The Governor's Wife (17 page)

His expression changed. She saw fear in his eyes.

"You want a divorce?"

"I want to be useful."

"You are. You're the governor's wife."

"I'm used, not useful. Bode, I don't want to just breathe oxygen and fill the space inside my clothes. I want my life to have meaning. I want to make a difference."

"You do. You volunteer at the homeless shelter, the food bank, the elementary school—"

"I want to be a nurse again."

"A
nurse?
"

"Yes."

"You can't be a nurse."

"Why not? I kept my license up to date."

"Where are you gonna work? In the ER at Austin General Hospital? Everyone knowing who you are? It'd be a goddamn fiasco."

It would.

"Look, Lindsay, we'll talk about all this when I get back, okay?"

"Back from where?"

"Hunting. Me and Jim Bob, we're flying out to John Ed's ranch, tomorrow morning."

"How long will you be gone?"

"Just for the weekend. I'll be back Sunday evening."

"I don't want to wait that long."

He patted her knee as if putting off a child. She hated when he did that.

"Come on, honey, this can wait till then, give you time to think it through. When I get back, we'll talk this out, okay?"

She knew they wouldn't. He just hoped she'd move on to something else. Another "do-good deal," as he referred to her volunteer work. But this was her life.

"Bode, I have thought this through. I'm going to be a nurse. I'm not asking your permission."

His jaw muscles clenched, and she felt his blood pressure rising.

"Where? Where are you gonna be a nurse? You're the governor's wife, and everyone in the State of Texas knows you on sight, that famous red hair. So you may want to be a nurse, Lindsay, but you ain't gonna be—not unless you can find some place in this whole goddamn state where no one knows you're the governor's wife!"

But there was such a place.

"
¿Nombre?
"

"Tendita Chavarria."

"
¿Cuál es la edad?
"

"
Veinticuatro
."

"
¿Cuál es el sexo?
"

"
Sí
."

"
No. Femenino.
"

"Oh.
Sí
."

"
¿Niños? ¿Número?
"

"
Cinco.
"

"
¿Marido?
"

"
No
."

Five hundred miles south of Lubbock, Inez Quintanilla sat at her desk in the clinic in
Colonia Ángeles
across from a resident, completing another of the census forms left by the governor's wife. Jesse Rincón sat at his desk, thinking of the governor's wife. A woman such as her had never before come into his clinic. The women who came into his clinic were like the woman Inez now interviewed, twenty-four years old with no husband for herself or father for her five children, women who no longer dreamed of a life beyond the wall, women who would live and die in this
colonia
. But twenty-nine days ago she had walked into his clinic—into his life—and now he could not get her out of his life. Out of his head. Each day he thought of her; each night he dreamed of her. A married woman. The governor's wife.

Was there truly such a thing as love at first sight?

He had no romance in his life, and no prospects for any. Women did not come to the border; they fled from the border. They desired a life in the cities, not a life in the
colonias
. So he had long ago abandoned all thoughts of love. Marriage. Family. He had resigned himself to a solitary life, as if he were the priest his uncle had wanted him to be.

Then she walked into his clinic.

In the month since, he had searched her on the Internet, read about her and stared at her image on the computer screen, as if he were a smitten schoolboy back at the Catholic school in Nuevo Laredo. He followed her daily schedule in Austin as the photographers caught her coming and going, entering an elementary school and leaving a coffee shop, entering the food bank and leaving the AIDS clinic, entering the homeless shelter and leaving the gym. He went with her on campaign swings to Houston and Dallas and West Texas; she was in Lubbock that day. He knew that this was not what a doctor would call "healthy," for him to know the governor's wife's itinerary, but the governor's official website posted it there for all the world to read.

For him to read.

He was sure that her memory would fade from his mind, and his behavior, so out of character for him, would return to normal. But twenty-nine days had passed, and neither had. Each night his heart drove him to the computer screen, to gaze at her image, to know what she had done that day. But in his head he knew that she would never again walk into his clinic, that he would never again see her face, that he would never again speak to her. Yet still he thought of her. The governor's wife.

"Dr. Rincón."

Jesse looked up to Inez standing there. The resident had left, and Inez was now pulling on yellow rubber gloves to conduct the first of her twice-daily disinfectant scrubs of the clinic. He looked past her to two strangers standing at her desk, a man and a woman. The man held a professional camera.

"They are from a Houston newspaper. They want to interview you."

Another interview. He had tired of telling the story of the
colonias
because few people listened and those who did had a short attention span for other people's problems in this bad economy, particularly Mexicans living illegally in America. He wanted to tell them to go away, but when he looked back down at the order forms for medicine and supplies he could not afford, he was reminded how much money he needed. Perhaps a few people in Houston would read the story and see the photos and send money. Jesse sighed then stood and walked over and greeted the strangers like close friends.

"
Bienvenido
. I am Jesse Rincón."

The reporter stuck her hand out to him.

"Kikki Hernandez."

Another woman who did not belong in the
colonias
. But she was not the governor's wife. She was a young and very pretty Latina dressed as one would expect a female from Houston. Her fingernails were red, her scent was intoxicating, and her cameraman was named Larry; he was a middle-aged and overweight Anglo dressed as if he were going to a pro wrestling arena.

"So, Ms. Hernandez—"

"Kikki."

