! Don’t make things worse!”

“Me!” he responded hurt. “I’m trying to shave you. Don’t you undershtand dhat?”

Lexy pressed harder on the accelerator continuing on his direct collision course with the oncoming police cars. The police car behind them was on the point of catching up with them, its blaring angry siren was giving Wilma a headache. As the car behind them closed in on them, Lexy pressed down harder on the accelerator, ignoring completely that he was on a collision course with three police cars coming the other way. He was gripping the steering wheel so tightly that his hands turned a light purple.

Suddenly the cars heading toward him stopped. The two leading cars formed a V shaped wedge in the road. The third car parked behind them at the point of the V, in case Lexy tried to blast through the first two cars, then the third one would be unavoidable. Two officers got out with long-range sharp shooter rifles and positioned themselves behind the car with their weapons pointing at them.

“They’re going to kill us,” shouted Wilma.

Lexy said nothing. He kept the vehicle going forward fast. The police car behind them slowed down in order to avoid being caught up in the van crashing into the roadblock or being hit by a stray bullet. Suddenly behind the roadblock, a trail of dust rose from the road, as if a tornado was racing toward them. The policemen with their guns pointed at the van, seemed oblivious to it. Lexy slowed down. “Stop!” Wilma shouted.

166 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 The police car behind them stopped. Lexy too stopped about 100 yards from the roadblock. Suddenly the two policemen with the long range rifles turned around to face the other way, toward the trail of dust. Wilma squinted her eyes to try to see better. There were two black pickup trucks at the head of the dust trail. As they came closer she discerned grenade rocket launchers mounted on their beds. She had seen them in Ladrillo’s hangar, where he kept his planes and racecars.

Before another thought entered her head a rocket whizzed past them and just missed hitting the police car behind them. Its driver turned it around and sped off in the other direction. Another rocket went past them and this time it exploded in front of the retreating police car. The driver swerved to the right, lost control of the car and it flipped over onto its back and slid along for 50 yards. Wilma heard another explosion, which this time came from the cars in front of them. She turned around to look as she saw a big black ball of smoke rise into the air with flames blasting out of one of the cars. Then another rocket hit the second car in front of them. Lexy laughed out aloud. The two men who had positioned themselves as the sharp shooters jumped into their car and reversed it, then drove forward as fast as they could through the two burning cars. Their car headed straight for the Van. Lexy took his foot off the brake pedal and pushed down as hard as he could on the accelerator on a straight-line collision course for the last police car. Just as they were about to smash into each other the police car, swerved to the left to go around the van, and continued on its way. The escaping police car had created a gap between the two burning cars and Lexy drove straight through it.

A few seconds later they reached the two black pickup trucks. One of them stopped and the other continued on its way in pursuit of the runaway police car. Lexy stopped too. Ladrillo was sitting in the passenger seat. He got out and told Lexy to move over and let him drive.

Lexy looked relieved and gladly let Ladrillo take over. The remaining pickup truck went ahead of them with the van following at full speed.

“Son of bitch Capt. Morales,” cursed Ladrillo. “I figured he was coming to arrest you. On the way to the wheelchair funeral, I found the road blocked. I was on my way to stop him from doing so. And here I find you. It seems that I was late, but not too late. How did you get away?” He asked and before they could answer, “How in the hell did you think you would get away with it?”

“We didn’t,” replied Wilma. “We had no idea what we were doing?”

Ladrillo laughed. “That is so Mexican.”

They reached a paved road and Ladrillo drove even faster. Twenty minutes later, there was a sign that read: “Playa Bagdad.” Soon they were driving through a verdant delta with water on both sides of the road. After about 15 minutes he turned into an unmarked a bumpy dirt path, which he followed until they reached a large flat body of water where there was a long narrow boat with a large outboard motor mounted on the back.

He hopped out, “Quick!” he ordered them to move out of the van and into the boat.

Ladrillo steadied the boat while Wilma and Lexy climbed over the front bow and sat down. Then Ladrillo along with two of his men from the black pickup truck pushed it out into the water. “Don’t worry!” He shouted after them, “Miguel will look after you.”

Before Wilma could say anything, Miguel started the motor. The noise made it impossible for her to say anything to Ladrillo. Miguel reversed the boat out and as he did so, spun it around, put it into forward and twisted the throttle on the long handle all the way. The craft jolted forward nearly knocking her off her seat. She had to hold on with both hands. She could not even turn around to take one last look at Ladrillo.

Lexy said something to her, but she could not hear him. He threw her a life vest and motioned for her to put it on.

