Generations of Secrets: Novels of Cultural and Environmental Conflict

By Abbe Rolnick

Three separate novels where, "You'll delve into political intrigue, betrayal, self-reflection, find inner strength, and what true friendship and trust can achieve (Kim Kat, verified reader), held together by one character who floats between the novels, Rosie. Rosie, an American professor and healer, takes you from the island of Puerto Rico into

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sedro Publishing
• Release date: May 3, 2021
• ISBN: 9781736087817

Abbe Rolnick

Abbe Rolnick grew up in the suburbs of Baltimore, Maryland. Her first major cultural jolt occurred at age 15 when her family moved to Miami Beach, Florida. To find perspective, she climbed the only non-palm tree at her condo complex and wrote what she observed. History came alive with her exposure to Cuban culture. After attending Boston University, she lived in Puerto Rico,where she owned a bookstore.River of Angels flows from her experiences in Puerto Rico and is the first novel in her Generations of Secrets series. She continues with Color of Lies, bringing the reader to the Pacific Northwest where she presently resides. Here she blends stories from island life with characters in Skagit Valley. The third in the series, Founding Stones was recently published and continues with characters from her two previous novels. Her readers describe the series as "deep and meaningful," with "complex relationships" that "transport you to a different place" with "a plot worthy of the cedar-scented NW atmosphere."Her recent experiences with her husband's cancer inspired Cocoon of Cancer: An Invitation to Love Deeply, a love story that shares intimate tips for caregivers and family. Tattle Tales: Essays and Stories Along the Way is a compilation of twenty years of writing. These two books show a "skill for writing that brings a cluster of sunshine through the dim of darkness," where "you can feel the author's presence."An avid world traveler, Abbe can be found with her husband Jim in Africa, Southeast Asia, South America, Sri Lanka, the Middle East, and other exotic countries when they aren't at their home amid twenty acres in Skagit Valley, Washington, or visiting with her grown children and grandkids.To learn more about her writings, Abbe's Notes and Abbe's Ruminations, visit her website, www.abberolnick.com. Abbe welcomes questions and requests for speaking engagements, and would love to hear from you.

Book preview

Front Cover of River of Angels

Generations of Secrets Series Set

River of Angels (Book 1)

Color of Lies (Book 2)

Founding Stones (Book 3)

Abbe Rolnick

Generations of Secrets Series Set: River of Angels Book 1, Color of Lies Book 2, Founding Stones Book 3

Copyright© 2021 by Abbe Rolnick

All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying or information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

For permission to reproduce selections from this book or to order copies, write to Sedro Publishing, 21993 Grip Road, Sedro Woolley, WA 98284. http://www.sedropublishing.com or http://www.abberolnick.com.

Design& Prepress: Sally Dunn Design & Photography (www.sallydunn.com).

Copy Editor: Ariel Anderson (www.arieledits.com).

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

ISBN: 978-1-7360878-1-7 (Electronic Book)

Other Books by Abbe Rolnick:

River of Angels, 2nd edition, Book One in Generations of Secrets (2018)

Color of Lies, Book Two in Generations of Secrets (2018)

Cocoon of Cancer: An Invitation to Love Deeply (2016)

Tattle Tales: Essays and Stories Along the Way (2016)

Forthcoming:

Bubbie’s Magical Hair (2021) A children’s illustrated book.

River of Angels, Book 1 of Generation of Secrets Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1: Protest

Chapter 2: Cabin Hideaway

Chapter 3: Sugar Cane

Chapter 4: Abuelita—Dona Teresa

Chapter 5: Pigeon Coop

Chapter 6: Don Tuto’s Inner Space

Chapter 7: Spiraling Down

Chapter 8: Stations and Deliveries

Chapter 9: River of Angels

Chapter 10: Showdown

Chapter 11: Shadow Spells

Chapter 12: Chambers and Caverns

Chapter 13: Seeing is Believing

Chapter 14: The Wrong Hands

Chapter 15: Patience Equals Power

Chapter 16: El Colmado

Chapter 17: Lies and Omissions

Chapter 18: Meandering

Chapter 19: La Punta de Vista—Viewpoint

Chapter 20: The View from Behind

Chapter 21: Living in Dying

Chapter 22: Powder Keg

Chapter 23: Trapped

Chapter 24: Floating

Chapter 25: Finding the Way

Chapter 26: Sunrise

Chapter 27: Ceiba’s Embrace

Chapter 28: Ask and You Shall Receive

Reading Group Questions

Preview of Color of Lies, Book Two in the Generation of Secrets Series

Color of Lies, Book 2 of Generations of Secrets Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1: Dinner Plate

Chapter 2: Mountain and Molehills

Chapter 3: White Lies

Chapter 4: Arms of Steel

Chapter 5: Gone Fishing

Chapter 6: Moonshine

Chapter 7: Cast in Stone?

Chapter 8: Waste Not, Want Not

Chapter 9: Missing Pieces

Chapter 10: The Flight of the Hummingbird

Chapter 11: Scree

Chapter 12: Skid Road

Chapter 13: Two-Way Communication

Chapter 14: Baa, Baa, Black Sheep, Have You Any Wool?

Chapter 15: The Moon is Made of Green Cheese

Chapter 16: Mourning Dove

Chapter 17: Flying Without a Compass

Chapter 18: Walking on Eggshells

Chapter 19: Citizens of a Community

Chapter 20: Diablo: The Devil Made Me Do It

Chapter 21: Squaring a Circle

Chapter 22: Hinges and Handles

Chapter 23: Nerve to Feel

Chapter 24: Neighbors

Chapter 25: Trust and the Future

Chapter 26: Find the Loophole

Chapter 27: Attitude: Stable Position

Chapter 28: Concrete Command Center

Chapter 29: Bird’s Eye Perspective

Chapter 30: SAR-X: Search and Rescue Exercise

Chapter 31: Connections Concomitants

Chapter 32: Beginnings Never End

Reading Group Questions

Preview of Founding Stones, Book Three in the Generations of Secrets Series

About the Author

Founding Stones, Book 3 of Generations of Secrets Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Prologue: What Defines Us May Kill Us

Chapter 1: Sensual Stutters

Chapter 2: Musty Mushrooms

Chapter 3: Blueberries to Market

Chapter 4: Train Tracks—Which side are you on?

Chapter 5: Ceremonial Blinds

Chapter 6: Poker Faced

Chapter 7: There Is No Money in This

Chapter 8: Rhododendron Café

Chapter 9: Windows Reflection

Chapter 10: Trails

Chapter 11: Black and White and Read All Over

Chapter 12: Permeable

Chapter 13: Protocols

Chapter 14: No One Is Spared

Chapter 15: Boundaries

Chapter 16: Know What You Ask

Chapter 17: As the World Turns

Chapter 18: Dress Up of Disguise

Chapter 19: Side Effects— Closed due to illness.

