Adirondack Audacity (17 page)

San Miguel Academy, Mexico
The ringing of the phone in the hallway shatters the
pre-dawn silence at Saint Miguel Academy. As the sun
approaches from the east, the morning birds roosting in
the trees open their throats to warble in the day. One of
the boys annoyed by the unanswered ringing of the
phone stumbles into the hall and snatches up the
receiver, brusquely demanding, “What the hell do you
want?” He leans on his elbow against the rough stucco
wall listening to the response on the other end. “Vic, it’s
for you, some girl. I don’t know, I think she’s speaking
English.” He announces as he lets the receiver fall and
bounce off the wall swaying from the cord, shuffling back
to his room scratching his butt through his pajama
bottoms.
Vic lifts his head from the pillow, suddenly wide
awake; his adrenaline response at full alert, knowing an
early morning call can only mean trouble. Kicking aside
the bed sheets, he hastily dons a pair of sweatpants lying
on the cold floor and stumbles to retrieve the phone.
With his heart in his throat he answers, “Hello?” There’s
no reply from the other line, so he repeats, “Hello?”
“Vic,” comes the sound of Ellen’s voice weeping.
“Elle?” He asks, pulling the stretched-out cord of the
phone into his bedroom, shutting the door against the
prying ears of the other students living on the floor.
“Elle, what’s wrong, talk to me,
querida,
why are you
crying?” he asks, confusion clouding his voice; “Is
something wrong with Gran?”
“No, Gran is doing fine, it’s not her. It’s me.” Ellen
tries to explain. “I’m calling from a phone booth. I don’t
want anyone to hear.” She is weeping uncontrollably,
huge gasping sobs, almost hysterical.
“Ella, tell me what’s wrong.” Vic demands, running a
hand through his hair, pacing as far as the cord will allow,
moving in a confined circle. “Elle, please talk to me. I’m
here, c
aro
. Take a deep breath, calm down. Whatever it is,
we can fix it.”
“I don’t think so, Vic……I’m pregnant,” she gasps
out the words between sobs and only stunned silence
comes over the line. “Vic? Are you there?” There is a
thud as the receiver of the phone bangs to the floor.
“Vic! Answer me,” she shouts into the phone when
he makes no reply. “Vic, say something, you’re scaring
me.”
Vic picks up the receiver, trying to control the
trembling in his voice. “Elle, did you say, pregnant?” he
asks in disbelief feeling his heart hammer a hole through
the wall of his chest.
“Vic, I’m pregnant with our baby.”
“Oh, Elle, no, no, how can this be, I thought you had
your period months ago.” His breath grows ragged as he
slides down the door frame, sitting with his head cradled
in his hands, panic coursing through his body. “You
wrote me, in September and the letter said we didn’t need
to worry any more. Are you absolutely sure? I don’t
understand. My God, how many months pregnant are
you?”
“I’m six months, I thought I had a period in
September, and……..and I haven’t had another one since
then. I know how stupid this sounds. I just kept hoping it
was mono or something….” In a ragged whisper she
says, “I can feel the baby kicking, I’m definitely
pregnant.”
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner,” he asks, incredulous
she would keep this secret from him. “Why did you keep
this from me?” Anger seeps into his voice as shock
mingles with disbelief.
“Please don’t be angry with me, I haven’t told
anyone. I thought it was mono, and that was why I was
so tired, or maybe I would have a miscarriage, so why get
everyone upset.” She sounds almost apologetic. “I was
going to tell Gran. I know she would help me, but she
had the accident. And…and I didn’t want to worry you.”
“You didn’t want to worry me!” His voice rises in
consternation. “I think I had damn well better be
worried, like about five months ago. What the hell were
you thinking!”
“I don’t know!” Her sobs come in heaving gasps,
desperately needing his reassurance not this shocked
wraith. “I was afraid. I didn’t know what to do.”
“How could you keep this from me?!”
“Vic, I wanted to tell you so many times, but I was
afraid. I didn’t want you to leave school.” She pauses,
trying to regain her composure. “We
have
to finish school
this year. How else can we go to college? It’s our only
hope.”
Vic leans against the wall, closing his eyes as the
enormity of their situation becomes a reality.
“Vic,’ Ellen whispers into the phone. “I’m frightened.
I need you so badly.”
Vic takes a deep breath, stands tall, straightening his
shoulders to the responsibility ahead of him. “Oh, Ella,
Ella, mia, forgive me,
querida,”
his anger vanishes, as he
leans his head against the door for support, wishing he
could slip through the phone line and take her in his
arms. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just such
a shock, that’s all…..Let’s both calm down and figure out
what to do. Have you seen a doctor?”
“No, but Helen made an appointment for me to see
one next week, I think she knows. The baggy sweatshirts
are not going to work much longer. Vic, I’m really
starting to get big.”
“So tell me…how are you feeling?”
“I’m actually feeling better than I did in the fall. I’m
not so tired anymore, but from what I’ve read that is
normal.”
“Listen to me carefully,” he says aching to touch her
face, wipe away her tears and fear. “I love you very
much.”
“I love you.” Snuffling through the tears, relief floods
her voice as his anger is replaced by concern.
“I’m coming to get you.” His voice takes on a
reassuring tone as his mind races from one plan to the
next accepting and rejecting possibilities in a matter of
seconds.
“Vic, I called Burt,” Ellen says. “I didn’t tell him
anything. I only said we wanted to come for a visit. I
think he was suspicious, he even offered to come get us,
but I didn’t know when you would be able to get here.”
“Good thinking. Burt will help us.” he sighs, pausing.
“Go about your normal routine. I’ll leave immediately;
catch a flight to New York and then a bus to you. When I
arrive in New York City, I’ll call and let you know
approximately what time the bus will get into town. Try
to bring as much money as you can get together.” He
rubs his forehead to stop the throbbing in his temples.
“Gran started a joint account for me several years
ago; she called it my nest egg, just in case I needed money
for an emergency. I went to the bank after school today
and withdrew the money. There was about two thousand
dollars in the account.”
“Thank God for Gran, that will get us to Burt and
still have some left over. Then we’ll think of another way
to come up with some cash,” he says, squatting down on
his hunches. “But we can’t plan too far ahead, let’s just
worry about the next few days.”
“Once you’re here, I’ll be okay. I just need you to
hold me.”
“I’ll have to call you at home. Try to answer the
phone. If someone else answers, I’ll just say that I’m in
one of your classes at school and I have a question about
a homework assignment.”
“That should work;; my brothers have hockey games
the next couple of nights, so I’ll be home alone.”
“Can you think of anything else? Bring a birth
certificate, if you have a copy and any other type of
identification. We’ll try to get married, but because we’re
not eighteen, I think we need our parents’ consent.”
“I already feel married. The scar on my hand is proof.
We have God as our witness.”
“Me, too, bella, I wish I was with you now.” Vic
closes his eyes, picturing her in his arms, safe from harm.
“I had better get going, the sooner I start traveling the
sooner I’ll be with you. Can you hold out until I get
there?”
“Yes, I feel better already.”
“I love you.”
“Love you back” And the phone lines go dead.

