Blessed are the Dead (6 page)

 

Chapter 8

M
Y SALVATION COMES
from an unexpected quarter. My phone rings Saturday morning while I'm walking home from playing chess on Market Street. I've spent the last few days leaving messages for Roberge, Donovan, and Kelly Baker. Being pesky has finally paid off.

“This is Jasmine's mama.” Her voice is slightly hoarse.

“Thanks for calling,” I say, scrambling in my bag for a pen and notepad. I ask if we can meet in person. She tells me to be at their apartment in an hour. I'm ecstatic. So far, the reclusive ­couple has not talked to any other reporters. It's my big break.

K
ELLY
B
AKER OPENS
the door. Up close, she's tiny. Hipbones show above her baggy pants and her pixielike short blond hair gives her a tomboyish look. From far away, her slight body made her look like an adolescent, but up close, she appears much older than twenty-­seven. I note the scabs on her arms, her acne, and her missing teeth.

“I'm Gabriella.” I stick out my hand, but she just turns and walks down the dark hall into the apartment, apparently expecting me to follow.

Richard Silva is lying in bed, bare-­chested, when I walk into the depths of the apartment. He sits up bleary-­eyed and lights a cigarette. He has a scruffy beard, and his long dreadlocks are pulled back in a ponytail so they hang down his back.

I guess there is no formality here. For a moment, I wonder if I'm early. I check my watch. Nope, I'm right on time.

Silva doesn't attempt to get up. The drapes are closed. The place reeks of stale cigarettes, and the main room is not much bigger than the ­couple's queen-­size bed. The studio apartment is crammed with the bed, a TV on a milk crate, and a ripped love seat. Overflowing ashtrays, old beer cans, candles, and clothes are scattered on the floor, bed, and couch.

“This is where Jasmine slept,” Baker says, and gestures to a little blue sleeping bag on the floor between a window and the bed. Near the top of the sleeping bag, a stuffed monkey is propped near some books and a Barbie doll. This sad little corner sums up her world. On the floor nearby, I spot a piece of school paper with a child's loopy scrawl.

I pick it up while Silva goes into the bathroom, and Baker gets a diet soda out of the kitchen. The paper says, “ ‘What I Wish' by Jasmine Baker.”

The childish writing says, “I wish I had my own room. I wish I could have special Mommy and Jasmine time where we can read books and color. I wish Mommy didn't sleep so much. I wish I didn't make Daddy so mad. I wish we lived in a house. I wish I could go to Disneyland.”

The teacher put a gold star on top of the paper. I don't know why, but I quickly stuff it in my bag before Baker returns. Above the sleeping bag, a child's drawing is taped to the wall. It depicts three figures holding hands. Words in red crayon with arrows point to the figures: “Jasmine. Mommy. Daddy.” The sun is an orange blob at the top of the picture.

“We only got a little bit of time,” Baker says. “The detectives want us to come down to the station again.”

“They do? Why?”

It is suddenly quiet. They both stare at me. I want them in my pocket. I need to be able to come to them again and have them be willing to talk to me. They must believe we are friends and that I'm on their side.

I watch as Silva thumps the Marlboro pack against his palm, packing the tobacco firmly into the cigarettes—­a motion I've made hundreds of times in my life. Watching him and hearing the thudding sound makes my fingers itch to hold a cigarette.

They continue to stare at me in my linen pants and high-­heeled sandals. We obviously come from different worlds and have nothing in common—­except maybe nicotine addiction.

It's never been hard for me to relate to a source. I have a strange talent. Well, it's either a talent or a curse. I know what I need to do and say to make ­people open up to me. These ­people who live in the shadows, existing in the dark underbelly of life, believe that I'm their friend. Or they might be wallowing in the excruciating pain of losing a loved one, and I can reach down and dreg the depths of the darkness I have deep inside me and convince them that I understand.

I don't know if I'm disassociating, but I can detach from my true emotions and, chameleon-­like, enter their world. I can fit in with the district attorney and his cronies one minute and chill with gangbangers on the corner the next. These ­people see something in me they recognize, and it makes them relax and open up. They tell me their stories, and I put them in the paper.

What Richard Silva and Kelly Baker tell me today could save me, give me the scoop I need. I have an ace in the hole—­the story about my sister Caterina—­that will immediately gain me entry into their world. But I'm not willing to share that with these two. However, there's another way, I think, as I watch them flick the ashes off their butts.

