La Soledad

Prologue

Northwest Indiana

Winter 1957

Mom, what is this place? Billy asked, his blue-green eyes wide open, taking in sights he’d never imagined.

La Soledad, Billy, his mother replied.

She drove their 1952 Studebaker coupe through the murky twilight across myriad sets of intersecting railroad tracks. The dirt and cinder road had holes so deep the car literally sank from view and then rose again as if it were riding great storm waves.

He watched through the swirling snow as they bounced past junked, rusting railroad cars, oil tankers, gravel haulers, coal cars, even a burned-out metal hulk and industrial spires of a natural gas processing plant, abandoned, yet still aflame. Finally, they bumped across the remaining tracks into a compound of dilapidated boxcars, Pullmans and cabooses buttressed by a decaying brick warehouse.

Who lives here, Mom?

Alberto, one of my nursery school students. He was killed beneath a train. How could you forget that?

Billy was thirteen and had pushed it to the back of his mind. It was only a few days before Christmas. There had been too many other distractions for him to remember everything.

Rita parked the turquoise coupe in front of the warehouse. She carried a big basket of food from the car while he handled a huge cake she had baked.

Snow was falling heavily as she and Billy entered the freezing, cavernous warehouse. At the far end, an immigrant family huddled around a 55-gallon barrel in which a fire blazed.

When they saw Billy and his mother, gasps and shouts of Madre Dios! and Senora Straw! echoed throughout the building.

Feliz Navidad! Rita said as tears welled up in her eyes.

A covey of destitute Latina women and their small children rushed to embrace Rita, crying joyful tears. Two older boys held back. They seemed to be guarding a small black box near the fire barrel, their dark eyes sober and vigilant. They were a year or two older than Billy, unmoved by the hubbub of affection swirling around them. The Latina women and children all clung to Rita, crying, kissing, swept away in a flood of emotion. Billy bit his tongue to keep himself from crying.

Finally, Rita motioned Billy to follow as the tearful entourage flowed back toward the crackling fire barrel. She handed out all the food platters she’d prepared for them and they began eating voraciously.

Billy handed the big cake to Rita who whispered, Get the suitcases from the trunk, please.

He hurried through the building to the car, pulled the suitcases from the trunk and slammed it shut. Turning, he froze. He saw a pack of grim-faced, human scavengers. They’d come from the broken down boxcars and now stood eyeing him.

Billy felt a chill pass through him. He hurried back into the warehouse to the fire barrel.

Ignacio, Alfredo, esta es mi hijo, Billy. Billy meet the Mendosa brothers, his mother said sweetly.

Hi, Billy said shyly, smiling, but intimidated by the tough-looking, unkempt teens.

The brothers merely nodded.

Rita opened the suitcases and handed out articles of warm clothing to the children and women who cried with delight. She removed two jackets and gloves from the second suitcase and handed them to the brothers; however, they declined the offer.

No! Alfredo snapped. We no take charity.

One of the Latina women, Rosa, heard what Alfredo said and scolded the brothers in rapid-fire Spanish.

Rita spoke gently, warmly, to them, but the boys remained aloof. In their dark eyes, Billy saw resentment and deep anger.

Rita and the two Latina women conversed for a few moments while the children played, enjoying the Christmas meal. Rita then removed a bag from a suitcase. The women herded the children from the fire until they surrounded the little black box the brothers were guarding. Billy realized it was a handmade, cardboard coffin resting on a junked refrigerator.

Rita handed the bag to Rosa who removed candles, a white cloth, a school picture of a cheery-faced small boy.

Alberto, Billy reminded himself.

Rita delicately placed the items on the coffin.

The candles were lit. In Spanish, Rita and the two Latina women led everyone in prayers and songs for the dead child.

Billy stood apart. He mouthed what words he understood and felt sad; yet he also felt a distance from them, guarding his own soul like the Mendosa brothers guarded the coffin. He heard the wind in the warehouse rafters, saw the tears and deep sadness in all the faces except the stone-faced brothers.

The brief service was over. Accompanied by Rosa, Billy and Rita walked out of the warehouse and back to their car.

