A Greater Love (8 page)

Putting away this piece of the past seemed to prompt a new vein of thought. His heart still grieved, but his practical mind moved on. What would happen to them now? It was only a matter of time until people found out they had no guardian. Then they’d be sent to the orphanage.

Miguel thought hard. Unless … unless he could make everyone believe the woman in the woods was not Octávia at all. Miguel rubbed at his face, making sure there were no tears, or tale-tell streaks before angling up the slope to Paulo’s shack. The door was covered with an odd orange paint which flaked with age. A white number two, also peeling, sprawled over the upper half of the door.

“Yes?” Paulo’s mother answered his knock. She was an old woman like Octávia—at least forty, Miguel figured. Heavy wrinkles crowded under her eyes, though the skin of her cheeks was stretched smooth by underlying fat. Her face was the only part of her that had any meat. The rest of her body sagged, as if the skin had lost its elasticity. A silver chain encircled her neck, crammed with many small charms, all of which were dulled by dirt and age. In her pierced ears she wore thin gold hoops.

“I need to talk with Paulo,” Miguel said meekly.

His mother called for the boy, not allowing Miguel inside. She kept her gaze averted, as if not wanting to involve herself with Miguel or his life.

“Well?” Paulo demanded. His mouth was full and he carried a bowl of soup in his hands.

Miguel’s tongue stole over his lips. “Someone’s dead, all right, but it ain’t Octávia,” he said in a rush. “The police up there is gonna take the body away.”

“It really ain’t Octávia?” Paulo’s mother asked.

“No, it ain’t.” If Paulo had asked the question, Miguel would have asked him if his ears were working, but he knew better than to speak like that to a mother, even one as homely as Paulo’s. “I heard ’em say the lady wasn’t even from around here,” he added for good measure.

“That’s good news,” Paulo’s mother said.

Paulo looked at him with new respect. “Wasn’t you afraid, seein’ that dead body?”

“’Course not. I ain’t afraid of nothin’,” Miguel lied. “A dead body can’t hurt nobody.”

Paulo shivered and didn’t look convinced. He ladled a huge spoon of soup to his mouth, sipping noisily.

Miguel stared. “I gotta be gettin’ home.”

“Stay and eat some soup, if ya want,” Paulo’s mother offered, her dark eyes suddenly eager for juicy details. “You can tell us ’bout what ya saw.”

She wasn’t alway so generous, and for a moment, Miguel was tempted, but then he thought of Sara. “Can’t,” he said, stepping back. “Octávia’s waitin’ dinner on me.”

“Some other time then.” Paulo slurped up another spoonful of soup. Drops fell on his chin, and he wiped them off with the back of his hand.

Miguel walked slowly to his shack and knocked on the door. “It’s me, Sara.”

She opened the door, a chunk of bread in her hands. “I was gettin’ a little scared. What took ya so long?”

“Nothin’. There any bread left?”

“A whole loaf that Octávia bought for us. A small chicken, too. I was waitin’ for you to start it cookin’.

They shared a nice meal by the fire, and though the room was warm enough, he was cold inside. Sara yawed as he put away the bread and chicken breast they’d saved for Octávia.

“Why ain’t she back yet?”

He shrugged. “She’ll come when she’s done drinkin’. You know how she is. But here, give me the key. I’ll let her in when she comes. It’ll probably be late and you gotta sleep.” He took the string with the key and put it around his own neck.

When Sara was asleep, he staggered to the lantern, blew it out, and walked blindly back to the blanket near the dim coals of the fire. Cuddling next to his sister, he let the warmth of her body flood him, easing the fear. Whatever happened, he had Sara.

But no! It couldn’t be true. Tomorrow Octávia would be at him again to get more money. Maybe she would even slap him. He would be nicer to her. He would even find her a Christmas present. Tonight’s event was all a nightmare and tomorrow when they awoke Octávia would be alive and well as she had been this morning. Yes, tomorrow everything would be all right.

Chapter Eight

Daniel strolled along the cobblestone sidewalk, his feet heavy and dragging despite his conscious effort to pretend everything was normal. Under his thigh-length wool coat, he wore an expensive wool suit and a gray and white pin-stripped shirt, open at the collar. In his hands he clutched a leather briefcase.