Chapter 20: Bent Out of Shape

Chapter 21: Silo—If you don’t know me, I’m still hidden.

Chapter 22: Change the Dialogue

Chapter 23: The Love of Power

Chapter 24: Hate

Chapter 25: The Dot on the Line

Chapter 26: If It Isn’t One Thing, It’s the Other

Chapter 27: Tight Rope

Chapter 28: Gridless

Chapter 29: Innocence—She was fishing, but I didn’t take the bait.

Chapter 30: Heebie-Jeebies

Chapter 31: Farm, Famine, Family

Chapter 32: Within the Crack Lies Another Truth

Chapter 33: Wings Take Flight

Chapter 34: Dream Makers

Chapter 35: Scramble

Chapter 36: Wounded

Chapter 37: An Education

Chapter 38: A Meal

Chapter 39: When Old Becomes New

Chapter 40: My Turn

Chapter 41: Old Movements, New Actions

Chapter 42: Sow Chaos

Chapter 43: No Man Left Behind

Chapter 44: As the World Turns, So Does History

Chapter 45: Stones Speak

About the Author

Reading Group Questions

More Books

Front Cover of River of AngelsHalf Title of River of Angels

River of Angels

Generations of Secrets, Book One

Copyright @2018 by Abbe Rolnick, 2nd edition

All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying or information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

For permission to reproduce selections from this book or to order copies, contact: Sedro Publishing, 21993 Grip Road, Sedro-Woolley, WA 98284.

www.sedropublishing.com or www.abberolnick.com

Cover Photos taken by Jim Wiggins

Design & Prepress by Sally Dunn, Sally Sue Dunn Design & Photography (www.sallysuedunn.com)

Editing: Sara Stamey (www.sarastamey.com)

Copy Editing: Ariel Anderson (www.arieledits.com)

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Rolnick, Abbe

River of Angels / Abbe Rolnick—2nd edition

ISBN: 978-0-9845119-8-3 (Trade Book)

ISBN: 978-9845119-9-0 (Electronic Book)

Other Books by Abbe Rolnick

Color of Lies (2013), Book Two in Generations of Secrets

Cocoon of Cancer: An Invitation to Love Deeply (2016)

Tattle Tales: Essays and Stories Along the Way (2016)

Forthcoming:

Founding Stones, Book Three in Generations of Secrets

Book Title of River of Angels

From somewhere in the Universe, a connection has been made.

—JRW

Dedication

To my family:

Morton J. Rolnick, a father with a heart and a sense of humor that reached everyone.

Selma J. Rolnick, a mother who continued to grow and give.

Harriet Rolnick, a sister who stands by me with love and encouragement.

Mara, Will, & Elly, my children who teach me to love and give more.

Jim Wiggins, my husband and partner in life who convinced me to move forward to that next level.

Acknowledgements

This book is a work that came from my various life experiences. I want to thank the people in Aguadilla, Puerto Rico, for the rich life I lived there and for teaching me to see beauty in another culture and to feel the pulse of passion. Garred Giles, you are not only a good friend but a great source of information.

I wrote this in the wee hours of the morning and night as I raised my children far from the island and 20 years removed. The Deming Library was invaluable in my search for information. Frances Barbagallo, my friend and library director, you have been a constant source of inspiration.

My writing group, JoAnn Chavre, Barbara Defreytas, Iris Jones, and Mary Stone, thank you for reading all my works and being critical.

Sara Stamey, my editor, who pushed me to improve, go deeper, realizing I had more to say.

Jim Wiggins, I met you when this book was finished. Your push to read and re-read the manuscript and to return to Puerto Rico with me for photos of the caves and ceiba tree gave me the impetus to follow my dream.

Contents

Chapter 1:Protest

Chapter 2:Cabin Hideaway

Chapter 3:Sugarcane

Chapter 4:Abuelita—Doña Teresa

Chapter 5:Pigeon Coop

Chapter 6:Don Tuto’s Inner Space

Chapter 7:Spiraling Down

Chapter 8:Stations and Deliveries

Chapter 9:River of Angels

Chapter 10:Showdown

Chapter 11:Shadow Spells

Chapter 12:Chambers and Caverns

Chapter 13:Seeing Is Believing

Chapter 14:The Wrong Hands

Chapter 15:Patience Equals Power

Chapter 16:El Colmado

Chapter 17:Lies and Omissions

Chapter 18:Meandering

Chapter 19:La Punta de Vista—Viewpoint

Chapter 20:The View from Behind

Chapter 21:Living in Dying

Chapter 22:Powder Keg

Chapter 23:Trapped

Chapter 24:Floating

Chapter 25:Finding the Way

Chapter 26:Sunrise

Chapter 27:Ceiba’s Embrace

Chapter 28:Ask and You Shall Receive

Reading Group Questions

Preview of Color of Lies, Book Two in the Generations of Secrets Series

Chapter 1: Protest

Monica hurried down the cobbled road with the sun’s rays on her bare shoulders. She smiled, listening to the chaotic rhythms of the streets. Music blared from storefronts, and vendors at each corner offered up helado—shaved ice with flavoring. Her new home wasn’t that different from New York, less tidy but just as crazy. She still wasn’t used to the openness of the police toward drinking cerveza outside of restaurants or bars. Different laws, different customs.

As she turned down the street past the financial district of one bank, and the old courthouse and permit building, the mood shifted. Men and women lined the narrow sidewalks, spilled out into the streets with signs demanding justice. Stop the Corruption. Vote for Independence. Drug Lords Govern. Stop the Bombing. Monica had thought she was the only one who didn’t shrug off the nightly US bombing practice on a nearby deserted island.

A publico, filled with young girls, drove through the streets, nudging along behind the protestors. The passengers yelled from their open windows, You can’t make us disappear!

Monica adjusted her sunglasses, straightened her posture, and began her sensuous strut meant as a distraction. She feared for these young girls. They were playing with fire. No amount of protest would stop men from being men. This wasn’t the first time that she had witnessed protests since she had arrived on the island, but today’s demonstration frightened her. Two of her lady workers were out in daylight, looking for business. Granted it was on their time, but soon Monica needed them at her bar, not behind bars.

A ruckus broke out, and policemen carted off two young boys, still in their school uniforms. Their painted sign said, Stop the Raping of Women and Beaches. A hush, and then a man yelled, "Be careful, you’ll be the next desparecedos! Who knows where they will take you."