It wasn't easy for me to quit smoking. I was the type of smoker who actually went to bed anxious for the morning to come so I could have a smoke with my coffee. I quit last year thinking that I should start getting my body in shape for having a baby. Now, I wonder if that will ever happen.

“Why do the police want to see you today?” I ask, expertly lighting the cigarette Silva hands me and shaking the flame from the match. The ­couple exchange a glance.

“They keep asking us if we did something to Jasmine,” Baker finally says.

“These are supposed to be the happiest days of our life,” Silva says. He takes a deep drag on his cigarette and takes his time exhaling. “We just got hitched a few months ago, so technically, we're still honeymooners. I can't believe this has happened. Cops even confiscated our wedding pictures. They took a bunch of stuff.”

“They took her little plastic Dora brush,” Baker says. “They also took some clothes and her toothbrush although I don't know why they would want that.”

I do. DNA sample. To match a dead body. I slowly exhale, watching them to see if they get the significance of the police taking these items. They don't. A fuzzy memory appears—­ my mother falling to her knees as she opens the front door and finds a grim-­faced police officer on the other side. I return my focus to Jasmine's parents. For the next half hour, we sit and smoke together.

They are so relaxed. I watch, incredulous. Why isn't Baker curled up in the fetal position? I want to shake her, and yell, “What is wrong with you? Your daughter is missing and probably dead. You have no idea what hell your life has just become!”

Instead, I ask what Jasmine's favorite food is, what cartoons she likes to watch, her favorite color. I carefully use the present tense:
likes,
not
liked.
I diligently take notes,
hot dogs . . . Sponge Bob . . . purple.
I ask them about the night before Jasmine disappeared.

“Remember we were watching that scary movie?” Baker glances at Silva, who nods. “Then Jasmine fell asleep in front of the TV.”

Baker tucked Jasmine in before leaving for her night shift at the convenience store.

“What about in the morning? Was there anything unusual about it?” I crush my second cigarette butt into their glass ashtray.

“No, she gets herself ready,” Silva says, taking a long pull off his cigarette. “I was just getting up when it was time for her to leave. I walked her to the front door. She kissed me good-­bye, and said, ‘I love you, Daddy. Have a good day. See you after school.' ”

I write,
kissed Silva good-­bye, said I love you, Daddy . . . see you after school.
I put his quote on its own page and circle it.

I take a deep breath to ask my next questions. I saved these for last, knowing it might mean the end of our conversation. “I heard that you guys sometimes locked Jasmine out of the apartment, and she played in the halls. Is that true?”

For the first time, Baker looks angry. “Which nosy neighbor told you that? I bet it was that skank Lizzy across the hall. She's always been jealous of me. She's just jealous 'cause I have a husband. She has three kids all with different daddies, and she can't keep even one of them around.”

I wait, counting to ten in my head, and ask again.

“Is it true? Did you lock Jasmine out?”

“She needed to exercise, so I sent her out in the hall to play. Do you know the neighborhood where we live? There aren't any parks around. There's really no place for her to go outside and play, so I let her run off her energy out there. Plus, sometimes we need some privacy. We're newlyweds, you know.”

This explanation stops me. How can I judge what it is like to try to raise a child in a crappy one-­bedroom apartment in a neighborhood where it really isn't safe to let your kid play outside? I can't. It's something I know nothing about.

 

Chapter 9

S
UNDAYS ARE MY
favorite day of the week. Today's an especially good one. I read my front-­page story about Jasmine's parents three times before I get dressed for Mass. I can't wait to see my family this afternoon, even if it means getting grilled by my mother about my love life.

Every Sunday morning since I was a little girl, I have awoken anticipating the “Big Sunday Dinner” at my grandmother's house. As kids, we could barely sit through Mass knowing that afterward we would be joining our cousins for a three-­hour feast. It didn't matter that about ten of the cousins were in the same pew with us at Mass. We didn't get to talk and play until after.

It's the same now that we're adults. After attending Masses at churches across the Bay Area, about thirty of us head to my grandmother's house every Sunday afternoon. Today, I'm a little nervous to see my mother since I've been avoiding her calls all week.

