The Silent Fountain

By J.L.A. De La Garza

Juan Miguel de la Montana lives a quiet life as a single man, spending his personal time reading, exercising, listening to music and drinking white wine. But his carefully-structured routine is interrupted when he learns of the death of an old college friend. He attends the funeral and planned to return home quickly. He didn't expect to encounter another college friend at the grave site, much less strike up a conversation and then meet him for dinner. He certainly didn't expect the man to invite him to a nearby ranch estate where he's vacationing with friends, much less accept the offer.
Yet, once there, Juan Miguel begins to enjoy the company of the estate's owners, the Santiago family, and their colorful friends. But, just as he falls in love with his new friends and the ranch's bucolic surroundings, he's unprepared to fall in love with Esperanza, a Santiago relative.
And, it doesn't seem to matter that she died sixty years ago.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543956344

Book preview

114

Chapter 1

"Va durar para siempre," her father said, speaking to her as if she was still a child. It will last forever. His voice was stern and authoritative – like any father – yet calm and soothing. Her dark green eyes flinched as sunlight blended with the cool water falling from the fountain. A brisk autumn wind tumbled across the courtyard floor; a band of colorful leaves parading towards her, laughing and dancing. She looked up at the fountain.

It’ll last forever.

Yo siempre te amaré. (I will always love you.)

She looked around.

Mí Esperanza. Yo deveras de amo. (My Esperanza. I truly love you.)

Not her father’s voice. Zacarías, she murmured. Ay, sí yo te uviera amado como yo queria amarte. (Oh, if I could have loved you like I wanted.)

It’ll last forever.

Pero no puedo, (But I can’t,) she mumbled.

I know. No one lasts forever. But we still love you. Her father, her mother, everyone she loved.

The pain in her chest intensified.

But the water. It was the only sound – soothing and hypnotic. Her body grew numb.

She saw the stray cat standing nearby, its bright blue eyes staring at her forlornly. Did it sense how badly she hurt?

The water sprayed gently against her skin. You’re safe with me. I’ll last forever. Your father said so.

The sky darkened to indigo.

She fell asleep.

And so did the fountain.

Chapter 2

"¿Viste eso?" (Did you see that?) Rosanna blurted, pointing into the garden. "Allá." (Out there.)

No, said Luis, growing frustrated. "No veo nada." (I don’t see anything.)

¡Allá! (Out there!) She was insistent.

The evening sun dimmed, drenching the garden with a gilded haze. She loved this time of day. It lasted only seconds, but she frolicked in the amber glow of the fading sunlight.

¡No! Luis repeated. Veo nada. Estás soñando. (I see nothing. You’re dreaming.)

¡No estoy soñando! ¡No estoy soñando y no estoy estupida! (I’m not dreaming! I’m not dreaming and I’m not stupid!)

He sighed. They’d had this conversation before. No dije que estavas estupida. Yo no mas dije que estavas soñando. Hay una diferencia. (I didn’t say you’re stupid. I just said you’re dreaming. There’s a difference.) He glanced into the yard, as if to assure her he was making a concerted effort to look. Assure her – and himself. Nada, (Nothing,) he groaned. He retreated into the bedroom, hoping she didn’t see the goose bumps coating his arms.

No estoy soñando, (I’m not dreaming,) she whispered.

No, no you’re not.

And I love you. My best friend.

Chapter 3

The Dallas Morning News

Saturday, June 5, 1920

Dallas, Texas

An explosion yesterday at the Houston and Central Texas rail yard, south of downtown, has resulted in five men injured and one man dead. Supervisor Mr. Harland Jefferson stated that the deceased is described as a Chicano male named Zacarías Solido, age 29, originally from Laredo, Texas, near the Mexican border. He had worked for the rail yard about three years, said Mr. Jefferson, adding that he is not aware of any local relatives of Mr. Solido. An investigation into the cause of the fatal mishap continues.

Site of yesterday’s accident.

Chapter 4

"My dear, Zacarías, if I could hold you again, just one more time. Hold you and feel your arms wrapped around me. You are so beautiful! And you still mean everything to me, even after all this time. It’s been one year since you left – since my father made you leave. I felt more anger than sadness over your departure. I guess I’m still angry. Or maybe just very sad. Upset that my father never came to know you. Never wanted to know you. Never understood who you really were.

Where are you now? What are you doing with your life? Have you met someone else? I wish I could ask you this in person. But I just wish I could see you again.

Amanda breathed a sigh – one of contentment, if not relief – and set down the crinkled sheet of paper. She felt the usual tingling sensation in her hands. It bothered her a little more this time, and she looked at them with mild aggravation.