At the narrow entrance, Rita pulled an envelope from her purse and handed it to Rosa. A look of surprise crossed Rosa’s face when she saw it was full of cash. She protested, then kissed Rita and smiled at Billy. He smiled shyly. Rita and Rosa conversed quietly in Spanish. Billy caught the word cemetery. The cash would pay to bury Alberto.

Ignacio! Fredo! Rosa called. Holding scrapped baseball bats with rusted nails jutting from them, the two boys hurried outside. Upon seeing them, the pack of male scavengers reluctantly moved back into the shadows.

Billy and Rita got into their car. The Mendosa brothers held the men at bay until Billy and his mother were safely away.

They drove under the old railway bridge over a canal. Billy looked up and saw the freight train roaring across the bridge above them.

He looked at his mother. He had wanted to ask her why she’d spent so much time cooking and baking while gathering cash and warm clothes for a bunch of foreigners. Now he understood and he felt a thrill of pride.

I love you, Mom.

Chapter 1

Summer 1971

Chicago

The odors of urine, shit, stinking feet, sweaty underarms, mercuro-chrome and clean bandages layered the stifling atmosphere of the police precinct holding tank.

Billy Straw milled around with the other fifty or so disheveled men waiting to be booked. It was nearing midnight and nobody had eaten since the riot earlier in the afternoon. A few scuffles between vets in the tank had been harshly squelched by the cops and since then only the heavy breathing of fatigued ex-soldiers filled the cement tank.

Billy wedged himself into a cool corner and leaned against the wall. The men had to stand since there was no place to sit.

Still sore from the cop’s chokehold and a knee to the groin, Billy mused on his own stupidity. He’d only gone to the Veterans Job Fair to find work, but a riot had erupted and something wild in him exploded. After that, he remembered only image shrapnel in a bloody rampage and the scent of yellow roses that she loved. Laura.

He closed his eyes, thinking back only a few lousy days ago when he stepped off the Greyhound bus into the cool of pre-dawn. The tiny East Lansing station stood dark against the yellow glow of streetlights. The bus’s heavy door slammed shut and then it pulled away. Billy checked his watch: 04:53 a.m. Grand River Boulevard, the wide boundary between the Michigan State campus and the town was deserted.

Along the station’s outside wall stood a head-high row of metal storage lockers. Billy found a vacant one, stuffed his small duffle, military papers, and a tan jacket inside. He jammed a quarter in the slot, removed the key, and heard the tumblers lock. He stretched and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He’d only just arrived back in the States from the war. He’d come directly here, to the campus, to Laura.

Summer quarter was a lazy time. Blue jays, robins, and rust-breasted thrushes darted among the lush flora in the early light. He walked briskly, as he had done so many years ago as an undergraduate on his way to classes. He’d spent two years here before flunking out. He’d then transferred to Indiana University and graduated. He’d met Laura there. Now, the familiar campus and the small city façade seemed like wary, watchful strangers.

He headed for the graduate students dorm where Laura lived. Her mother had reluctantly shared Laura’s address, which was confirmed by a campus operator. He’d called her from San Francisco and again from Kansas City, but hung up before she answered. What he wanted, what he desperately needed to say to her could only be said face-to-face.

He walked through the magnificent blooming Horticulture Gardens, stopping to snap off a long-stemmed yellow rose, Laura’s favorite, before moving on to the fountain where he took a couple of handfuls of cool water to clean the dust and grime of travel from his face. It was overcast, but he was sweating. He hadn’t seen Laura in more than two years. He imagined her beautiful blue eyes, ash blonde hair and slim figure. He reminisced about holding her in his arms when she had met him at the R&R hotel in Hawaii. Those thoughts were quickly replaced with memories of the debacle of his own making.

In the Vietnamese prison, a shrapnel-scarred compound where he awaited trial, he read her final letter that had been forwarded to him. What he read was absolutely devastating. He hid from the other prisoners and sobbed uncontrollably. Nevertheless, he kept her in his mind, day after day of confinement, where he followed her face like a star to a new birth. Now, all he wanted was to make one last attempt to see her, hoping that she still loved him. Seeing him, she might understand how deeply he loved her. Maybe then she would forgive him, fall in love with him again.

The graduate students dorm loomed large against the overcast sky. Billy picked up his pace. His heart was racing in anticipation. He was aware of the fragrant yellow rose in his hand.