Despite the exhilaration of having a scoop, I dreamed of Jasmine all night last night. Alone in bed at night, I can't help but think about all the terrible things that might have happened to her. The dark thoughts keep creeping into my head and triggering old memories I've tried to erase. It took me years to push back nightmares stemming from Caterina's abduction and concentrate on the good memories of her, but now the scary ones are seeping through again. For the past week, I've awoken several times throughout the night, heart jackhammering in my throat. I lay there in the dark, hugging my pillow, yearning for a warm body beside me, someone who understands and can comfort me. But there is nobody.

A
FTER THE 11:30
Mass at Saints Peter and Paul Church, I head toward wine country just south of the cities where I work. A cloudless indigo sky seems to go on forever. Sun-­soaked golden hills flank both sides of the freeway. I exit in Livermore and pass the rolling slopes of a vineyard before I pull into the familiar driveway. My sadness and loneliness start to dissipate, and I'm instantly at peace when I spot my grandmother's sprawling ranch house. The circle driveway, lined with fruit trees, is already crowded with cars. Purple bougainvillea spills out from massive deep blue pots.

I walk around the side of the house, following a small cobblestone path that leads into the backyard where a giant plank-­wood table sits under the grape arbor. It can seat fourteen and yet, every Sunday the uncles have to set up folding tables on the patio to accommodate the crowd. Our family grows bigger every year as my brothers and cousins have more babies.

One of my uncles is staffing the grill, turning Italian sausages this way and that. The scent mingles with the fragrant smell of marinara sauce wafting from the house. The kids are running along packed-­dirt paths that weave in and out of a large garden.

When I enter the house, my mom gives me a hug as if I haven't seen her for years.

She has her hair pulled back in a ponytail and looks forty not sixty. She has on cream-­colored slacks, black kitten heels, and a sleek, black blouse. She's never remarried, spending her days running her flower shop and raising three kids alone. Although men often approached her, she didn't date. It was only after we kids moved out that she began dating another widower, whom she has known since childhood. He's the one who finally brought the glow back to my mother's face and erased a bit of the sadness around her eyes.

My grandmother's in front of the stove, busy stirring this and mixing that. She half turns and gives me a quick, dry peck on the cheek. “
Mia cara.
”

Nana is one of my favorite ­people in the whole world. She was the one who defended me when I went through my grunge phase—­donning combat boots, black clothing, and dyeing my hair bright purple. When my mother and brothers were dismayed by my new “look,” Nana just calmly said with a shrug, “
Che bella ragazza
”—­What a beautiful girl.

I break off a piece of bread from a loaf that is still warm from the oven and dip it into the huge pot of simmering sauce, a tradition that nearly every Italian-­American child grows up savoring. My grandmother puts her arm around my waist and grins as I taste the sauce, closing my eyes, saying, “Mmmm.
Perfecto.
”

Later, my mother comes and finds me alone in the formal living room looking at the picture of Caterina. My grandmother has placed a statue of the Virgin Mary and a small light blue candle on the shelf beside the photograph as if it were a shrine. Caterina's big brown eyes are full of mirth, and her curly hair frames her face in ringlets. She is wearing a pink-­and-­green polka-­dot dress and holding a big spoonful of chocolate frosting that she is about to stick in her mouth. On that day, we were helping Nana make a birthday cake for my father, but ended up with more of the frosting on our faces than on the cake.

My mother puts her arm around my shoulders, bringing me back to the present. We smile at each other.

“Darling, how come you've been avoiding my calls? What's going on? I've been worried.”

I shrug and fight back tears.
Die before cry.

“I read the paper, you know,” she says. “I see that you're covering the story about that little girl. Do you really think that's a good idea? I think it's too much for you. Maybe you should tell your boss you don't want to do it.”

“It doesn't work that way, Mama,” I say, putting my arm around her waist. “And, anyway, I want to cover this story. I need to.”

“I don't understand. How can you even consider writing a story like that? I can't read any more of your stories. I'm sorry.”

“Oh God, Mama, I don't expect you to read them,” I say, turning toward her. “But you have to respect that I need to write them. It's my job.”

She looks me in the eyes for a long moment and nods, biting her lip to keep from crying. Then she tries to lighten the mood.

“Where is Brad today? He's going to be sorry he missed out on my
panna cotta.
”

“Yeah, Mama . . . about Brad. I'm afraid that ship has sailed. I bailed on his birthday dinner.”

She raises her eyebrows.