Pushing open the door and switching on the lights,
Vic’s father, Ramon Rienz walks into the chic New York
City apartment, no sound of warm greeting welcomes
him home after a long day of business negotiations.
Without looking, he knows his wife is passed out across
the pale blue comforter in her separate bedroom, another
day of wooing the vodka bottle.

Shaking his head in disgust he walks to the wet bar,
tosses a few ice cubes in a tumbler and pours himself a
shot of whiskey and a splash of water. Surveying the
main living space of the apartment his face twists in a
grimace of distaste;; his wife’s decorating style evident in
every single piece of furniture and fancy whatnots. The
thick white carpet is soft in contrast to the azure blue
walls and sofa, accented with pale shades of yellow. Her
artistic taste apparent in the Impressionist reproductions
hanging from ornate picture frames throughout the
apartment. The room too formal and feminine for his
taste, he prefers the rustic atmosphere of the ranch. His
idea of comfort is not silk pillows edged in lace. He
loosens the tie around his neck, and tosses his suit jacket
across the back of the couch. Pulling at the cuffs of his
French tailored shirt, he takes out the cufflinks and rolls
up his shirtsleeves. With a manicured hand, he smooths
back his hair, touched at the temples with just the right
amount of dignified gray. Sighing, he takes a sip of
whiskey, still a handsome man at the age of fifty-four, he
has no problems attracting women. He just doesn’t like
keeping them; inevitably they turn into whining nags and
shrews. Except for Maraposia, his mistress back in
Mexico, together not out of love, maybe lust, they
understand each other. She is also ruthless in pursuit of
her needs. One of the few women in his life tolerated for
more than a casual fling. She serves a purpose, but if need
be, she can be discarded without remorse. Feeling restless
he walks out onto the balcony overlooking the city
inhaling the cold January air, clearing his head of the
tension nagging at his temples. Setting the glass on the
balcony railing, he reaches up stretching his back
releasing muscles cramped from hours of meetings.