167 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 Miguel knew his way around the delta and navigated every turn with just the right speed. After what seemed like nearly an hour, Miguel plunged the boat into the open sea of the Gulf of Mexico. Unlike the calm flat waters of the delta, here there were sea swells and the boat bounced over them hard lifting her off her seat each time it jumped over a wave. She held tightly with both hands the wooden plank she sat on, fear gripping her and making her sweat so that she was soaking wet from the inside. Lexy on the other hand was enjoying the ride and bouncing up and down with the rhythm of the swells. Ahead she spotted a small yacht when the boat bounced up in the air as if it was about to fly. Then the yacht disappeared again as their small boat went behind the waves. Eventually they neared the yacht and Miguel slowed down, pulled up alongside it. A rope was thrown down to him. He tied it to the boat. A large bucket was lowered down and Miguel motioned for her to get into it. She looked helplessly at Miguel, when Lexy understood her predicament. He climbed into the basket, then motioned for her to grab his arms and he pulled her into the basket.

Two crew members helped them out of the basket once it was on board and one of them led them into the galley below deck, where they were met by Ronaldo Herrero who grinned at them broadly. “So glad to see you again,” he greeted them.

Wilma felt her stomach sink below her knees, she wobbled and had to grab hold of Lexy to maintain her balance.

“You didn’t expect to see me, did you?”

“You’re the last person I want to see. I’d rather see my executioner,” retorted Wilma.

“Not until you tell me your story,” said Herrero. “I’m your ticket out of here.” Wilma felt the yacht start to sail. “If you prefer to stay, be my guest. You can jump overboard. I won’t stop you.”

“Where you taking us?” demanded Lexy.

“To Cuba. The US cannot touch you there, but,” he paused, “your mother has to tell me her story. The whole truth and nothing but the truth.” He glanced over at Wilma. “The network will pay you half a million dollars for it. You have to agree to be televised.”

“You take ush to Cuba,” Lexy wanted confirmed, “You don’t turn ush in.”

“No, I won’t.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Wilma. She turned around and climbed the stairs leading back up to the deck.

“Leah and Fabian will be waiting for you in Cuba,” called out Herrero after her.”

Wilma stopped, turned around and came back down the stairs. “Oh, I see. This is all about network ratings. You get the whole family.”

“Don’t you want to be reunited with your children?” he asked.

“Are you recording this too?”

“No. Not without your consent.”

“How did you find me?”

“I found your father’s body, which led me to you. I know he was stabbed in both sides of his rib cage. I checked it out with our crime reporter, who consulted with a coroner and determined that the murderer would have been under his

168 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 victim when he,” he paused, “or should I say, she struck. The Mexican police are quite sure you’re the culprit. What I want to know, is why you did it?”

She approached him calmly and coolly, looked up to meet his eyes. He was a foot taller than her. She studied his face, she wanted to impress in her memory his countenance of insincerity, how it could be so blatant and conceited.

“All my life I’ve wanted to tell what happened to me. I would’ve done it freely and gladly. To get the truth you offer me money, as if it could be bought when all else failed to reveal it. I already confessed to my uncle.”

“But you have not done so publicly. I want the public to hear your story. I am sure you did not kill your father on a whim. The money is to help you make a new life in Cuba for you and Lexy.”

“That’s hollow compensation.”

“I know nothing can make up for the misery you suffered, but the time has come for you to tell your side of the story.”

“So I can be judged by the masses?”

“You’ve become a celebrity in the US. I’ve not let the public forget you.”

“Of course not, it makes you money.”

“The public is genuinely interested in your plight and that of Lexy’s of course. Leah and Fabian have had no respite from the press hounds who stalk them, hoping they will catch you making contact with them. You’ve been living here in total isolation away from it all. Your children have suffered. I have witnessed how it has worn them down. Their grades at school have suffered. Their personal lives are, well, let’s just say they can’t confide in anyone, lest they turn out to be journalists. Your escape has prolonged the story, made it more intriguing.”

“I’m not aloof to what’s been going on. I’ve followed the radio and TV news.”

“But you’ve only seen and heard what the press tell the public. You haven’t seen the effects it’s had on your children.

“They’ll be there to meet me in Cuba?”

“Yes.”

“How can I trust you?”

“I have more to gain by keeping you a fugitive.”

“Won’t you be arrested for perverting the course of justice and for harboring a fugitive? I could turn myself in and you…”

“Yes , you could, but I’m counting on your desire to live out your life out of prison. To be with your son Lexy. Once you tell your story, it won’t matter anymore what the public think. You’ll have unlocked the truth. You’ll be free of it and be able to change your life for the better.”

“Mommy,” Lexy called out to her.

She turned around to look at him.

“Shr. Herrero, can you lweave ush alwone to talk?”

169 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

“Of course,” he replied and started to go up to the deck.

“Just one thing, Herrero,” Wilma called out to him. “Who helped you arrange this getaway to Cuba?”

He turned around and looked at her with a smile on his face. “Two men, who love you very much. Your cousin Alfonso was going to kill me to protect you, but fortunately I persuaded him that I could help you escape if the police ever caught up with you and they did, didn’t they?” He turned around and continued on his way up to the deck.

