Page 30 - WTP Vol.VII #2

Iwas Nadya Luca’s handyman in almost every sense of the word; alas, I was not privy to her bed. Her tiny house was in disrepair, and her Buick constantly broke down. I was there to replace spark plugs, clean the dis- tributor heads, and tighten her fan belt. I stopped up leaks in her pipes, expunged the squeak from hinges in doors, and painted over faded walls.
The first time I met Nadya, I stopped before her win- dowless cottage on a steep slope at the end of Ruxton Ave. “FORTUNE-TELLER” was hand-painted over her doorway with curlicue lettering that looked kind of exotic, but maybe quackish. The door was open; the inside dark like a black cavern.
I still couldn’t answer. If I allowed my mind to open to that cavern of despair, the pain would be unbearable. Tears welled in my eyes.
“Come in, Sir,” she called to me from its recesses. A hand gestured me to enter as if extended from a dream. I had to duck my head under the doorframe and put my hands out in front of me. She took my right hand in hers, and a feeling of calm flowed through me like a deep drink of ice water. We stood together as she waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.
With the gentleness of a mother with a newborn, she touched each corner of my eyes with her pinky finger and, then, put the tip of her finger in her mouth. She rested her nose on my chest and breathed in deep.
Sweet Jesus at the Pearly Gates, she was beautiful, and tiny, her head barely coming to my chin. It was impossible to tell her age. A waterfall of black hair tumbled from the top of her head, crashing on her shoulders. The caramel skin on her face was with- out blemish or line as she smiled open-mouthed.
Her eyebrows were sketched black above her eyes, millimeters too high, giving her a look of constant surprise. It was summer, and she was cloaked in lay- ers of cloth that swished around her hips when she moved. Bangles, baubles, and beads adorned her, and she jangled with each step.
“What?” How could she possibly know I had a sister? Skepticism grew inside me like a blister on a burn. I was convinced a séance would be suggested with a request for more money. I tried to pull my hand away, but she held on fast.
She never let go of my hand, but began to rub her thumb into my palm. She ran the pad of her index finger along the tips of my fingernails, mumbling, “Hum?” and “Ah.” Turning my hand over, she brought it to her mouth and licked my knuckle. The whole time, she looked into my eyes, and when I tried to break eye contact, she gently turned back my face with her other hand. A thrill birthed in my groin, and my breathing quickened, for I was naive and hormon- ally quick to the rise.
I was dumbstruck. How could she know about the robbery in the market in Tijuana that had taken my parents and my sister? I ran from her cottage with- out paying.
“You are alone in this world.” This was not posed as a question, and I was instantly embarrassed. How could she possibly know the one thing that was the bane of my existence? I didn’t answer, trying to control my hot breath so close to her.
For the next month, I brooded over Nadya’s words. My guilt rose up just beneath the surface of my skin, nearly birthing insanity. I should have been there to protect them, my family, instead of selfishly leaving home to seek my fortune in America.
23
When next I ventured up the hill in Manitou Springs, Nadya was reserved with me. She must have guessed that I was ready to sprint with more revelations. She kept a distance, but still I felt the warmth emanating
So Much the Better
“They’re all dead.” Her voice an impossible baritone for her size.
“Who?”
“Your family.”
“May I taste your tears?”
I nodded “Yes.”
“Your sister says not to fret.” Her mouth opened into a broad smile.
“Julia says...” began Nadya. “Juanita,” I corrected.
“Juanita says the bullet burned at first, but then there was no pain.”
~
Rudy MeLena