"So, Kikki, what brings you all the way from Houston to Laredo? Do you want to see the
colonia?
"

"Actually, Doctor, I wanted to see you. I was in Brownsville for a story last month, and a local newspaper reporter—Alexa Hinojosa, do you remember her?"

"Yes, I remember Alexa."

"She certainly remembers you." Kikki's eyes twinkled like the stars on a clear night. "She said I should tell your story to Houston. She said she met you when you built a medical clinic in Boca Chica."

"Then I shall tell you my story. Come, let me show you
Colonia Ángeles
."

He took his guests for a tour and watched their expressions change as the
colonia
confronted them fully. Kikki Hernandez seemed to age before his eyes. Larry the cameraman took many photographs of the
colonia
and the children, photos that would shock the wealthy people of Houston next Sunday morning when they opened their newspaper, photos that might bring money for medicine and supplies. When they returned to the clinic an hour later, Kikki Hernandez drenched her manicured hands with the gel sanitizer sitting on Inez's desk and rubbed her hands forcefully, as if trying to rub off a tattoo she now regretted. He knew she was thinking,
Get me back to civilization!
Jesse gave them cold bottled water. After she had gathered herself, Kikki Hernandez sat before his desk and fanned her face.

"It's only April, but it feels like summer."

"It is always summer on the border."

"Doctor, why do you do this?"

"Someone must."

"Surely there's more to it."

Perhaps his melancholy mood and his thoughts of lost love made him vulnerable to her soft eyes, but Jesse now told Kikki Hernandez what he had never told anyone.

"My mother lived in Nuevo Laredo. She was very beautiful. When she was twenty-one, she had a brief romance with a handsome American and became pregnant. He did not stay around, perhaps he did not even know she was pregnant. But she wanted her child to be an American citizen, as the father was. So when she was ready to deliver, she came across the river, to the midwife in this
colonia
."

He felt his emotions rising.

"And?"

"There were complications."

Kikki stared into his eyes.

"She died."

"Yes. In childbirth."

She stared again.

"Yours."

"Yes. She died giving me life." He fought his emotions. "No woman has died in childbirth in the
colonias
on my watch."

"So this is your mission in life?"

"I suppose it is."

"Does that make you happy?"

"It makes me useful."

"Is that the same as happy?"

"One must be useful to be happy, I think."

"Do your patients pay you?"

"Not in money."

"How do you make a living?"

"A few heart surgeries at the Laredo hospital each month. My specialty."

"Heart surgeons in Houston make millions and live in mansions. They seem happy … and useful."

She had very nice legs. He spread his arms to the clinic.

"You think I should give up all this for such a life?"

"Do you think you will get married and live happily ever after here?"

Jesse caught Larry the cameraman rolling his eyes.

"Happily ever after? No, no, no, Kikki—we do not do happily ever after on the border."

She smiled. She had a very nice smile as well.

"So you will live out your life in obscurity?"

"No. In this
colonia
."

"Alone?"

"Apparently."

"You don't want children?"

Jesse Rincón leaned back in his chair and studied Kikki Hernandez. He and she, they would make handsome babies.

"That would require a wife."

She offered a coy smile. She did not wear a wedding ring.

"Certainly you have prospects?"

"I am afraid not."

"A handsome doctor with no romantic prospects?"

"A poor doctor with no romantic prospects." Jesse again spread his arms to the clinic. "What woman would want to share this life with me? How about you, Ms. Kikki Hernandez—would you like to marry me and have my babies and share this life with me?"

The smile left her pretty face. But Larry now smiled, as if Jesse had made a fine joke.

"You've got to stop using that 'Texas was once a nation and we might be again' line in your stump speech," the Professor said.

"Why? The people love it."

The Professor sat across the aisle from Bode with his face in the
New York Times
, not recommended reading before breakfast, even for a Ph.D.

"I told you—it's a myth. It's not true."

"Sure, it is. Texas can secede from the Union anytime we want."

"No, we can't."

"Why not?"

"The Civil War."

"Other than that?"

It was the next morning, and the governor of Texas was flying out to West Texas. Of all the perks of office, Bode enjoyed the Gulfstream the most. Jetting around the two hundred sixty-eight thousand square miles that was the State of Texas at three hundred miles per hour beat the hell out of being tailgated by eighteen-wheelers running eighty-five on the interstate. They were now over the High Plains, but his thoughts were still in Austin, where he had left his wife.

Was their marriage over?

Lindsay Byrne had been part of his life for almost thirty years. Could he live without her? Did he want to? He still loved her, but did she still love him? He had stepped out on her with Mandy, sure, but their troubles had begun long before Mandy. Because of politics. Like most voters, she took politics seriously, more so than politicians, just as football fans took the games more seriously than the players. Players and politicians understand that it's just a game. You win some, you lose some, but the goal is to survive to play the next game or compete in the next election. But voters seemed to think that politicians could do good.

More particularly, his wife seemed to think that
this
politician
could do good.

She had been so excited when he had first been elected governor. He—they—were going to do good. He had actually believed it, too. But reality crashed the party like a SWAT team: politics is all about money. Who pays it to the government; who gets it from the government. Politicians are money-brokers, and money rules everything and everyone in politics. Even Bode Bonner. Consequently, he had disappointed his wife. Which was a hard thing for a man, disappointing the only woman he had ever loved.