“Mama,” Lexy said using the Spanish term for mother.

“Sí, hijo.”

“He’s asking you to confess all to him. Do you think that’s wise?

“That’s not the question for me.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Lexy with his eyebrows raised with his eyes looking up, but his head bent down slightly.

“The question for me is whether it is what I need to do. The consequences can’t be any worse than they’ve been already.”

“So you must tell your whole story.”

“Yes, I must, but Uncle Alfredo is not going to like it being made so public.”

“He should have believed you,” reflected Lexy.

“You’re so right, son.”

“Then don’t tell Herrero anything until we’re in Cuba, we have the money and we’re safe. Don’t forget there’s shtill a million dollar reward for your capture.”

She walked up to him and wrapped her arms around him. She wept.

“I’m going to ask Herrero for one million dollarsh.”

She started to laugh deeply while still holding him. Lexy giggled.

“It’s good to see you happy. Soon we’ll be with Leah and Fabian. We’ll be a family.”

She released him. “Maybe,” she said dubiously.

“Shr. Herrero!” Lexy called up the stairs.

“Yes,” he came down.

“Okay, but $1 million and not half and it goes into an account in my name. Once you honor your part, you’ll get what you want.”

“A million!” He looked surprised. “My editor is not going to like it one bit.” He took in a deep breath through his teeth. “OK, but I want to know everything. I mean everything. You will not hold back anything. You will get half a

170 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 million up front, which we will put into a safety deposit bank and the other half you will get after the interview and only if I am sure that you have told me the whole story. Is that agreed Mrs. Henshaw?”

Wilma glanced at Lexy. The boy shook his head affirmatively. “Agreed,” she said. “It will be relief to tell everything. Your editor will have a story that will run for a long time.”

“Shake on it?” Herrero outstretched his arm to Wilma. She shook his hand.

Herrero turned to Lexy. “I was warned not to underestimate you.”

Wilma giggled. Lexy did too. Herrero smiled and said to Lexy, “I have a little surprise for you my friend when we get to Cuba.”

“Ooh, I like surprishes,” said Lexy. “Don’t tell me, a Ferrari?”

“You’ll see. Make yourselves comfortable. We’re in for a long trip to Havana.”

They came into Havana Harbor at night. The city lights thrilled Wilma. She had not seen any in a long time. Civilization was calling out to her, to join back in with the multitudes. She hoped here she could eventually become anonymous, but with Lexy at her side, she knew it would be problematic. He always attracted attention wherever he went despite others efforts to disguise their interest in him. At first he was treated as a freak, then an oddity and eventually people were amused by his effervescent personality and even enthralled by his overly optimistic outlook. In spite of his handicap he inspired all around him. It was impossible then to feel sorry for him. Rather admiration took over.

Lexy too was on deck observing the twinkling lights. During their journey he learned everything he could from the Captain about sailing the big boat and navigation. He became part of the crew and he was allowed to captain the yacht on several occasions. The Captain even offered him a permanent post on his crew, if he wanted it.

Cuba, the only Latin American country that had defied the mighty USA for so long remained a thorn in the side of the Americans. Cuba was isolated and embargoed for simply wanting to be free of capitalists’ influences. Wilma instinctively felt she would be at home here. She was going to be a blot on the American justice system by having eluded its almighty power and of commuting the sentence deemed legitimate by her courts and ruled by a pretentious morality that elevated itself above truth. A truth she was about to reveal, but in no way could excuse or even overturn the judgment sentenced upon her. She felt she had the right to defy American law, because she was innocent just like Cuba.

She came up to Lexy and put her arms around his shoulders. “You know what?” she said.

“What?”

“You’ll be able to kite surf there. You won’t be imprisoned with me. I want you to make your life independently of me.”

“You need me, Mama.”

“Of course, I do. I know that only too well, but you must live your own life.”

“I am. Don’t you worry about me! I couldn’t be happier.”

“I know, but keep in mind what I’m telling you. You’re a grown man. As much as I would like to have you around, I also want to see you achieve your dreams. You can’t do that with a fugitive.”

171 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 “We’ll shee about dhat,” he said and threw his arm around her shoulder. “I can make my life without you, but I’d prefer you being part of it.”

“Me too,” she said.

The yacht moored. They were led off and into a waiting 1957 Chevrolet Impala. Lexy immediately began to ask the driver about the car. He’d never seen anything like it. They drove through the dimly lit deserted city streets to a tall block of apartments in the center of Havana. They were led into it and took an old elevator with manual doors up to the top floor.

The apartment was spacious, with marble floors, tall corniced ceilings, solid stained wooden doors throughout, sumptuously furnished and with a staff of two to attend them. At the front of the apartment was a large terrace looking out to sea. Lexy rushed to it. “Thish ish beautifool.” He exclaimed.