“Good morning, Senhor Andrade,” his secretary said a short time later. She flashed him a smile, white in contrast to her ebony skin.

Daniel started.
How did I get here?
He remembered nothing of his customary commute on the bus. “Uh, good morning, Claudia. How are you today?”

“Good, thank you.”

“Anything up for right now?”

“You’ve got that religious group here again wanting the final permission on the nativity scene in the park.” She lowered her voice. “They’re a little upset that we’ve taken so long to approve it. After all, it’s already the first week of December.” The way she said it told Daniel she agreed with the group.

Daniel blinked. How’d it get to be that late in the year? How long had Cristina been gone? Had it been two weeks? No, almost three. She’d left in mid-November, little more than a week after they had gone sailing for the last time together. Daniel had never told Claudia that his wife had left. Maybe he should. Maybe then she’d be more sympathetic. He sighed. “Very well, I’ll see them now.”

“Okay.” She rose gracefully from her chair and headed in the direction of the waiting room.

“Claudia.” His voice stopped her. “Give me five minutes before sending them in.”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.”

She paused and searched his face. “Is something wrong?”

He shook his head. “I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep well.”

Daniel opened the door to his office. It was spacious, more room than he needed, but he sometimes felt trapped inside. Four plush chairs sat vacantly in front of his oak desk and a large, high-backed one, upholstered in padded black leather, sprawled behind it. Into this chair he settled, sighing with pleasure.

The feeling was short-lived. On the desk, a photograph of Cristina mocked him from its silver frame. He grabbed it angrily and shoved it into the desk drawer, slamming his thumb inside. Bringing the throbbing thumb to his mouth, he whirled his chair around to gaze out the third-story window behind him. The pain in his thumb subsided, but the ache in his heart didn’t dim.

There was nothing to see out the window but a row of unending buildings and a thin crowd of people walking below. The dark colors of winter and the sea of black widow’s garb depressed him further. Maybe he should wear black; he felt as though he were in mourning.
Where are you, Cristina?

A short time later, Claudia ushered in the group of five men and two women. They were members of seven different religious groups in the area, all Christians, joined together for one cause only: to set up a manger scene in the park along Main Street. Three of the seven—the Evangelicals, the Catholics, and the Mormons—had buildings nearby, and most of their congregations would pass the park on their way to church services.

“We’ve approved your use of public land,” Daniel announced, coming quickly to the point. “But we cannot provide security for the display. You’ll have to watch it yourself—or accept the consequences.”

“I think you underestimate our community,” said one of the older men. Daniel couldn’t remember which faith he represented—or which faith any of the other petitioners represented either. It was unlike his normal thoroughness. Since Cristina left, he’d felt apathetic about many things.

“Yes,” the youngest man in the group added. “We feel this effort will generate a spirit of community, of family. Of love toward our brothers. We want to remind everyone of the great sacrifice Jesus Christ made, and what it means to us.”

Daniel waved the words aside. He believed in Christ on some level but hadn’t visibly seen His hand moving in the lives of those around him. Would a Being of so great power even deign to notice these petitioners? What did He care about so many people scurrying around like ants? “Are you still planning on a midnight Mass, or whatever?”

“A meeting,” the young man corrected. “At eight o’clock on Christmas Eve. All the congregations are welcome to come and sing hymns. We’ll have a brief speaker from each denomination.” His brown eyes were fervently alive, and Daniel envied his belief. But the eyes also reminded him of Cristina and her passionate plea, which sparked Daniel’s anger.

“Do as you wish,” he nearly growled. “Just so the nearby neighbors approve.”

“We’ve spoken to everyone,” one of the women said. Her voice was low and soft, and again Daniel was reminded of his wife.

He didn’t look at her, but at his fingers, strumming the desk. “They agreed?”

“Yes.”

“Very well.” He stood up, showing their dismissal. “Good luck.”

“Will we see you there?” the young man asked with his ever-ready smile. “The public is invited. There will be no proselytizing that night, just a relaxing evening of song and worship.”

Daniel pasted on a return smile with difficulty. “Perhaps,” he lied. He shook hands with each person and saw them to the door. As they left, he wondered how they would feel when their statues were defaced by vandals, or even stolen.