Through the open balcony door he hears the sound
of a phone ringing. Glancing down at his watch in
annoyance, he thinks, who the hell calls this late at night?
Not relishing the prospect of further business dealings
this late, he idly contemplates ignoring the irksome
ringing. He casts a wistful glance at the television where
he planned to relax and watch the basketball game. But
his sense of duty sends him into the study; the phone sits
atop a leather blotter on the mahogany desk. A family
picture of his wife and children taken at the ranch stares
up at him as he answers the phone with an impatient,
“Hello, Ramon Rienz.”

“Mr.
Rienz,” an apologetic voice replies. “This is
Louis Salvatore, the headmaster of St. Miguel’s School.
I’m sorry to be calling so late at night, but I thought you
would like to know.”

Yes, fine, fine, what do I need to know, what has
Vicente done this time?” Ramon has grown wearily of
dealing with the mischief his four sons have created over
the past two decades. Vicente is the youngest and
Ramon’s patience has worn thin, with little tolerance for
the antics of adolescence. Vicente’s life has been mapped
out for him since he was a young child. It pleased Ramon
his son agreed to finish high school at St. Miguel’s and
Ramon planned on enrolling Vicente at the University of
Mexico in the fall. After he finishes the pre-requisite four
years, he will return to the ranch, marry his betrothed
Isabella Martin and work in the family business. It has
been decided. There will be no deviation from the plan,
the other sons obeyed the family wishes, and Vicente will
do the same.

“Umm, Mr.
Rienz, I regret to inform you that Vicente
has left school.” Mr. Salvatore voice waives over the
phone line.

“What do you mean he left school?” Ramon asks
irritably, he despised the current head master of the
school thinking Salvatore was an impotent fool. Ramon
shakes his head in disgust. The man’s appointment to the
position of head master was based on academic merit not
his administrative skills. As a member of the school
board, Ramon had expressed his disapproval over the
appointment of Salvatore. It rankled him the school
board chose to override his veto and appoint the man to
the post. Now the reality of this thin, balding
incompetent fool calling him at his home, informing him
that he’d lost his son was more than his patience could
bear.