Monica edged her way through the crowd to enter her bar. She pulled her sunglasses off and shut out the outside world. The bar’s dim lights, after the glare of the sun-kissed tropical day, were a welcome reprieve for the patrons who came from the sugarcane fields and financial offices. Her bar offered an escape from the heat, a way to ignore the emptiness in their hearts.

As her eyes adjusted, Monica surveyed the room. She felt tension, perhaps remnants from the protest outside. She needed to transition quickly into the Madam, the bright star who shone through the dark moods of the patrons. She’d chosen her dress to do just that—a rich blue silk dress cut low at the neck and tight around the hips.

Monica didn’t consider herself beautiful, but her voluptuous body promised physical gratification and delight in its softness. She became all things for those who fantasized in sexual exploits, offered strength for the abusive and warmth for those who sought mothering.

She turned her strut into a dance and wove her way among the small round tables. The nonexistent aisles became part of her design, a purposeful tightness to push her patrons in the way of her body. Slight touches, a pat, a pinch, a glance, all created a sense of familiarity, cloaked in the forgiving dimness.

People spilled into the bar from the protest, many of them recipients of the protestors’ taunts. She recognized the businessmen, the bankers, the government officials. Monica watched as money changed hands. One interaction stood out. The owner of the Banco de La Gente rushed into the bar, his face flushed, the pockets of his pants askew. His hands shook as he slipped a wad of money into the hands of a government official. Monica recognized the official by the name of Pedro.

Soon afterward, Señor Modesto, the bank owner, left with one of Monica’s younger helpers. They headed up the back stairs for a private rendezvous. Monica noted his puppy dog behavior, as did all the patrons in the bar. One called out, There goes Modesto. He is paying for his pleasure with my house payment.

For the most part, everyone tolerated the banker’s self-indulgent behavior. He was a good tipper and not too demanding. Monica predicted he’d be down for another drink in less than an hour and that the bank’s coffers would suffer accordingly. She wondered who here would be the lucky recipient of a loan after his latest foray upstairs.

Of more concern were the two borrachos sitting in the corner. Payday brought in the men from the field, and the woes of these two escalated as they drank. With raised voices, their insults became bolder and the swearing nastier. Monica sidled in closer as she heard the ultimate in swear words, Como tu madre. To talk of another’s mother begged for a fight.

Monica slid her body between the two jibaros and signaled for the music to be turned up. She danced the salsa, undulating her body to the rhythm of the music, first facing one, then the other. When two young, attractive dancers tapped the men on the shoulders, she made her exit.

Monica could almost predict the future absence of one of these men. After years of hosting in bars, in New York or here on the island, she knew all men were the same. The boasts, the drinks, and the inner turmoil would intensify and lead to irreconcilable differences over a bet or a woman, usually money. The outcome would be settled forcefully, with words of intimidation, pressure from families, or brute force. One of two men would go missing, and no one would say anything. Monica preferred to give them a chance with the natural rhythms of music and the warmth of a woman. She offered her patrons a sense of security, which didn’t exist outside her doors.

As Monica surveyed the room, her gaze fell upon a young man seated in the farthest corner. Blond hair and tanned but light skin spoke of gringo, while the gestures of the hands and the rapid movement of the lips marked him as a Latino. She’d seen him sporadically each month for the last year at the bar. This local businessman owned a coconut farm, traveled, had lots of friends, and ignored her. Today, Carlos was all business.

Two men Monica didn’t recognize sat with Carlos. She watched as they shook hands and patted each other on the back. A deal had just been sealed, but the men still appeared ill at ease. As the two searched the room, only half listening to Carlos, their suits and ties announced their stature as foreigners. Their roving eyes betrayed their impatience.

Normally the bar was where her customers dropped their pretenses, acted less formal, and revealed themselves. She sensed something amiss, and for this reason, she listened to their comments: We can start on the condominium project as soon as you get the release papers signed, and then we can get access to the land.

Carlos nodded. Not a problem, I’ll have everything in order by the end of the week.

The two men barely acknowledged Carlos’s assurances. After their handshake, they carefully scanned the bar again. Monica noted a short pause, their stares fixed on her newest hire, Carmen, dancing. Carmen’s steps faltered, missing the salsa beat. Her face paled, became ashen and stricken with fear. Carmen turned, looked at her dance partner, glanced at the door.

Monica felt something awry. Carmen hid behind her partner’s large frame, as Carlos’s business associates made a hurried exit. Carlos seemed content, and within minutes, Pedro sat down at the table. The two drank and laughed, and all appeared normal. Just two friends ending a day of work the easy way, a few beers to wash away bad decisions and delay the return to their home life. Monica shrugged. Her services wouldn’t be needed. Their laughter and easy talk was enough to carry them through the night.

From the other side of the bar came a familiar call, Listen, my sweetness. Come here.

Monica turned slowly and flashed a smile. "Mi amor, take it easy. No hay prisa." No, she wasn’t in any hurry to rush over to Jesus, a frequent customer. Tonight, the big man seemed agitated. Without the liquor, Jesus was a decent man. Based on the constant flow of girlfriends that continued to encircle him, Monica suspected that behind his macho act was a caring person. All she really knew about him was that he worked on the fincas de coco, scaling the coconut trees and dropping the fruit.

She walked up to Jesus and placed her arm around him. "Jesus, que pasa? How goes the coconut business?"

"Mal, mi hija, mal. Come with me and help me forget it all."

Why do you worry so, Jesus? You are the keeper of the land. If one season is bad, there is always another.

You, my honorable Monica, know lots about men, but nothing about coconuts. Coconuts grow on sandy soil. Without sand, there are no coconuts. Everybody wants cement, but you can’t eat cement.

The rumors are true? They sold the farm?

Monica, come help me forget.

Monica leaned in and whispered into Jesus’s ear, Look, I can’t, but Carmen wants to be with you. I’ve seen her try to get your attention. Bending over just enough to reveal the top of her breasts, she gently kissed Jesus on the top of the head. He smiled appreciatively and patted her buttocks as she motioned Carmen over. The young woman still seemed oddly agitated.

Making her way toward the counter, Monica perused her potential customers. She couldn’t afford to turn down any more clients. This was a business, and she had her reputation to maintain. The men remembered refusals and gossiped. Gossip, or chismas as they called it here, was a way of life. Once a rumor spread, it wasn’t easy to dispel. Looking for some amusement, she sat down at her usual stool at the counter, close to the table with the blond Carlos.