“It was a murder-­suicide.” I know I am justifying my actions, but I can't help it.

My mother pauses and seems as if she wants to say something, but before she can, I walk away.

In the family room, some of the men, including my two brothers, Marco and Dante, sit watching the San Francisco Giants baseball game. French doors leading to the patio are wide open, and several small children periodically run in and out, shrieking with laughter.

An hour after I arrive, one of my uncles rounds everyone up for the standard Catholic prayer as we all stand around the big table under the trellis. As soon as he finishes, Nana says, “
Mangia! Mangia!
”

And with that signal to eat, the chaos ensues. ­People crowd around tables covered in colorful Provençal tablecloths, heaped with giant bowls of spaghetti, wine bottles, and water carafes. Nearby lie plates full of the meat pulled from the sauce—­giant meatballs and tender pork chops, alongside the grilled Italian sausages. Colorful porcelain bowls of roasted vegetables rest near thick loaves of fresh bread placed right on the tablecloth. Later, we'll eat salad greens lightly dressed in olive oil, lemon juice, and salt before dessert.

The meal lasts about two hours. I drink too much wine and push away my craving to bum a smoke from one of my brothers. I'm trying to smother all the black memories lying just below the surface.

During dinner, my favorite niece, Sofia, comes to sit with me. She's seven—­the same age Caterina was when she was kidnapped and killed. I hug her close, smelling her strawberry-­scented locks.

The children finish eating first and chase each other around the yard, while the adults linger over their custard dishes of
panna cotta
with fresh blueberries and raspberries, and sip small frosted glasses of Limoncello. The older uncles expertly peel peaches in one long windy strip with their steak knives. They meticulously slice the fruit and plop the pieces into their wine. Later, they eat the flavorful fruit slices at the bottom of the glass.

After dinner, Sofia and I stay at the table for a few minutes.

When we are alone for a moment, she turns to me and has a look of consternation on her face.

“Auntie Ella, can I ask you something? Something important?”

“Yes, of course, anything.” I don't smile. I can tell this is serious stuff to her.

“You deal with bad guys in your job, right? That's what my papa says.”

“Yes.” I wait.

“Well, I'm afraid of Halloween . . .” She looks up at me to see my expression, which I try to keep wise and knowing and solemn. I don't bother pointing out that the holiday is months away.

“I don't want to tell anybody, but I'm afraid to go trick-­or-­treating. I'm afraid that some bad guy is going to answer the door when I ring the bell.”

“Why don't you want to tell anybody you are afraid?”

She fidgets and finally sighs.

“Everyone says I'm a brave girl. Everyone at school says that I'm not afraid of anything. Even Mama and Papa say that about me. They're proud I'm so strong and brave. I don't want them to know that sometimes I
do
get scared.”

“It's okay to be scared, Sofia.”

“No, no it's not.” She says it firmly and stares me down.

“Okay, well then let's talk about the bad guy.”

We spend the next few minutes talking about how most ­people in the world are good and that really there are only a few bad ­people. I also help her devise a plan for what she would do if a bad guy did open the door when she was trick-­or-­treating—­run away and get an adult.

At the end, she stands up and gives me a super tight hug.

“Thanks. I knew you would tell me what to do to feel better.” Then she whispers to me. “I think you're the bravest person I know. I want to be just like you when I grow up.”

I smile as she skips away. I'm not nearly as brave as I let her think, but if it helps her overcome her fears, I will pretend to be. I feel guilty that I lied to her. I told her most of the ­people in the world are good. But I don't believe that anymore.

The rest of the day, I find myself watching Sofia. She looks so much like Caterina that it almost hurts to look at her. But she's not as gentle as my sister was. My sister was quiet and shy and afraid to speak up to anybody. Not my niece. Sofia has a fierce streak. As she says, she's not afraid of much. I can see it in her eyes. She has a knowing spark that makes me think she's an old soul and a survivor.

The other little kids follow her around. She's the ringleader. What she says goes. As I watch her today, a sob that contains both happiness and grief catches in my throat. My mother sees my gaze and clamps her hand over her mouth, blinking back her tears. My mother is the one who taught me not to cry. Maybe she didn't mean to do that, but I've watched her my entire life. I've learned well.

Later, back home and drifting off to sleep, I'm filled with gratitude for my family. Spending time with them was just what I needed. It was good for my soul.

But I'm going to pay for my brief respite.