Wilma followed him. For the first time since 12 she felt light of heart, a heady feeling as if she were floating on the silver lining of a cloud.

“Tomorrow,” said Herrero, “we start the interviews. I’ll tell Leah and Fabian they can come up to see you now.” He closed the door behind him.

She wanted to shout out, “No, wait! I’m not ready,” but it was too late. He had vanished like a ghost, who promised mischief. She stood in the hallway unable to move as if the words Leah and Fabian had frozen her solid to the spot. She didn’t know how long she had remained like that until she heard a gentle knock coming from the front door. One of the servants started to go toward it to open the door, but Lexy rushed past him and flung it open wide. Leah greeted him first by throwing her arms around him, while sobbing. Fabian stood behind her with his hands in his pockets looking at the ground nervously.

Leah released him and rushed forward to her mother. Fabian raised his hand waving Hello to Lexy and brushed past him. That’s when Beatrice came into view. Wilma squeezed Leah and Fabian close to her. Tears were pouring down her cheeks.

Wilma looked up and saw that neither Lexy nor Beatrice had moved toward each other. Leah and Fabian turned around. Beatrice stood in front of Lexy looking into his face. Lexy stared back without saying a word. His tongue for a change was stuck.

“Kiss me!” Beatrice burst out with a joyful sob. He stepped forward, threw his arms around her, picked her up off her feet, twirled her around like a doll, then placed her down and stuck his lips gently and carefully to hers.

“Never again ask permission to kiss or touch me!”

“Then I’ll kiss you all the time.”

“I hope so,” she replied ecstatically, grabbed his face with both hands and resumed kissing him.

Wilma wrapped her arms around Leah and Fabian. It was good to hold them in her arms. She had thought she would never ever have such moments with them again.

“Mommy,” burst out Leah between tears. “Please forgive us.”

“Sshh,” she calmed her. “There’s nothing to forgive. I’m the one who’s sorry. Sorry for the grief I caused you. I’ve been so wrapped up in myself, I couldn’t see what I was doing to you.”

172 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 Fabian said nothing. He just clung to his mother like a small child unwilling to let go of his mother. Lexy cleared his throat from behind them. They looked at him. He held his arms out for his siblings. Leah released her mother and allowed herself to be engulfed by Lexy. Fabian still clung to his mother. Lexy gave his sister his signature bear hug and squeezed her close to his chest. Eventually he let go and Fabian knew it was his turn. “Come to your big brother!” ordered Lexy. Fabian reservedly let go of Wilma and Lexy overwhelmed him. It reminded him of the grandiose bear hugs he used to get from his father. Tears welled up in his eyes and his body shook imperceptibly, but Wilma noticed it.

“Oh Honey,” she called out to him. She only ever used that term of endearment with his father. This made him sob out loudly. Lexy patted him on the back sympathetically. Even Beatrice began to cry. Leah went up to her and wrapped her arms around her. Wilma felt her heart would burst with joy. She wanted to sing out like a bird released from a lifelong cage. Her newly formed wings were unsure where they would take her and for how long. Was this all a figment of her imagination? Would she have her wings clipped again? Was happiness just a brief flight of fancy? A momentary glimpse of what heaven has in store for her. Like a soap bubble that floats to her then bursts upon touch.

“Let’s go out to the terrace,” suggested Wilma. “It’s a beautiful night.”

Leah followed her first, “Mommy, you should know that Fabian and I withdrew the reward to find you, but the State of Utah reinstated it.”

“No need to explain. I would’ve done the same in your place.”

“We didn’t know what to think when you disappeared. The police told us you had escaped. I know now from Herrero that this was not the case.”

“No need to explain,” she reiterated. “I behaved terribly. I was out of control. You can’t imagine how guilty I’ve felt for what I’ve done. It’s unforgivable. I should’ve been punished for it properly.”

“Yes, we felt that at the time.”

“What caused the change of heart?”

“I don’t know. I can’t explain it. You’re our mother.”

“So you forgive me any trespass?”

Leah did not respond. Fabian put his arm around Wilma. “No, of course not. At least I can’t, even though father never accepted me for what I am. But you’re our mother. You’re the reason we’re here.”

“Any man or woman can have children, but it’s another thing to bring them up. I was not a good mother to you. I know that now and I’ll try to make it up to you.”

“Don’t say that!” said Fabian.

“I’ve been learning from Lexy how to live life without regrets. I still have a long way to go. I’m learning to accept things for what they are without judging. It’s not been easy.”

“What will you do, Mom?” asked Fabian

“She will lwive with me,” replied Lexy, “for as long as she wants.”

“We’ll see,” she said dubiously, while looking at Beatrice who clung to his side.