Here she retained a good view of the entrance to the bar and the stairs leading up to the secluded rooms, but she could relax, out of the main fray. She noted Carmen’s exit with Jesus. Arms entwined at the elbow, they walked out like brother and sister. Nursing a glass of water on the rocks, Monica remained attentive to her patrons but hoped for a conversation that went beyond petty gripes. Even as she kept the peace, she craved a mental challenge. Careful not to appear an eavesdropper, she listed to Carlos’s conversation.

Their laughter had dissipated as their faces sobered. Pedro’s insistent voice: Carlos, don’t worry so much. She will return. She thinks too much about your business.

Studying his drink, Carlos took his time with his answer. "Este es el problema. She says I think more about making money than making love. Pedro, that is what I do."

Monica sensed an opportunity for her services but also a sadness. She could score with Carlos, but another woman would lose out on love. Being in the business had hardened her, yes, but deep down she was a romantic. As Carlos and Pedro continued talking, Monica realized they had switched to English. Perhaps they thought no one could understand them.

My thoughts are consumed with work, and when she asks me what I’m thinking, I tell her, ‘Nothing.’ It’s as if she is too smart. And if I do share my thoughts, she wants to discuss a business transaction as if it weren’t already a fact. Pedro, she has even questioned this last deal with the farm. Shaking his head, Carlos looked both baffled and hurt.

It’s true, she’s a difficult woman. Buy her a gift with the money you make from the sale.

Monica became impatient. How silly these men were. Whoever this woman was, she wanted to be treated like a person who counted. She was asking to be real, to voice an opinion. It dawned on Monica that the coconut farm that the men talked about was the same farm that Jesus oversaw. Abruptly, she got up from the counter, appeared to slip, and dumped her drink on Carlos. "Perdóname! Excuse me for my clumsiness. Let me dry your pants."

Briskly massaging his wet pant leg with a napkin, Monica looked up. She hadn’t expected his eyes to be so blue, or that he would be surprised. Caught off guard, she spoke in English, I’m really sorry. I don’t know what happened. I lost my balance. Can I get you something dry to wear?

Before Carlos could answer, the doors to the bar burst open. The light from outdoors was blinding, but not enough to block the horror that walked in—Carmen, Monica’s young friend, covered in blood. She fell forward, knocking down a stool, and collapsed across Carlos’s lap. Bending over her, Monica felt the silence of the bar, saw the movements to the door as patrons rushed to leave. She noted with anger that Jesus’s table was still empty. He must have savagely attacked her girl. It was Monica’s fault, she knew, for not taking on Jesus herself and suggesting that Carmen wanted to be with him. Who knew what Jesus was capable of if he was drunk and upset?

In despair, Monica lifted Carmen’s head and whispered, Carmencita, I love you. I’m guilty of this. I’ll take care of you.

Carmen only moaned in response. Monica cringed. It was bad enough that Carmen had been attacked, but even worse, she couldn’t take her to the police or hospital. They lived outside of the law. Laws didn’t exist for them. The officials of the town begged for her services, but they refused to soil their hands with the immigrant women they favored. They didn’t want to dirty their lives at home.

Cradling Carmen’s head, Monica shook her own in disgust. Cowards, all of you. You are so afraid to show compassion. Run back to your safe lives.

Carlos cleared his throat, shifted slightly to settle the injured woman, and whispered, I might be a coward, but I’m in no position to run, as your friend is bleeding on my lap. It’s none of my business, I don’t know you, but you need help. I have a woman who might be persuaded to come to your aid.

The Madam looked up at Carlos. Who is it?

Carlos’s thoughts switched back and forth in two languages. He chose to answer the Madam in English just in case some of the locals’ ears stretched their way. With a sense of pride and embarrassment, he answered, She’s my wife. She’s different, a healer of sorts.

She won’t turn us in to the police? Carmen is here without paperwork. She’s my responsibility, and I can’t afford to let her or the other women down.

You’ll be able to trust my wife, more than anyone on this island. But you don’t have to trust me, just make a decision. Carlos looked around the bar. Most of the patrons had left. The woman on his lap lay almost motionless. Decide, Señorita.

"Okay, vamanos. Let’s go, I don’t have time to question your motives. Please hurry."

With a head nod, Carlos signaled Pedro to help him. They pulled a tablecloth off one of the empty tables, wrapped Carmen in a tight roll, and carried her outside to the back alley, to Carlos’s parked truck.

Pedro hissed, "Carlos, what are you doing? Estas loco. You haven’t seen your wife in weeks, and you’re bringing her this? She’s a great healer, but how can you be so sure that she’ll do this for you?"

Carlos ignored Pedro’s questions as he helped the Madam into the truck bed with Carmen. He swallowed hard, gulping the air around him. His chest felt tight, as if his own life were being squeezed out of him. For some reason, the blood of a woman made him sick.

With the women settled in the back of the truck and Pedro up front, Carlos turned and whispered, This is beyond my experience. Women should stay at home, not on the streets, not getting hurt. Rosie will know what to do.

The truck crept along narrow, bumpy roads. They headed toward los campos, up in the hills where the old folk insisted that the roads were made to follow the cows’ paths. Carlos looked in his rearview mirror to check on his passengers. They were sliding from side to side as the road twisted. Worried that the bumps and twists would do more damage, he pulled off to a flat and wider area of the road. You okay back there?

Words lashed out, Carmen hasn’t opened her eyes. She’s got blood around her mouth, and I’ve used the bottom of my dress to soak up blood that won’t stop oozing. I don’t know what possessed me to come with you.

"No choice. I was your only option. Rosie would tell you to listen to the coquis. You hardly ever see the tiny frogs, but their songs soothe. It’s the best I can do. I’ll hurry."

Within minutes they rounded a steep hill, and Carlos abruptly stopped the truck. Rosie’s small cabin sat on the knob of the hilltop. She had come here often in the past, but now she had taken up residence here instead of at their home. A lone light shone from the back window. Rosie at work, Rosie unaware of his world. Carlos told Pedro to wait outside. As Carlos left the truck, a cool breeze rippled through, bringing smells of banana trees. He ran to the cabin, hesitated, then knocked and slipped inside.

Annoyed that Rosie didn’t answer his knock, he headed for the lit room, the kitchen, where his wife tinkered with medicinal herbs, strange juices. She stood small behind the kitchen counter. A teakettle steamed in the background, guava skin and fibers piled up alongside a pitcher of juice. Carlos stood, silent.

Rosie finally turned. Carlos, I expected you earlier. I’m making a healing potion.