Well, the matter no longer concerned him. With relief, he shut the door with more force than necessary. One more problem solved. Too bad things with his wife couldn’t be fixed so easily.

His intercom buzzed. “What is it, Claudia?” he asked, grateful for the interruption.

“It’s Senhor Bernardino on line two.”

Daniel smiled. António Bernardino was an old friend who’d worked with Daniel in his early years in politics. Four years before, he’d moved across the river to work for the government there. “Thanks, I’ll take it.” Daniel picked up the receiver with false bravado. “António! How have you been?”

“Good, Daniel, good.”

“And the family?”

“Maria’s fine and the kids are getting big. Zé’s nearly four now. Can you believe it? And little Fernanda is two.”

“My, how time flies,” Daniel said. The truth was he had never seen the children and asked about them only because he knew his old friend would be offended if he didn’t.

“Yes, I haven’t seen you since … since last Christmas, wasn’t it? At your dinner party. Yeah, that was it. Cristina is one great cook. How is she anyway?”

“She’s fine.” Daniel rushed on before António could ask anything more personal. “So what brings you to call this side of the river?”

“Business, to tell the truth. Sad, isn’t it? That two old friends almost never talk to each other except when there’s business involved.”

“It’s better than nothing,” Daniel said. “What can I help you with?”

“A woman turned up dead over here last night. Natural causes, if you consider drinking yourself to death natural. No one’s come forward to identify her so far. I don’t think anyone will. We found no fingerprint match in the database, either. Perhaps she’s a vagrant. Normally it wouldn’t be such a big deal, but my office has been hopping this morning with concerned citizens—none of whom have any particular concern with the deceased, mind you. You see, there’s a new apartment complex not too far from the woods where she was found and some people are upset. The developers are taking advantage of the situation and trying to press the government into selling a large tract of undeveloped land—practically the whole forest—saying that building there will cut down on vagrancy and risk.”

“And turn a lot of poor people out of the sorry homes they do have,” Daniel added with a grimace.

“You got it. Money, of course, is at the root of all the mess. The developers are using people’s fear of strangers and vagrants to fatten their own pockets. Needless to say, if I could come up with an identification, perhaps a family who’s looking for this woman, things would die down a bit.”

“I’ll keep watch over here for anything that might tie in,” Daniel said. “But aren’t you looking rather far afield? The answer probably lies with the people who live in the woods.”

“There are about twenty families living in those makeshift houses right in the woods, but we’ve questioned all of them. If they know something, they’re not telling. There’s another shack community close by, but none we’ve questioned there admit that anyone’s missing. The problem is so big. Where do we begin? Those who might have information are suspicious of outsiders. The ones who scream the loudest seem to know nothing, or are only looking out for their own good.”

“That’s community for you.” Daniel didn’t try to hide his bitterness.

“It’s not all bad. I hear you guys over there are having a nativity scene in the park.”

Daniel snorted. “News spreads fast. I only gave the final approval myself this morning, right before you called.”

António laughed. “I read it in the paper last week. In the paper, you can read about anything before it happens. It’s one of the reasons why things happen at all. Well, you take care, Daniel. Let me know if anyone reports a missing relative. My secretary is calling the other cities now to tell them the same thing. And of course the police are starting an investigation.”

“I’ll keep an ear out, António.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Let’s get together sometime.”

“Sounds good. I’ll call you.”

Daniel knew he never would. The times they had socialized outside of work had always been organized by Cristina—and she was gone. He stared out the window again for long moments but found no solace. At last, he forced himself to work, pushing aside his emotions. But one thought prevailed: how could he get Cristina back without sacrificing his ideals?

Chapter Nine

Tendrils of early morning light crept into the shack through the cracks in the boards, forcing Miguel awake. He fought the urge, wanting to let himself sleep until he was fully rested—like maybe for a year. Beside him in the warm blankets, Sara sat, yawning. Pushing up her sweater sleeves, she scratched at the countless flea bites lining her thin arms, standing out red against the soft white flesh. Miguel felt his own neck itching and wished it were summer so he could soak his body in the lake at Entre Campos.