173 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

The next morning at 7 a.m. Herrero arrived to take them to Banco Nueva Republica which was called Banco Colonial before the revolution. They were to go there before the official opening time in order to be as discrete as possible. The bank was built in Art Deco style with tall angular stone columns carved with long sleek lines rounded at the top and old fashioned cashiers windows with wooden frames and counters. They resembled the old juke boxes of the 1950s. Sounds ricocheted around the expansive room. Their footsteps rebounded on the marble floor inlaid with motifs of pink and yellow tobacco flowers planted in trays in the shape of cigars with bees and tiny white butterflies hovering over them. “Bienvenidos!” greeted them an effusive bald young man with a thick moustache that went all the across his face. “Sr. Herrero, so nice to see you again,” he said with a perfect Floridian accent, without the slightest hint of Hispanic twinge, typical of American Cubans.

“So honored to have your custom mi Excelentisíma Dama Conchita y Excelentisímo Don Alejandro,” he beamed at Wilma. He led them to the safe room. It had a single door three feet wide and at least 4 feet thick. It was already open. In fact, it looked like it was never shut. “Ah yes,” he remarked at they went through it. “The keys were lost during the revolution, but in our Havana there’s no need for them. Your money is perfectly safe here. This is the safest city in the World. He took out of his pocket two keys and handed her one. “This one is yours to keep.” He directed her to insert it into deposit box 1327. He placed the other key in the lock and turned both keys counter clockwise. “I will wait just outside while you open it and look inside. After you lock it, you must return to me the bank’s key.” Wilma opened door and took out a small drawer. Herrero directed her to a small table in the middle of the room. She opened it and counted 50 stacks of $10,000 in $100 bills. She took out two stacks totaling $20,000 and locked the contents up again. She gave her key to Lexy and handed the other to the clerk on their way out.

After lunch Herrero arrived at their suite with the film crew consisting of Joey operating the camera, Matt on lighting and sound along with Mike the director and Sally the make-up girl. Wilma was finding it difficult to maintain her composure with all those people arranging and directing her.

Finally Herrero sat on the large leather white couch next to her with a big white curtain behind them to disguise any clue as to where they were.

“So, Mrs. Henshaw, would you like to go to prison?” was his first question. It was too much and she burst into tears. Herrero looked at her coldly not even offering her a tissue to wipe her tears. There was no sympathy forthcoming. To deal with him she had to put on her hard and cold exterior, but it was not as easy as it used to be. He just stared at her without saying a word. She sensed that even his crew found it unnerving. Sally started to cry too. Mike motioned her to leave the room. Lexy sat out of sight of the camera lens with his head bent down, wearing his cap with the big brim, which prevented Wilma from seeing his face.

It took her at least two minutes to compose herself. She re-arranged her hair, held up her head, but her eyes were still blood red, but she was determined to carry on.

“That’s where I should be, isn’t it?”

“You’re a felon on the run with a price on your head.”

“I’m not sure which is worse. What would you do in my shoes?” she posed to Herrero humbly, but he knew there was no humility in her words. He was going to have to do better, she told herself, it he wants to get under her skin.

“Nobody likes prison, Mrs. Henshaw.”

“There are worse fates, believe me.”

“Oh, like killing your husband and abandoning your children,” he said without any reserve aiming to unsettle her again.

174 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 She looked at him hard, straight in the eye. Mike, the director, instructed Joey, the cameraman, to zoom in close on her face until it filled the viewer screen.

“Have you ever experienced abuse, Mr. Herrero?”

“Is that something you have experienced with yourself, Mrs. Henshaw?”

“Yes,” she replied. “I’m being abused right now.”

“Oh, C’mon, Mrs. Henshaw. I’m asking questions and you’re not giving me answers.”

“No, Mr. Herrero, you’re not asking, you’re judging. You’re putting across your opinion. You think your provocative questioning can make me breakdown so you can show off how clever you are. You think you can manipulate me like the ordinary troubled souls on your show.”

“You’re troubled,” he pronounced, “deeply.”

“Not anymore,” she said.

“I see,” he said seeming surprised, “but you should be. You’re either a prisoner or a fugitive. Neither is a way to live.”

“It’s better than what I had before. I lived in a virtual jail. Do you know what that’s like? Do you have any notion of what’s it’s like when there’s no real physical prison? Do you know the weight of oppression that is inescapable? That holds you when you’re not supposed to be contained by one. Only you see yourself there. No one else does. No one to sympathize with you. No one to visit you. No one to help you escape. No way to appeal your sentence, no lawyer, no court, just an unbearable prison that is a far worse than Hell itself.

He stared back at her, “Do you know what it’s like to be dead without living? Do you know what bitterness dwells within that overpowers love so completely that you wish you were dead?” She paused. “No, of course not. You’ve always preyed on those who have had a taste of what I’ve had, exploiting their weaknesses to make you money. You’re a pathetic pariah who derives a perverted pleasure from seeing others suffer.”

“You’ve got me wrong. My subjects find my techniques, harsh as they are, help them overcome their problems by bringing them out in the open.”