Carlos felt his heart accelerate, his face turn red. It infuriated him how she knew things. He had had no intention of visiting Rosie tonight or any other night. To talk with Rosie, he’d rather be on neutral territory, someplace where they both would be comfortable. He wasn’t sure that place existed anymore. He closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, annoyed at her presumption, her tendency to know what she couldn’t possibly know. Despite his resolve to remain calm, he became the accuser. If you know so much, why am I here?

Chapter 2: Cabin Hideaway

Wiping her hands on a dish towel, Rosie turned to face Carlos. She studied the fierceness in his eyes, his tight jaw, and his hunched shoulders. Ignoring his question, she softly asked, Who’s hurt?

A woman from the bar. Your friend Jesus attacked her. I told you he was dangerous. Now look what he’s done.

Rosie kept her eyes fixed on Carlos. She ignored the trigger words that would spark yet another argument. She asked another question. How bad is she hurt?

Carlos’s voice shook. It’s bad. She’s moaning and bleeding. I don’t think she’s said anything yet. I promised her friend you’d help.

Rosie focused on Carlos’s reactions, his desperation, and less on his words. Okay, help me then. We’ll make up a bed. Then you can tell me their names.

Rosie led Carlos through the hallway into a small greenhouse attached to the back of the cabin. She handed him a pillow and blankets. As they tucked the sheets into a mat on the floor, she gently prodded. Did you hear my question, Carlos? Do you know their names? Think.

Carlos sighed. You know I’m not good at this. I think it’s Carmen—the one hurt. Her friend is the bar hostess, the Madam. Does it matter? You can still help someone without a name, can’t you?

Rosie took a calming breath. Carlos exasperated her with his inability to see beyond himself. Everything matters, Carlos, even a grain of sand. You may not take my advice on business, but you know I’m here to help. You can count on me for that at least.

Despite her best efforts, Rosie’s words triggered an argument.

Rosie, you should stick to being a wife. I know what is good for the island. You should trust me about Jesus.

Now isn’t the time to talk about this. The hostess must be anxious for her friend, waiting outside, not knowing anyone. We can talk later. Go check on them.

Rosie finished setting up the mat and turned on the front porch light. She hesitated for a moment with a sick sensation of something sinister. Probably her imagination, but she opened the cabin door with caution. She overheard Carlos’s friend Pedro talking. Be patient, Monica. Carlos might have misjudged you, but not his wife. Here’s Carlos now.

Rosie swung the cabin door out wider, revealing the hostess Monica, Pedro, and Carlos standing beside the truck bed. They all turned toward her in anticipation. Rosie took charge. Pedro, help Carlos lift the woman and bring her inside. We’ve made a bed ready. Monica? Is that your name? Please come quickly. I’m going to need your help.

Rosie let Carlos and Pedro pass her and waited for Monica, who seemed surprised to have her name called out. Although Monica jumped down quickly, Rosie felt a shield of armor surrounding the woman. Monica was on alert, ready to pounce. Rosie waited, looked directly into Monica’s eyes, until a softness and warmth encircled her. I made up a bed in the greenhouse, down the hallway. I kept it dim with just a lit candle, to soothe your friend.

By the time Rosie arrived, Carlos and Pedro had already placed the patient on the makeshift bed. Monica appeared lost, fearful, jumping at the shadows on the house wall. Rosie had left a wood carving of Don Quixote on the floor, a guardian of sorts. The elongated shadow resembled a tall, thin caballero. Orchids hung from baskets and formed a canopy over the mat. Their shadows looked like arms reaching down to grab someone. She heard Monica gasp as she caught her own reflection in the glass walls of the greenhouse.

Rosie stepped forward. "Monica, we haven’t been introduced. Carlos es mi esposo. She took Monica’s hands and held it between her own hands. Don’t be afraid."

Monica tried to smile. It was just the shadows, not bad men in the jungle. I’m fine. Is it okay that we came?

Of course, let me just send Carlos on his way.

Rosie turned to face Carlos. I’ll take care of things. She whispered, "You tell me that Jesus has raped this woman. I have my doubts. Think about your business deals, how they have raped the beaches, think of la tierra, the earth we walk on. Maybe this is a warning. Go. If Monica and I need anything, I’ll let you know." Rosie hugged a stiff Carlos. There were tears in her eyes as she turned back to face Monica.

Not what you expected, was it, Monica? I’m not the jealous wife. Let’s get to work helping your friend heal. I may not be a doctor or nurse, but between us I think we can manage. I assume your friend has a name.

Monica smiled for the first time. Her name is Carmen.

The two worked quietly. Monica washed Carmen’s face, cleaning the blood and applying ice to bruised, swollen cheeks. Rosie cut away Carmen’s dress, exposing minor knife wounds on her forearms and chest, where she had held up her arms as protection. These wounds had already begun to close, yet the blood centered near the vagina, where a mass of clots continued to ooze. Rosie looked up and asked, Monica, could your friend have been pregnant? I think after her beating, she miscarried.

If she was, I didn’t know about it. We talked, but not about the present. Carmen always told me stories of her homeland. She loved the place. I’m not sure, but I think they forced her to leave. I never knew why. I should have asked her more. Do you think she’ll survive?

Rosie flashed Monica a smile. Don’t be so frightened. Carmen is young and healthy like you. The wounds aren’t too deep, and the blood is already clotting. We’ll bring her some tea mixed with guava juice to keep her hydrated. With some rest and care, we’ll get her strength up. Please go into the kitchen. I left the tea and juice on the table.

When Monica returned, she stood quietly at the door just watching Rosie. Rosie had pulled her long black hair back into a curly ponytail and sat behind Carmen’s head with her legs straddling Carmen’s body. She placed her hands under Carmen’s shoulder blades, lifting and stretching Carmen’s chest. With a soothing voice, Rosie whispered a chant of nonsensical words. Carmen’s breath changed from short gasps to a smooth flow. Rosie continued down the length of Carmen’s body with soft touches to her shoulders, arms, hips, legs, and finally her feet. Carmen’s body transformed as the tensions released.

Sweat dripped off Rosie’s nose and her pointed chin. The olive skin of her arms shone with effort. She seemed to sense Monica’s gaze on her back. Monica, how long have you been standing there? I got lost in Carmen’s breath.

Tentatively, Monica walked in with the drinks. I’ve never seen anything like that. It was so intimate, magical. You are half my size, but you frighten me with your magic. It’s like you cast a spell on Carmen, just with your touch. It seemed so unselfish, but scary.

Oh my, I’ve frightened you. Rosie shook her head, then gave a guttural laugh. I should fear you. Bloodstained lady of the streets! Set the drinks down and go into my bedroom. I have some clothes somewhere in my closet that might fit you. Take a shower and change. We’ll leave Carmen to rest, and I’ll get us something to eat.