Abruptly, like a wild animal sensing something unknown, he stopped dead. There she was—Laura, on the dorm’s front steps. She had her back to him. She was busy assembling boxes of books and what appeared to be lamps and stereo equipment as if moving out of the dorm. Was it Laura? He watched, trembling. What should I say? Tiny knots formed in his stomach. He shook it off, took a deep breath, and then quickened his pace. The closer he got, the more anxious he felt. She turned and entered the dorm. Had she seen him? Was she running away?

He bolted up the steps, pushing through the main doors and then climbing the stairs to the second floor. Cautiously, he approached her room.

The name plate read, Laura Garnett.

He ran his fingers gently over it like he was touching her face. The door was ajar. He held his breath, knocked softly, and then eased the door open.

The room was nearly empty. A few boxes and bedspreads were stacked near the door. The dresser and the desk drawers were open and empty. The bed was stripped of sheets and blankets, leaving only a mattress visible.

Yes? a woman’s voice behind him inquired.

Her voice. He would remember it until he could no longer remember anything. He turned to face her.

Oh...god, Laura whispered.

Billy couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. They both stood rigid, transfixed as if seeing ghosts. Momentarily, he felt as if he were split in two—one of him floating around in a timeless void, the other a stone statue mute before his goddess.

Confused, afraid, he awkwardly thrust the yellow rose at her. She turned her head away.

Get out, she whispered.

Laura, please, he said softly, taking her in his arms.

She protested too late. He kissed her tenderly. He felt her tremble. He kissed her again so beautifully, she gasped. I love you, Laura. You’re my life. Marry me.

She paused, reflecting on his words.

Billy, I’m married.

He was dumbfounded. He gazed blankly at her. She pushed away from him. The moisture of their kiss still glistened on her lips.

Tears welled up in his eyes. Oh no.

Laura stared right through him. Her pale blue eyes were now dark and watery.

You treated me like a whore. I loved you and you treated me like a whore on R&R.

He felt numb. He couldn’t move.

You raped me.

I know, Billy replied in a raspy voice, filled with shame. I raped us both.

Her fist came fast, the wedding ring catching him hard in the mouth. Stunned, he tasted the blood, felt it dribble down his chin.

Laura sobbed: You killed us, Billy.

She pushed past him into the corridor. He heard her footfalls and the doors of an elevator opening and then closing.

He stepped into the hall. It was empty and silent. Numb, he went to the stairs, weaving unsteadily on his feet until his knees collapsed and he toppled over like a wayward drunk.

Chapter 2

Billy wandered aimlessly across campus as if in a stupor, bumping into people and objects like a boat loosed from its moorings. He crossed campus streets unaware of vehicles, causing drivers to jam on their brakes. Horns blared.

Voices at once familiar and unknown, echoed in his mental void, crying out, Laura, I love you! All he heard in reply was You raped me! I hate you!

The voices fought and screamed, spit and cursed. He fell into the street, scraping his knees. He got up and staggered away as the voices raged, Go back for her! You fucking asshole! Laura!

He was vaguely aware when the concrete under his shoes gave way to asphalt, asphalt to dirt, and dirt to weeds and stubble. A dark shape loomed ahead of him. Its brooding darkness seemed the source of all his inner hatred. He hurled himself against it, felt the pain and shock, and slumped face down in the coarse grass. It was a huge tree. Blood ran from his facial scrapes and the cut on his chin. He stood up and then stumbled sideways, hitting a black shape that moved and smelled of shit…then another and another until he heard the bellows of nervous cows. His shoes were covered with manure. He slipped and slid, falling and rolling until he could regain his stance. Drizzling rain laid its wet hands on him and he rushed ahead blindly, his own hatred, his failures, threatening to tear him apart.

Another huge dark shape loomed in front of him, but it didn’t move. He was so physically spent that he was forced to stop. He stood panting as reddish drool dripped from his mouth. His instincts told him night was closing in. Rain continued to patter down. He stepped forward and hit the big wooden door. His scraped, feeble fingers felt along the wood until he found a metal clasp. He fought with the heavy hardware, until it finally clicked open.

With his last ounce of energy, he slid the door back. The sweet aroma of hay greeted him. He moved inside, tripped over a stool and stumbled against an old stone stall where the hay was stacked higher than his head. He put his hands on the hay and followed its dry presence