“Oh, yes, like you exploiting me, by driving me to a rage of jealously that led to the death of my husband.”

“Oh, you can’t weasel out of that and put the blame on me. I didn’t know you went around carrying a loaded gun in your handbag.

“You should take responsibility for your actions, Mr. Herrero. They have led to terrible consequences, completely out of your control by employing inciting tactics. How do you know I haven’t got a gun under my leg now and I’m about to shoot you.” She reached under her left leg with her right hand. Herrero leapt on her and tried to grab her hand. Lexy leapt up, wrested the sound boom out of Matt’s hand and bashed Herrero over the head knocking him out.

“Oh my God!” Wilma leapt up hysterical. There was no sign of any gun or weapon, where she had been sitting.

“Just brilliant!” screamed Mike, a short bald man with a muscular physique. Wilma was not sure whether he was pleased or not. “Keep filming!” he shouted to Joey, who had taken his eye from the viewfinder. “This is fucking brilliant!” Mike shouted.

Lexy looked up from under the brim of his hat and said commandingly, “None of that language here!”

175 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 Wilma bent over Herrero to examine him. She touched the back of his head and felt a wet, sticky substance. It was blood. She withdrew her hand by reflex and all could see it was red.

“Holy shit!” cried out Mike, who at last seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation. He turned to Lexy, “What the fuck have you done, you fucking lunatic?”

“None of that language!” shouted Lexy angrily. Mike pushed past him and shoved Wilma to one side. “Jesus Christ!” He hesitated, lost about what to do. Joey put his camera down and ran over to his aid. “For fuck’s sake, Joey, I told you don’t stop filming. Matt is the sound still on?”

Sally heard the commotion and ran back in to the room. “Oh my God!” she exclaimed. “Move out of the way!” she ordered Mike. She felt the side of Herrero’s neck for a pulse, “Well, at least he’s alive,” she said looking crossly at Wilma. “Call an ambulance!” she shouted. “Mike!” she commanded the director, but before he could respond, Lexy jumped in, “I’ll help,” he offered.

“Help me lay him face down on the couch. Bring me a towel!” she shouted to Lexy.

They laid him out. She checked to make sure his nose and mouth were not blocked and breathing normally. Lexy handed her a towel. By then blood was oozing steadily out of the base of the back of his head. She pressed the towel to the source of the bleeding in order to stem it, hoping it would coagulate.

“I didn’t mean to,” said Lexy apologetically.

“What did you expect hitting him like that?” Mike questioned him.

“He shouldn’t have attacked my mother.”

“He thought she was going to shoot him.”

“I was just trying to scare him,” said Wilma. “It’s all my fault. Trouble follows me around.” She realized she was still being filmed. “Turn off the camera!” she ordered.

“No!” screamed Mike. “I want the whole thing on film.”

“Then leave me out of it,” said Wilma and started to leave the room. Mike grabbed her by the arm as she brushed past him. He stopped her. “This interview is not over until I say so.”

Lexy grabbed Mike’s arm firmly with which he held Wilma and squeezed it hard. But Mike did not even flinch. “Lwet her go!” ordered Lexy.

“Let her go, Mike!” called out Sally.

“Oh man. I’m not about to fight a mongoloid and his mother,” and released her.

Wilma spat in his face and walked away. Lexy released Mike, “Shervesh you right.”

“This’s a whoozy doozy one Ron’s picked her. I hope that son of a bitch doesn’t die on us.”

These words made Wilma stop dead. She felt as if she were about to implode then and there and vanish into thin air like an air bubble bursting. She felt Lexy’s strong arms steady her as she began to swoon. The room went round and round in slow motion, then fast, but never at normal speed. It floated it around her as if she were the fulcrum on which all its weight stressed to the breaking point. Any moment it would pulverize her into dust and the wind would scatter her ending up in a heap in a forgotten corner. But nothing so dreadful happened as Lexy once again rescued

176 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 her and led her firmly to a nearby couch and helped her lie down. She closed her eyes momentarily just to stop the endless spinning. Even with them shut the energy of the motion compelled her to follow its rhythm in her prone position, semi-conscious trance enticing her to remain in a dizzying state of aimlessness that characterized her life especially since her abduction. She could no longer envision any purpose for it other than to please herself and Lexy, which for her were forbidden fruit. She stopped fighting the swirling current and let herself go with it. It seemed to go on for an eternity until she was roused out of her deranged drowsiness by the sound of approaching sirens. “Oh my God!” she snapped her eyes open. ‘He must be dead by now,’ she thought.

Lexy’s face loomed over her with a countenance of a worried husband watching his wife dying after having given birth to their first born. “Is he dead?”

“No, he’sh going in and out of consciousnesshnessh.”

“Oh thank God!” she exclaimed.