“You’ve lost my son!” He rebukes in a voice dripping
with sarcasm.
“No, Mr. Rienz, the school did not lose your son,
your son chose to run away from school.”
“I leave him in your care and he just disappears,
seems like a case of incompetence to me. I want an
explanation on the where abouts of my son and I want it
now.” Ramon slams down the tumbler of whiskey
causing a fine spray of droplets to mar the smooth
surface of the desktop.
“The nurse was told he had the stomach flu and
wished to stay in his room for the day. A staff member
went to check on him at dinnertime and was unable to
locate him.” Mr. Salvatore explained, knowing fully well
that Rienz would not accept this accounting of what had
happened.
“So you waited until dinner time to check on the
condition of my sick son, he damn well could have been
dead by that time!” Ramon bellows into the phone.
“His cousin, Hector, assured us that his condition
was not serious. Vicente just needed to rest, and we
trusted the judgment of an immediate family member.”
Mr. Salvatore replies in an even tone of voice.
“Where is Hector, I want to talk to him.”
“I am sorry to say once we discovered Vicente
missing; suddenly Hector was no longer available for
questioning. We believe he is covering up for your son’s
disappearance and doesn’t want to be questioned. I’m
sure he will turn up shortly.”
“So now, you blundering fool, you have lost both my
son and my nephew, and you expect me to be calm about
this situation.”
“No, I was hoping the family would have a reason for
the boys to be missing from school.” Salvatore responds
realizing the possibility of losing his job over the incident.
And as much as he despised the boy’s father, he
genuinely liked Vicente and hoped the boy was not in
serious trouble.
“What time was my son last seen?” Ramon voice
snaps over the phone.
“He was at dinner last night. When he failed to show
up for dinner this evening a staff member went to check
up on him and discovered him missing. One of the boys
living on the floor said Vicente received a phone call
from a girl early this morning, but couldn’t identify the
girl.”
“A girl?” Ramon asks; dread snaking through his
empty stomach.
“Yes, the boy said it was definitely a girl. I’m sorry
there is no further information at this time, but I felt you
should be called and informed.”
“Thank you so kindly for nothing!” Ramon bellows,
slamming down the receiver, storming down the hall
toward his wife’s bedroom.
“Elyse, damn it, wake up!”
Elyse Rienz lifts her head from the pillow, blinking at
Ramon standing in her doorway. The presence of her
angry husband sends a tremor of fear down her spine.
Filling the doorframe to her bedroom, Ramon Rienz is
six foot two inches of raw fury, with the body of a
linebacker. He was a boxer in his college days and not
against using his fists on occasion to persuade his sons
and once even his wife to see his point of view. This
dogged persistence made him the heavy weight champion
in his senior year at college and the core of his bulldog
attitude in business dealings. No one liked to cross
Ramon Rienz, least of all his wife.
“What’s the matter, Ramon?” She asks, sitting up in
bed reaching to turn on the bedside lamp.
“Maybe if you were more of a wife and a mother, you
would know what is going on with this family instead of
drowning yourself in a vodka bottle. Vicente is gone from
school. Do you know anything about this?”
“Gone, what do you mean gone?” She questions
pushing back her shoulder length blonde hair, concern
for her youngest son penetrating her drunken stupor.
“Gone, God damn it, left school and no one knows
where. Hector is covering for him and now he’s
disappeared. Something is up, supposedly some girl called
this morning asking for Vicente and then he left shortly
after. Do you know anything about a girl?”
“No, he’s never mentioned anyone in particular that I
can recall.”
“As usual you don’t know shit.” He turns on his heel,
stalking off in the direction of Vic’s bedroom. Elyse
follows behind him pulling on a silk bathrobe, hastily
knotting it at her waist.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to search his room to see if I can find any
clues as to where he could possibly be going. That idiot at
the school had no idea where to start searching.” He
marches into the room, pulling open drawers, tossing the
contents onto the floor with little regard to the mess he
was creating. He flips over the mattress, searching under
the bed then flings open the closet door to rifle through
the clothes and art supplies neatly arranged on shelves.
“Nothing, what the fuck!” Ramon curses. He stands
with his hands on his hips, breathing heavily from the
exertion of his demolition, surveying the room for the
slightest trace into the hidden life of his son. “There has
to be something here, a kid doesn’t leave school for no
reason. Who is this girl and why has he left school?
Damn it!”
He pulls the dresser away from the wall and there
taped to the back are two manila envelopes containing all
the clues he needs. Ripping the envelopes from the
dresser he crosses the room in two strides tossing the
contents on top of the bed. Letters from Ellen written
over Christmas break spill across the bedspread and
reveal to his prying eyes the relationship she shared with
his son. The second envelope contains the pictures taken
over the summer including the ones showing her naked
among the black-eyed Susans that hot August day.
“I’ll be a son of a bitch. God damn it, I’ll kill him
when I get my hands on him. Who the hell is this little
punta?
Nothing but a whore, look at these pictures.” He
throws the pictures on the bed and snatches up one of
the letters. “No return address, damn it.” He marches
from the room calling over his shoulder, “I’m calling
Morris Erhart and then Carl, head of our security
division, time to call in some favors and find my son
before he becomes anymore involved with this whore!”
Elyse sits down on the bed and with a shaking hand
picks up the pictures, looking at them closely one by one.
She doesn’t see a whore. What she sees is a beautiful
young girl not quite a woman with vivid blue eyes shining
out with a look of all-consuming love for her son. She
looks at the pictures with the eyes of an artist, observing
the carefully rendered photographs that use light and
angles to portray his love for this girl captured on film.
The letters open her eyes to the loneliness and longing
she had no idea existed in her son, a mutual loneliness the
two young lovers shared. She carefully gathers up the
letters and pictures and hides them away in her room
before her husband destroys them in his fury.
She stands hesitantly at the door to his den; one hand
placed tentatively on the doorjamb watching him gesture
wildly in the air with his free hand as he shouts orders
into the phone. When he hangs up she enters his den
timidly and he looks up at her with a glance of disgust.
“Throw those letters and pictures in the trash, do you
hear me.” He commands in a menacing tone.
“Yes,” she lies refusing to meet his eyes. “Ramon, I
read a few of those letters, maybe we should slow down
and talk to Vicente. They sound like two kids who have
fallen in love. Do you need to call in the police and
security people? Why don’t we try to keep this private?”
“Bullshit, I talked to the girl’s parents and apparently
she’s gone also. They had no idea she was seeing anyone,
but the step-mother thinks she’s pregnant. Obviously,
they’re on the run.”
“Oh, Ramon, Vic knew you would disapprove of him
seeing anyone but Isabella. So of course he hid his
relationship with this girl. He must love her very much.
Let’s give them a chance to share their side of the story.”
“Why don’t you just shut up and I’ll handle this, the
way I have to handle everything in this family. Look what
falling in love did for the two of us. I should have
followed my father’s wishes and married the woman he
picked out for me. But no, I had to have you and look
what that has gotten the two of us, nothing but misery. I
won’t let my son make the same mistake. He is betrothed
to Isabella Martin and that is who he will marry.” He
turns away from Elyse shaking his head in disgust. “Why
don’t you go and find your bottle because that seems to
be the only thing you are capable of doing. You’re
nothing but a drunk. Fine mother, you turned out to be.”
He pushes past her nearly knocking her to the floor in his
haste to leave the room.