accept resignations. Or possibly Carver was exactly what he’d been told he was, a dog with a rag.
He did know he wasn’t meeting Beth Gomez to answer her prayer. He knew himself that well. He wasn’t a saint, he was a survivor.
She was where she said she’d be, seated on one of the pale concrete benches that faced the ocean and its wide horizon,
Carver had made sure he wasn’t followed. He parked the Olds near the white Ford Escort she’d driven earlier to his cottage, Then he limped across the hard, uneven ground toward where she sat, careful about where he planted the tip of his cane.
She was just sitting there watching him. She hadn’t moved. When he got closer, he saw she had some sort of bundle in her lap. She’d shed the baggy gray dress and wasn’t trying to disguise her beauty now, had on khaki safari pants with oversized flap pockets and a thick belt pulled tight around her waist. Her tailored white blouse’s collar was spread wide enough to reveal a gold necklace against smooth, dusky flesh. Her breasts hinted at firmness and bulk beneath the blouse. Caused Carver to wonder what she looked like nude. She had her straightened hair parted on the side now, neatly combed. A touch of purple eye shadow. Her features seemed more delicate, except for her wide, angular cheekbones. Born into another life, she might have become a rich and famous model. On the other hand, in her own fashion, she’d capitalized plenty on her looks.
When Carver sat down next to her on the hard bench, he saw that the bundle in her lap was a bunched blue blanket.
It squawked.
Beth drew aside a corner of the blanket and a tiny, dazed face scrunched up when the light hit it. She got a bottle from the folds of the blanket, fit the nipple in the infant’s mouth, and said, “This is Adam.” Her tone suggested Carver should shake the kid’s hand and call him a likely lad.
Carver was trying to put it all together, but none of it fit quite right. “Adam Gomez?”
Beth nodded, gazing down at the infant the way women do, as if posing for a church’s stained-glass window. “My son. And Roberto’s.”
Carver watched the baby work on the rubber nipple, then watched the masts of the moored sailboats doing their swaying, subtle dance in rhythm with the waves that washed gently against the dock. What was going on? What was the deal here? He said, “You told me Gomez was after you because the child had died due to your heroin addiction.”
“Well, that wasn’t exactly true.”
“Then what is?”
As she spoke, she rocked the baby ever so gently. “Let me tell you, Carver, I grew up in a slum in Chicago. Like most ghetto kids, I wanted the fast and expensive life; that’s the values you get in a place like that.”
“Sure, I understand.”
“Doubt it. Anyway, I got outa there the only way I knew how, using what Mother Nature gave me before Father Time took it away.”
Carver thought about that, then said, “You’re still a few steps ahead of Father Time.”
Beth glanced over at him, somehow acknowledging the compliment with only those big, dark eyes. She was used to such remarks and had had practice. “I got mixed up with Roberto and lived the fastest of the fast life. Money, cars, sex, power. Then, a couple of years ago, I was surprised to find myself getting sick of my life. And sickened by what I’d become. Sounds stupid, but I wanted to do some giving instead of taking, even up whatever scales there are. Roberto wouldn’t understand. Couldn’t. But he let me more or less do what I wanted, and I began associating with people outside his crowd. Even took some correspondence courses from Florida State University.”
“You don’t sound like you’re from the ghetto,” Carver noted. “Not much slang and slide in the way you talk.”
“I pretty much worked that outa myself long ago, so I’d be acceptable wherever rich men wanted to take me. Though I admit my college communication courses helped some, too.
He did know he wasn’t meeting Beth Gomez to answer her prayer. He knew himself that well. He wasn’t a saint, he was a survivor.
She was where she said she’d be, seated on one of the pale concrete benches that faced the ocean and its wide horizon,
Carver had made sure he wasn’t followed. He parked the Olds near the white Ford Escort she’d driven earlier to his cottage, Then he limped across the hard, uneven ground toward where she sat, careful about where he planted the tip of his cane.
She was just sitting there watching him. She hadn’t moved. When he got closer, he saw she had some sort of bundle in her lap. She’d shed the baggy gray dress and wasn’t trying to disguise her beauty now, had on khaki safari pants with oversized flap pockets and a thick belt pulled tight around her waist. Her tailored white blouse’s collar was spread wide enough to reveal a gold necklace against smooth, dusky flesh. Her breasts hinted at firmness and bulk beneath the blouse. Caused Carver to wonder what she looked like nude. She had her straightened hair parted on the side now, neatly combed. A touch of purple eye shadow. Her features seemed more delicate, except for her wide, angular cheekbones. Born into another life, she might have become a rich and famous model. On the other hand, in her own fashion, she’d capitalized plenty on her looks.
When Carver sat down next to her on the hard bench, he saw that the bundle in her lap was a bunched blue blanket.
It squawked.
Beth drew aside a corner of the blanket and a tiny, dazed face scrunched up when the light hit it. She got a bottle from the folds of the blanket, fit the nipple in the infant’s mouth, and said, “This is Adam.” Her tone suggested Carver should shake the kid’s hand and call him a likely lad.
Carver was trying to put it all together, but none of it fit quite right. “Adam Gomez?”
Beth nodded, gazing down at the infant the way women do, as if posing for a church’s stained-glass window. “My son. And Roberto’s.”
Carver watched the baby work on the rubber nipple, then watched the masts of the moored sailboats doing their swaying, subtle dance in rhythm with the waves that washed gently against the dock. What was going on? What was the deal here? He said, “You told me Gomez was after you because the child had died due to your heroin addiction.”
“Well, that wasn’t exactly true.”
“Then what is?”
As she spoke, she rocked the baby ever so gently. “Let me tell you, Carver, I grew up in a slum in Chicago. Like most ghetto kids, I wanted the fast and expensive life; that’s the values you get in a place like that.”
“Sure, I understand.”
“Doubt it. Anyway, I got outa there the only way I knew how, using what Mother Nature gave me before Father Time took it away.”
Carver thought about that, then said, “You’re still a few steps ahead of Father Time.”
Beth glanced over at him, somehow acknowledging the compliment with only those big, dark eyes. She was used to such remarks and had had practice. “I got mixed up with Roberto and lived the fastest of the fast life. Money, cars, sex, power. Then, a couple of years ago, I was surprised to find myself getting sick of my life. And sickened by what I’d become. Sounds stupid, but I wanted to do some giving instead of taking, even up whatever scales there are. Roberto wouldn’t understand. Couldn’t. But he let me more or less do what I wanted, and I began associating with people outside his crowd. Even took some correspondence courses from Florida State University.”
“You don’t sound like you’re from the ghetto,” Carver noted. “Not much slang and slide in the way you talk.”
“I pretty much worked that outa myself long ago, so I’d be acceptable wherever rich men wanted to take me. Though I admit my college communication courses helped some, too.
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