She rose unsteadily to her feet assisted by Lexy. She went to look at Herrero. “I hope he’ll be all right,” she said to Sally.

“He’ll be fine. A few stiches should do it.”

Suddenly Wilma heard the front double doors to the apartment open with a loud bang. She looked up and saw three armed men with small automatic weapons rush in. The two servants were nowhere to be seen. The men wore all black with black boots. They were young men, perhaps U.S. Navy seals she had seen on so many occasions in San Diego, where they trained them. They had handsome faces, but wore expressions of seriousness of purpose and it was obvious they would not be deterred in their mission. There was no choice but to submit to them. She looked at Mike who stood there looking helpless, for he too knew there was no point opposing them.

However Lexy had not grasped the gravity of their predicament. He reached for the sound boom, but one of the armed men intercepted him instantly. He tried to kick him, but he sidestepped him deftly. He took hold of one arm while his partner took the other and they taped his wrists together behind his back, then ran tape across his mouth. They lifted him off his feet and carried him out of the room, while the third man took hold of Wilma by the arm gripping her like a vice. She writhed in pain from his grasp. He went up to Joey with his gun pointing at him. He motioned to him to hand over the camera. Joey looked over to Mike as if asking for permission; in that instant of hesitation the armed man smashed Joey’s hand with his gun.

“Ouch!” called out Joey as the camera flew out of his hand. The man picked up the camera with the same hand he held his weapon and with the other dragged Wilma out.

As they reached the landing, they headed for the stairs. Just as she was about to be taken the same route as Lexy who preceded her, the elevator doors opened and therein appeared an ambulance crew with a gurney. The looked puzzled at the sight that greeted them. One shouted out, “¡Llama a la policía!” Call the police!

“Shit!” muttered the man dragging her.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Keep your mouth shut!” He ordered. They ran down the stairs. At the bottom they were greeted by another armed man, who opened the door, looked down the alleyway, then motioned. An old yellow VW van with its windows all blacked out pulled up. They climbed in and drove off.

They bound Lexy’s feet. “Where are you taking us?” Wilma questioned them.

“Home, sweet home, sweetheart,” replied the man who had dragged her down. “To face justice.”

177 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017

She started to laugh. She couldn’t help it. Her life was turning into a surreal farce and she was the hapless clown. The three men in the back of the van looked at her bemused. They did not join in in the laughter.

The man who had been waiting at the bottom of the stairs jumped into the driver’s seat and they drove away.

Lexy was groaning. “Is it necessary to bind his mouth?” she asked pleadingly.

“I suppose not,” said the leader. He nodded to the man nearest to Lexy to remove the tape. With one quick rapid movement he pulled it off. Lexy reflexively yelled out, “Ouch!” but then checked himself. “You fucking bastardsh!” he cursed. Wilma had never heard such foul words from him before today. She felt proud of him. It made her laugh again. Lexy looked at her perplexed.

“Oh, son!” she said. “It’s wonderful when you’re angry.”

“You find it funny?” asked one of their captors.

She said nothing, then began to laugh again when she saw the look of bewilderment on Lexy’s face.

“What’s so funny?” the man asked again agitated. “You’re gonna spend the rest of your life in jail and you laugh.”

“Would you rather I cried?” she asked.

“It’s what I would’ve expected. It would be normal under the circumstances.” He paused, but then again there’s nothing normal about you.”

Lexy broke out laughing. “Nothing normal.” He repeated after their kidnapper. “Nothing normal,” but this time jeering like. “Nothing normal,” he stressed again making a face that exaggerated his Down’s Syndrome features. “Nothing normal,” and he roared with laughter.

Wilma too couldn`t help but laugh. Their kidnappers’ faces remained stern and serious. They were there to do a job, not to make judgments one way or another. Suddenly their van was struck hard from behind. They all lurched forward like bowling pins being hit by a fast moving bowling ball. Brakes were squealing and metal was crunching. Their van came to an abrupt stop when it slammed into a large truck in front of them. The rear end bounced up in the air.

“What the …!” one of the men started to scream, but the expletive did not breach her ears as she was hurled forward under the bench going all the way across to the front of the van ending up with her head against the pedals. There was no sign of the driver who was perched earlier on the bench above. The pedals popped out of their place knocking her on the back of her head. She reached for the steering column and held onto it, but it slipped out of her hands and catapulted out of the roof along with the steering wheel. Just as the rear wheels bounced back down to the ground, another vehicle struck it from behind wedging it in place. The bench snapped, lifted up and was thrown out of the front window, which had already been shattered with the initial impact. She clung to the holes in the floor where the brake and clutch pedals had been.

Their kidnappers were all lying in a heap on top of each other. From behind them popped up Lexy. Even with his hands tied around the back he managed to reach for a knife one of the men had strapped to his lower leg, pulled it out, and deftly cut the bindings off his legs, then turned it around and freed his wrists.