The others remained silent, almost stoic; absorbing the words she’d just read aloud. Then, they all turned to the ceiling, as the sound of running water slipped into their ears.

Chapter 5

Juan Miguel, it’s Angela. Angela Johnstone.

Oh, hi. Haven’t heard from you in a while. He had just crawled into bed, but felt as if he’d been asleep for hours. A knot formed in his stomach.

I woke you, didn’t I? I’m sorry.

No, no. I – uh – had just lain down actually. He sat up. Why? What’s up?

She sighed heavily. David – David’s dead.

What?!

He died this morning – about 4:00 – at the hospital.

My God! He looked at the clock on the nightstand 10:12 p.m., Tuesday. My God, he repeated, massaging his forehead. He shouldn’t have been shocked.

I’m trying to call as many people as possible. He started slipping in and out of – what do you call it? Consciousness – in and out of consciousness the other day. Gosh, I think I’ve been up since – since then.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. He swung his legs onto the floor and turned on the lamp, almost knocking it over. Do you – uh – you need anything?

Oh, no, no. Nothing. Nothing major, I mean. His parents are already here. Mine are on the way.

I – uh – gosh, when did he go back into the hospital?

Um – Wednesday night. He – he didn’t want to go. He just wanted to stay home. But I called an ambulance anyway. Then he – uh – he fell into unconsciousness – actually, he went into a coma. Um – he went into a coma when he was there. She paused and took a deep breath. And – uh – never came out.

Jesus, he groaned, planting his left palm atop his quivering eyes.

So – uh – I’m just trying to get matters together. You know, finalizing.

Yeah, of course. Are you sure you don’t need anything right now?

Positive. She sighed heavily again. Her voice was clear, albeit low; almost a whisper. Well, except some sleep.

Oh, yeah – yeah, right. He sat up straight. When – uh – when’s the funeral? Or, I guess – maybe you haven’t – I’m sorry.

No, no. I – uh – we don’t know yet. His youngest brother lives out of state and – I mean, he’s in the Navy – and we’re waiting for him to get here.

Right, right. Oh, gosh. I almost can’t believe this. I mean – well – I guess there’s never a good time for these things. Now, that was stupid.

No, I – I guess not. She sighed again, less heavily. I’d like for you to come to the funeral. If you can make it.

Oh, yes, of course. I’ll be there. No problem. Just let me know.

I will. Listen, I won’t keep you. I need to go anyway.

Oh, yeah. I understand. Call me, please, if you need anything, Angela. I mean it.

Oh, I will. But I’m fine for now. Goodnight.

Goodnight. He almost told her to make sure to get some sleep; that she would need it regardless. What else could he say? He was glad the conversation was over, brief as it had been.

Juan Miguel couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken with David. That’s pretty sad. His best friend in college, and he can’t remember when they last actually talked to one another. He thought for a moment. David and Angela were newlyweds when he moved into this two-bedroom apartment four years ago. He’d made certain to give them his new phone number, but he and David had chatted only a few times since; traded birthday and Christmas cards, too. He shifted his gaze to the bare wall in front of him.

Dead! Damn! Something like – what – nine or ten months since the diagnosis? Liver cancer? No. Pancreas. Yeah, pancreatic cancer. God, how could he forget! Damn!

He plastered both hands to his face. Catrina had said once those types of cancers are hard to fight. Something about the chemo being too rough on the body. Did she even know about David? He couldn’t remember if they’d ever talked about him. Damn!

He ran his fingers through his thick blue-black hair and stood slowly, his knee joints creaking as if he was an old man. He wandered into the den, shrugging the broad shoulders that capped his muscular five-foot, ten-inch frame, and plopped into his easy chair. It swung back with only the slightest push of one heel, as if it knew instinctively he wanted to lay supine.

Slivers of fluorescent light trickled in through the horizontal blinds covering the patio door, creating odd geometric patterns on the dark gray carpet. He stared at them, his eyes tracing their peculiar shapes over and over. His vision blurred after a few minutes, before a slew of colorful images began tumbling into his mind – one after another. He looked up at the ceiling, as the visions gradually meshed into a cohesive picture: a memory of him and David with other college friends during one spring-break on South Padre Island. Years back, a thousand miles away – a lifetime ago – when the world and the future stood wide open. The image remained steadfast, as if stuck in a slide carousel. All of them huddled together: shirtless, sweaty, smiling, sunburned and probably drunk. Best friends. Like little kids.