Chapter 3: Sugarcane

Deep in thought, Carlos left Rosie’s cabin. As he drove away, he replayed the last scene. Rosie’s parting words had stung, deeper than she could imagine. Why did his wife, his woman, criticize him? With the price of coconuts falling, he had to find a way to make a decent living. Developing their land made sense. Rosie was a biologist; she had no idea about economics. In the form of cement, sand gained value. Merely looking out at beautiful sand beaches, or sandy farmland with failed crops, didn’t pay the bills.

Carlos, what are you mumbling about? You got what you wanted. Rosie will help the prostitutes. Put tonight behind you.

Carlos narrowed his eyes and shot Pedro an incredulous look. His thoughts remained on the land, land that they had bought years ago, when Rosie was a professor at the university, and they were newlywed. Oh, to go back to that time. Rosie had come from the United States, searching for ways to fix the world. In a way, Rosie acted more Latino then he did. Even her skin was darker than his. Rosie’s father came from Costa Rica, her mother from the east coast of the United States. Once, the two of them had thought about building a home in the center of the one hundred acres of palms. Rosie planned to continue her studies in agriculture and biomedicine, and they would have a home to raise their children. But all that had changed. With her holed up in her cabin, their physical separation emphasized their differences and drew them further apart.

Angry, he gunned the gas pedal, and the truck lurched forward.

Pedro complained, "Mi pana, slow down! It isn’t like you to be so angry and jumpy. What has gotten into you these last few weeks? Is there something else happening besides your breakup with Rosie? You two have been together a long time. She is my friend as well. What did she mean by you raping the earth? Tell me, Carlos. You need to talk."

Talking won’t do any good. Tonight, when we took those ladies up to Rosie, she already knew that I was coming, which is impossible, since there are no phones to her cabin. She must be spying on me. Why else would I feel that I was handing over my life? That some horrible darkness was lurking around the corner, a shadow waiting to grab me?

Staring at Carlos, Pedro’s foot began to pump up and down. Beads of sweat collected above his lip. He fiddled with the radio knobs until a familiar salsa played. Carlos, you sound like me. I didn’t know you believed in voodoo?

"I don’t. It’s just that Rosie and I have always been close, but since I have become involved more with politics and city development, it’s as if we’re spinning in different orbits. Rosie’s orbit is out of sync. I can’t control her anymore. I need her by my side, listening to me, without her opinions getting in the way. Contra, Rosie seems to listen to everyone else’s problems, but ignores mine."

Carlos shrugged, turned his head from side to side, and loosened his tight grip on the steering wheel. Pedro, I forgot to check on our last shipment of coconuts. On the way home, I need to pass by the coconut farm. Do you want to come, or should I drop you off?

You still haven’t answered me about what Rosie said. Are you selling the sand on the farm? I thought you were only selling a few acres of the farm to build homes.

Everything depends on Rosie. She and I signed for the land adjacent to my family’s property with both of our names. Now our funds are co-mingled. I don’t want her to know anything else, until I’m sure about the agreement. I must sway her, get beyond her stubborn pride. Talking to you will only make matters worse.

That does change things. I thought you were being a gentleman, trying to include her. You really can’t sell anything until she agrees. I had no idea of Rosie’s importance in the deal. Pedro fiddled with the radio station again. He bounced to the music and used his knees as drums. Never mind my questions. Let’s just enjoy the evening. I’ll go with you, but I still have some errands to run before I get home.

Carlos glanced over at Pedro, who had become a human instrument. Carlos joked, Are you seeing someone? Since when do you have errands to do this late? Whoever she is, I wish her luck.

Pedro laughed, ignoring Carlos’s taunts.

Calmer, Carlos drove more sensibly. Even though he had the twists and turns of the roads memorized from childhood, the sharp turns demanded his full attention. Fallen stalks of sugarcane littered the one-lane road. During the harvest cycle, trucks overburdened with sugarcane windrows used the cool of the night and the absence of traffic to travel. Farmers burned their entire fields to quicken the harvest of stubble left behind the initial cutting, and now he smelled the pungent odor of burnt cana, mixed with that of salt water, as they neared la playa.

Pedro rolled up his window and made a face at the smells. Carlos, I don’t know how you can ignore the stench. I’d have thought you’d be more discerning.

You’d say that to me? It’s part of who I am. Once Carlos had tried to climb the coconut trees on his family farm, but his parents objected and grounded him. At first, he thought it was to keep him safe, but later he realized they didn’t want him to mingle with workers. One of them, Jesus, had mastered the art of coconut scaling and tried to teach Carlos. Jesus was one of just a handful left on the island who could do that.

Pedro shrugged. I just thought you had tired of the coconuts, that you were interested in selling everything.

Carlos drove farther along the road. The lane narrowed and would then split into two lanes—one leading toward his house, sixty feet above sea level, and the other flattening toward the beach where his and Rosie’s coconut grove stood. He thought back on the evening. Jesus may have seemed borracho, but certainly not so drunk as to beat that woman.

Pedro, what did you think about this evening in the bar? Rosie may be right about Jesus. Not her high opinion of him, but that he didn’t hurt that woman.

Pedro fidgeted in his seat and turned his head to look out the window. Who else could it be? We saw Jesus leave with the woman. Maybe he was upset about the farm. You told me you had talked to him last month about your plans.

"I only gave him a brief explanation. When I met the two New York Ricans, at the trade meeting in Old San Juan, they were trying to make sense of the island’s politics. Even though they were born Puerto Rican, they had never lived here. They needed to know that doing business on the island was more complicated and has many layers. I only told Jesus about the possibility of building a few condominiums. I didn’t mention promoting tourism or that for me to raise $100,000 to invest, I would sell some of the sand to use for the needed cement. Jesus is loyal. He said he’d help me in cualquiera way. I took him at his word."

Who knows what could have set him off? You’re too trusting.

"Jesus is like family. His father worked for my father, bregando, fighting the sugarcane, and Jesus also worked in the pineapple fields. He wouldn’t do anything behind my back."

Pedro took his time to answer, choosing his words carefully. Perhaps Jesus has grown greedy. Maybe he’s tired of just working for someone else, watching everyone else succeed.

"I’m not so sure about that. He didn’t seem drunk tonight, just sad. He knew I was in the bar, and if he was angry, he could have confronted me. Why fight with a helpless woman? It doesn’t make sense. Contra, Rosie knows something. Jesus must have confided in her."