“Vámonos! Rápido!” “she heard shouting coming from outside with Mexican accents. The voice was vaguely familiar. One of the men approached the van and looked in through the shattered side window. He held an automatic weapon in his hands. “Sólo queremos la mujer,” shouted an unseen voice. We only want the woman.

178 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 She tried to keep out of sight. The doors were jammed shut from the impact. “Grab the fucking woman!” she heard the leader call out again. It was José. Uncle Alfredo’s henchman.

“She’s not here,” shouted the man over his shoulder.

“The fuck she ain’t,” José screamed back. “I want that million dollar cunt you dickhead. She’s in there. Climb in there and bring her out or I’ll feed your balls to my rotweiler.”

The man handed his gun over to one of his comrades who stood behind him and climbed in through the now missing side windows. Glass was everywhere. As the man climbed in, Lexy leapt up wielding a large hunting knife, which Wilma figured he had taken off one of the Navy seals and stabbed him in the chest. Hijo de …” the man started to say, but did not finish the sentence and fell over dead. Lexy grabbed one of the automatic weapons, lying next to one of the Navy seals and fired at the men outside.

A volley of automatic gunfire rained back into the van hitting several of their American kidnappers inside.

“Stop shooting!” called out José. “You dickheads, I want that fucking cunt alive.”

Wilma lifted her head and saw Lexy lying on the floor behind the heap of the three kidnappers and the Mexican. He laid on his back with the gun in his shaking hands.

José called out, “Listen gringos, we just want the woman, give her to us and no one will be harmed.”

“No,” screamed back Lexy.

“You can’t escape. Either we take her alive or dead. If dead, you’ll be dead too.”

“No,” screamed out Lexy again.

“What do you mean no? You dickhead. Wilma rose and grabbed a machine gun off one of the kidnappers.

“We’re staying here in Cuba,” screamed Lexy.

“Listen Lexy, don’t be stupid. We don’t want to hurt you or your mother,” called out José. “Is your mother OK?”

Lexy rose to his knees. His mother looked at him. She rose too and together they let rip a volley of machine gunfire, then threw themselves to the floor. Wilma reached for another gun and so did Lexy, then they were hit by a barrage of machine gunfire that tore through the thin metal of the old van turning it into shrapnel, which flew along with the bullets all around them and into them. Lexy cried out, so did Wilma.

Total quiet ensued, the same she had experienced when she fell out of the wheelchair and thought she had died. This time she was dead or at least dying. She felt searing points of pain all over her body. Then out of this utter silence she heard sirens which at first sounded like distant seagulls squawking coming in from the sea looking for a safe place to bed down for the night. As they neared, the sound became more like that of a Georgian chant praising the Lord and calling out to Him to take her into His Kingdom. By the time the sirens reached their spot, she heard them no more, she knew then, she had at last reached the destination she had coveted for so long. She was engulfed by weightless peace that lifted her up gently and carefully as if she were a precious and fragile crystal. Her whole vibrated and tingled. She felt incorporeal as she rose higher and higher until the sensation of peace became so light that she could no longer hold onto it.

Epilogue

179 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017 With a bandage around his head, “My dear viewers,” announced Ronaldo Herrero, “It’s my sad duty to inform you that Mrs. Wilma Henshaw and her son Alexander were gunned down today in Havana as a result of two different groups trying to kidnap her for the ransom. We know from reliable witnesses at the scene of the crime that no one was found alive. This is the saddest story I’ve ever covered. It nearly got me killed as you can see,” he pointed to his head. “We’ll never know what made Mrs. Henshaw into what she was. She is an enigma that will be written about for years to come. All I can say is that something terrible must have happened to her, probably during childhood, which made her into what she was. Tragedy hounded her. Death was her salvation. She’s probably rejoicing while here we feel sad and I’m afraid her legacy will haunt me all my life. I just got news that her surviving children will sue me and KLATV. Not only that, but the US Justice Department has charged me and my station with perverting the course of justice and harboring a felon. As for the armed bands that fought over the kidnapping of the Henshaws, we have reliable information that one was working for the US government. It’s a huge political embarrassment to the authorities. Some political careers that have taken years to build will be ruined in a matter of days as they become the scapegoats for this screw up.”

“As for their bodies, we don’t know where they are. The Cuban authorities will not release any information to us. No one will be able to claim the million dollars reward for Mrs. Henshaw unless they turn up with the body. This is the end of the story of the Henshaws from me.”

Alfonso switched off the TV with the remote control. His father objected, “why did you turn it off? I want to see the rest of the news.”

“Where is José?” asked Alfonso.

“I gave him time off.”

“You’ve never done that before.”

“It was about time then, wasn’t it?” He looked around then called out, “Julio, take me to my room, I’ll watch the rest of the news from there.”

180 Bitter Sweet Child - © Zane Ryan 2012-2017