Then, he wiped his eyes and looked straight ahead, suddenly realizing it wasn’t just a distant memory. It was a photograph; a real photograph. He leapt off the recliner and strode into the closet of the back bedroom – his office – where he pulled down a number of boxes from the overhead shelves, quickly working up a modest sweat. He rummaged through them, trying to locate that one picture out of dozens packed closely together.

He found it. Him and David standing beside one another, arms slung over their respective shoulders. Yes, a real picture. Real friends.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, attired in white boxer shorts with red lip prints, a gift from Catrina, staring at a glossy photo now losing its clarity. His eyes glazed over, and a single heavy teardrop plummeted onto his inner right thigh. Other tears followed before he wiped his eyes and set the picture on a box.

God Almighty, he mumbled aloud. He remained seated for a while, staring at almost everything in the room, before picking up the picture again. God Almighty, David.

He finally stood – his knees creaking ominously again – and sauntered back into the front bedroom where he set the photo against the dresser mirror. He left the boxes alone and retreated into the bathroom for a quick shower. He donned another pair of boxer shorts – not as cute, but just as comfortable – and slipped back into bed.

God Almighty, he muttered, his body trembling. He fell back to sleep – and heard waves crashing against a shoreline.

Chapter 6

Juan Miguel de la Montana awoke to a balmy, eighty-degree morning in his native San Antonio. It was the first week of October; autumn in most parts of the country, but still summer here. Like India, where wicked temperatures gave way to monsoon rains, only two seasons seemed to exist in South Texas: torrid summers and cool, sometimes wet winters. San Antonio balanced itself precariously between those extremes.

The air conditioner hummed gently, as he retrieved the newspaper from the patio. The sound of the paper slamming into the sliding glass door usually woke him before his clock radio did, but he slept through this morning’s toss. He stared briefly at the red-orange horizon, peering over prominent cheekbones with amber-tinted eyes. Christmas gold is how a high school girlfriend once described them; in part, he thought, because of his December 26th birthday. His thick eyelashes thrust forward like pine needles dipped in black lacquer; a neatly trimmed moustache and goatee outlining an extraordinarily handsome face; his caramel skin often mistaken for a perfect tan.

He turned on the TV and slid a plate of ribs into the microwave, following it with a bowl of corn. Traditional breakfast foods had never appealed to him. He ate and watched the news, before dabbling on his computer. Finally, he readied the trash for the dumpster.

His morning routine would have concluded with a regimen of pushups and crunch sit-ups before stepping into the shower. But he stopped to view the spring-break picture, inconspicuously perched beside photos of his two younger brothers. David easily could have been a third brother; his fraternal twin. A long time ago. He’d never lost a friend to death. Some had moved away; others had simply disappeared; one had actually told him to go to hell. At least, you’re honest, he’d responded. But none had died. He picked up the picture and stared hard at it – stared until its colors blurred as they’d done the night before. He finally set it back down and scurried into the shower.

It was 7:30 a.m., and he didn’t have time to do his calisthenics. Damn!

Chapter 7

Are you okay?

The familiar voice made Juan Miguel look up from the printer and turn to his left.

Kristin Iverson’s brownish-green eyes flirted with him, just like they did every day. The narrow space between her two front teeth was noticeable only because she smiled so much. She never seemed to have a bad day. Her attire usually matched her shoes and fingernail polish, and all of it harmonizing with the change of seasons. She patronized rodeos and monster truck rallies; savored Godiva chocolates and Chivas Regal; and always found the best side of people. She was his administrative assistant, or as she liked to say, ASSistant.

Juan Miguel wondered what asteroid she’d fallen off of some fifty odd years ago, but he loved her anyway.

Got something on your mind, sugar? She rubbed her pink-tinted fingernails up and down his spine. Few people ever touched him so intimately – certainly not at work. But Kristin could. The privilege seemed to be her birthright.

Oh, yeah. I do. Sorry. Can’t think – can’t think too well this morning. He turned back to the printer quietly spitting out a thirty-page report.

What? Her smile faded. What happened? You alright?

Oh – He took a deep breath. I guess. He squeezed out a flaccid grin.

You guess? Honey, you look like you lost your best friend. What’s wrong?

He took another deep breath and let it fly out like a bullet from a gun. A friend of mine died yesterday. His wife called last night.

She stopped rubbing his back. Well, screw me, she mumbled to the floor. Oh, Jesus, hon! I’m sorry to hear that.

He’d been sick. But I didn’t know he was – God, I didn’t know he was that bad off. I mean, terminal. Well, I – uh – I guess terminal is – oh, hell! He shrugged. The printer wasn’t moving fast enough, a common complaint in the office. A staff meeting loomed some ten minutes away.