Pedro cleared his throat and turned to face Carlos. You let Rosie have private talks with another man? Maybe that is your problem. I wouldn’t let my woman around another man. He is probably turning her mind and her heart.

They were almost at the farm. Just before Carlos made the turnoff toward the beach, he swerved his truck to avoid piles of sugarcane littering the road. "Mirate. Que mal suerte! Pedro, look." A truck full of sugarcane lay tilted in the ditch. Carlos pulled his truck off to the side of the road and jumped out to investigate.

Pedro followed right behind, muttering, "Esta cabron. This is the worst spill I’ve seen. Can you see the driver?"

Carlos stood at the front of the truck, which was angled so that half of the tires were in the air. The door to the driver’s side was open. "No, no hay nadia. No one here. He climbed one of the tires to peer inside the truck. Pedro, look. It doesn’t make sense."

Pedro stuck his head over the side of the truck, jumped down, and backed away. I don’t know, what do you see?

This isn’t just a spill of sugarcane. Pedro, you don’t recognize the vines, the linea vines that Rosie dries, and the orchids? They must have been at the bottom of the truck. Whose truck is this?

Pedro headed back to Carlos’s truck, ignoring the questions.

By the time Carlos got back in, Pedro had already buckled up. Carlos stared at his friend and said, Your hands are shaking. You’re paler than sand.

Pedro shook his head. I don’t recognize the truck. Let’s get out of here. What did you say about sand?

Calm down. I just said your face is white like sand. What’s gotten into you?

It’s a bad night to be out. First the stuff at the bar, and now this. Just take me home.

Carlos turned his truck around and headed back to town. first we have to go to the police. Tell them about the incident at the bar and then this accident. You are a witness, too.

I’d rather not, if it’s all the same to you. I’ve got those errands.

Annoyed, Carlos spoke sternly, Unless you know something that I don’t, you are a government official and my friend. I think Rosie is in danger.

By the time Carlos maneuvered his truck down the hills and into town, his anger had dissipated, and in its place, doubts appeared. He looked over at Pedro, who he was sure feigned sleep. The sight of the overturned truck had rattled Pedro. Carlos feared for Rosie’s safety, but Pedro’s reaction had nothing to do with Rosie’s well-being. His nervous shakes and refusal to go to the police tipped Pedro’s hand. He never was good at playing poker. Carlos suspected there was more to the accident and that Pedro knew something.

The town was lit up with decorations for yet another Saint celebration. The Catholic Church kept the townspeople involved. Although it was late, some families roamed with kids in strollers while others danced. Carlos parked a block from the police station. Pedro, wake up. We’re here.

Pedro sat up and straightened his shirt, looked in the mirror. Why’d you park so far away?

Irritated, Carlos responded, Look outside. The streets are crammed with people, and there’s a group of protesters with signs about the bombing on Vieques marching in front of the police station. Come on.

Carlos slammed the truck door shut and hastily walked past the locals, directly into the police station. A line of young students from the university were seated in the waiting room, all in handcuffs. Another group of women Carlos recognized from the bar sat at the other end of the room. One officer stood at the counter.

Sir, how can I help you?

Carlos stepped forward. I’d like to report two accidents.

Speak up, I can’t hear you. What accidents, where?

Not one to expose private matters in public, Carlos lowered his voice and leaned into the counter. On the road to my farm, a sugarcane truck was on its side.

Not unusual. You should know that. Probably the farmer over-filled the truck, or the driver was drinking. Anyone hurt? We’re busy tonight, so if there are no casualties, maybe this can wait.

Carlos didn’t think it could wait. He looked around for Pedro, but he had disappeared. A sense of dread settled in. Where did he go, and why? The silence in the station seemed odd, considering the two sets of detainees.

What’s going on? he asked.

Besides the protestors, a drug bust, some foreigners with funny accents drinking too much, and the normal evening brawls, the ladies over in that corner claim there was an attack on their friend. No bodies, and no one is really talking.

Immediately Carlos realized that the women had reported Carmen’s attack. It didn’t serve him to get Rosie involved. Hmm, I guess my complaint can wait. Just give me a form. I’ll drop it by.

Carlos left with paper in hand. When he was out the door, he spotted Pedro across the plaza, conversing with Carlos’s new business associates. Odd. Angry, he crumbled the complaint form and tossed it into the street. As he crossed the plaza, the three disappeared. Carlos wondered about Pedro’s so-called errands. Normally he believed his friend, but this behavior smelled bad, like rotten fish sold at an elegant restaurant. It was one thing to live a double standard, but not with friendship.

Carlos headed back to the truck. While he didn’t look forward to an empty house, he needed sleep, time to think. He stopped at one of the street bars and ordered a beer, took two swigs, and walked out with it. Still in earshot of the bar, he overheard two workers from his coconut farm. Jesus is playing with fire. I heard him call the boss’s wife by her first name. They say that she lives alone now and that she’s working with Jesus up at her cabin.

Did his workers see him in the bar? Were they taunting him? Carlos poured his beer in the gutter and left.

Chapter 4: Abuelita—Doña Teresa

Cukkoo Karoo, Cukkoo Karoo.

Monica woke up and tried to decipher the sounds around her. Panicking, she sat up and listened. Again, she heard, Cukkoo Karoo. Smiling, she realized it was roosters welcoming in the day with their morning song. For no reason in particular, she felt hopeful.

As she listened, the morning song changed, roosters quieting down and human voices filling the air. Monica threw on what must have been Carlos’s work clothes. They fit her ample physique and made her feel grounded, ready for a different type of physical work.

By the time Monica had made her way to the kitchen, some of the previous night’s qualms had begun to return, and she entered tentatively. An elderly woman sat at the table. She looked as if she had sat in the same chair many times before. Monica stared, fascinated by the woman’s face. It might have been physically beautiful years before, but it had aged in such a way that only life’s hardships remained imprinted. Her skin had a hardened texture, baked by the sun, but permanent smile lines fanned out from the eyes and softened her tough exterior. As she talked, her nostrils flared in excitement. Energy poured from the woman, life in the form of a fireball.

As she talked with Rosie, her hands moved from her chest and up to her hair, long curls held back by elegant tortoise combs. Monica suspected that this woman was younger than her wrinkled skin portrayed. The hands signed a story of their own, contrasting the elegance of the combs with the raggedness of knobbed knuckles and leathered palms. Hair to chest, head to heart, the hands carried her words from mind to spirit.

Fascinated by the pantomiming hands, Monica kept quiet and stood back from the doorway, eavesdropping on their conversation.

Rosie chuckled nervously. You saved me once again, Abuelita. Carmen’s frantic outbursts and violent attempts to claw surprised me. Her physical wounds seem minor, compared to her mental state.