What happened to him?

Cancer.

Oh, Lord! That’s awful.

"Uh – yeah. Gosh – I – uh – just hadn’t talked to him in so long. I mean, like I said, I knew he’d been sick, but – uh – well, I guess I just didn’t call him too many times after I found out. Two, three times maybe. I – uh – kept thinking I should call him again, like every weekend, or maybe even visit. He lives in – lived in – uh – lives in Dallas. But I never found – well, I guess I just didn’t make the time."

The printer finally completed its job.

Kristin seemed at a loss for words – a rarity. Oh – that’s awful. That’s always a tough thing to handle.

I guess.

I know. She flashed another bright smile and raked her fingernails along his spine once more.

God, he loved that!

Let me know if I can do anything for you.

Thanks, he replied with a slight grin. I will. But I’m okay.

As she stepped away, he realized he had to tell Marsha, his supervisor, about David; had to tell her today. He reached for a hole puncher, needing to place the report into a three-ring binder. It could accommodate only four or five sheets at once, another minor aggravation.

He liked his role as a technical writer for Datatest, a software firm. He’d been with them almost nine years; its solitary nature fitting well with his introverted personality. He rarely communicated with anyone except Kristin or Marsha. He knew the company had a bereavement leave policy. Well – for family members. But old friends? Damn! A phone call away.

What should he wear? The solid black suit or the black one with turquoise pinstripes? Maybe the indigo one. Stupid hole puncher! Why is all the equipment around here so crappy? He’d never been to Dallas, not even to visit David before he got sick. He’d been through Dallas – years ago – with David and some other guys (the same spring-break gang) on their way to and from Oklahoma for a field trip. But that was different. Where should he stay? He tried six sheets. He could hear everyone gathering in the conference room nearby. A motel, of course. Stay in a motel. Where else? The thing jammed. Great! How far away was Dallas anyway? Two hundred, three hundred miles? Damned if he knew! Just go up I-35. Kristin called his name. He didn’t care to visit Dallas. Nothing there for him. Didn’t know anybody else there except David and Angela. And now – his mind went blank.

He didn’t hear the crash. Didn’t realize he’d created such a ruckus – until he saw Kristin and some others standing nearby. He looked down, as the hole puncher lay in pieces.

Chapter 8

The funeral is Monday, Angela told him. Monday morning at ten. His brother, James – the one in the Navy – he won’t be able to make it into town until Saturday.

Yeah, I understand muttered Juan Miguel, glancing up at the slowly rotating ceiling fan and swallowing. It was Thursday evening, just after eight.

She gave him the address to the Sparkman / Hillcrest Funeral Home in Dallas. We’re just meeting there. He didn’t want a full ceremony, just a simple interment.

Oh, okay.

I mean – that’s what he said. She chuckled. Just straight into the ground.

Yeah, he grinned. He was always pretty straightforward.

Yeah – definitely.

My father feels the same way. Just throw him in a box and dig a hole.

They shared a strained laugh.

Well – uh – He cleared his throat. I’ll be there.

Good. I know he’d want you to be.

Right. Wouldn’t miss it.

Of course, he thought, after hanging up, wouldn’t want to miss a funeral. The reddish glow of the lava lamp perched atop the stereo merged with the vanilla-colored light from the stove vent to create an ethereal atmosphere. He slumped in the easy chair and shivered.

He hadn’t attended a funeral in years; last time was when a great-aunt had died. The ordeal seemed endless; where an aged Roman Catholic priest and a stadium-sized cathedral conspired with candles, incense and flowers to wrench every bloody ounce of agony and remorse from the attendants. First, there was the rosary with multiple incantations of Hail Mary – isn’t one enough?! – then the funeral the next day with a full Mass and a nauseatingly angelic sermon; the convoy to the cemetery for another, albeit condensed mass; tossing dirt into the grave; the mariachi band; gathering to eat mounds of food people brought because they thought the family was too tired and upset to cook. Damn Mexicans, he mused. Weddings, funerals, baptisms, birthday parties – we always have more drama in one evening than a – well, a Mexican soap opera.

The image of his great-aunt lying in her coffin remained the only clear one he had of her; hands crossed over her chest, a silver crucifix lying atop her abdomen, her leathery face decorated with rainbow colors. Before the casket lid was lowered, one of her daughters – his mother’s cousin – removed a string of pearls from around the dead woman’s neck. Mama wanted to be buried in these, she said, holding them up like a pirate clutching a gold doubloon. "But it’s a family heirloom. All of us girls got married wearing these. It’s one wish she can’t