I’m not sure I’ve saved anyone. But at least we can rest now. Carmen will sleep for a few hours. With the loss of so much blood, her bodily needs will take over the mind for a while.

Good, I don’t want Monica to worry too much about her friend. She feels guilty as it is. There’s no need for her to know about the lashing out.

Abuelita nodded in agreement. Does it bother you that Carmen and Monica are prostitutes?

"How could you think such a thing, Abuelita? Remember what the pueblo thought of you, years ago. Everyone feared your beauty and youth. The only one you could get to build your house was Don Tuto. All the other men were forbidden by their wives."

All that seems like centuries ago. Some things never change, though. When I look at Carmen and Monica, I think of my mother, her problems with men, her attempts to save me. Don Tuto and Maria are what truly saved me. His love for his wife, and her open heart, gave me a purpose, a way to funnel my fear and anger into something more meaningful and productive. Even after all these years since her death, I still miss Maria.

She’s still alive for you and Don Tuto. Maria made sure of that. Her wishes were more powerful than her death. I think of my father in that way.

Abuelita bent her head slightly. When she spoke, her eyes glistened with tears. Your father’s work in the jungles saved my life. I wonder what he would say now, if he could see all the experiments you’ve tried on his vines, seen the advancements?

Hopefully he would be proud. Rosie paused in thought. In a way, you knew him better than I did. You worked with him in the jungles. I was so young when he died, and I knew so little of his life. I wish I could have met Maria.

You would have loved her. She wanted me to find peace and not have to run from my past. She saw the injustices that other women suffered. Physically she couldn’t go on, so she left this world. But her spirit is everywhere in the caves.

"Sometimes while I dry the linea vines, I sense my father’s presence. He paces back and forth, hovering over my shoulder, peace eluding him. Abuelita, I felt him last night as Carmen lunged toward me. His spirit seemed disturbed. I even felt Maria’s presence in the shadows."

Humph, I’d take that as a sign, Rosie. Right now, we have to decide what is best for Carmen and Monica.

Monica took this as her cue and poked her head inside the doorway just as Rosie poured coffee.

Rosie turned to face her. Good morning, Monica. I was just talking with my good friend and neighbor, Abuelita. Sit yourself down and join us.

Monica nodded a hello to both and sat down at the small round table next to Abuelita. I’m sorry if I slept late. The roosters woke me, or else I might have remained asleep for weeks. I didn’t know I was so tired.

You must be hungry, too. Rosie offered Monica sliced guavas, bananas, and oranges with the coffee. Carmen’s night was fitful. She developed a fever and called out Jesus’s name over and over. Her body trembled, and she tried to fight some demon. I asked her if Jesus had hurt her, but she shook her head no. I sent for Abuelita when Carmen’s eyes went vacant. It could have been shock, but I sensed Carmen had left her body. I hope you don’t mind, but Abuelita has more experience with spiritual healing.

Monica held her taza of coffee with both hands. Listening to Rosie’s description of Carmen’s tortured night, she found the banana and guava slices stuck in her throat. With a swallow of the strong espresso, a few questions broke loose. I didn’t hear a car last night, or Carmen’s cries. How did Rosie send for you?

Placing both hands on the table, Abuelita pushed herself upright. Her torso was slightly twisted at the spine, yet her shoulders held her head steady, smooth without rounding. She approached Monica, with her head held high, as if she were adjusting for her crookedness by pulling her neck straighter. Her arms opened wide, and as she encircled Monica, she whispered, My child, I came in the middle of the night. Rosie sent for me the only way she could. There is no phone here, and she couldn’t leave Carmen, so she let one of my homing pigeons go. I came by foot. My home is just over the hillside. Can you tell me more about Carmen? I sense that Carmen is keeping secrets and that she fears for her life.

Confusion replaced Monica’s earlier sense of hope, and she once again felt a sense of things going out of control. Where was her confidence of yesterday, when she was at the bar? If only she could turn the clock back.

She swallowed a few times before looking directly at Abuelita. Carmen does have secrets, but I don’t know what they are. She’s originally from Costa Rica. As I told Rosie, I don’t know why. But I suspect her family abandoned her. Or it could be just the opposite, that she is afraid someone will hurt her family as a vendetta if she doesn’t work off a debt. Carmen really isn’t cut out for this business, and I know she came against her will.

Monica, is Carmen here illegally?

Rosie, I apologize. I thought you knew that when you let us come here. One of the reasons I didn’t want to go to the police was that Carmen told me she didn’t have paperwork to be in the country. The police would have turned her in or expected us to service them for free. Are you mad at me?

I would have helped you either way. The paperwork is meaningless to me. I just wondered how long you have known Carmen and if you can trust her story.

About eight months ago, one of my girls found her walking the streets, vomiting on the side of the road. They were annoyed that she was in their territory, making a bad impression. I took her in mainly because she looked so pathetic.

Monica didn’t mention that Carmen reminded her of her sister back in New York. She didn’t mention the sadness she felt surrounding Carmen. Most of the girls working as prostitutes are running from something. I never really asked her why. For me it’s an adventure, one that pays well. I can leave at any time, no debts, no strings, no commitment. Monica didn’t let on how many years she’d been telling herself this lie.

Abuelita slowly exhaled her breath, a breath that seemed to come from deep inside her soul and linger in the air. It takes an incredible amount of strength and centeredness to maintain secrets and not have them control your life. Carmen lives in the shadows of her past, and these secrets make her present life dark. Jesus is part of her present life, but what happened to her is from the past. As much as I fear for Carmen, at this moment, my true concern is for Jesus.

Monica looked at Abuelita in disbelief. How can you know this?

"Before I left my home to come here, last night, another of my homing pigeons returned. This pigeon came from Jesus. He must have let it go earlier. I thought he was joking with me because the only message I could find was yesterday’s lottery ticket. Bolita—you know, not the official lottery. Jesus has always played with the hope of sometime winning big, so he could buy land of his own. I have the ticket in my pocket."

Rummaging in her skirt pocket, Abuelita’s fingers fumbled as she came upon a crinkled ticket. She brought the ticket in close to her face, studying one side and then the other. As she turned it over, her eyes hardened and her body stiffened. A shadow darkened the room, and all color drained from her face.

Rosie ran to her side, supported her at the shoulders, and took the ticket from her hands. What do you see, Abuelita? Tell me.

Abuelita closed her eyes, inhaled, and continued deeply breathing until the color returned to her face. As she regained her composure, she whispered, "Look carefully on the margin. At first, I thought it was just