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  Running back to the house, she realized that without her key she was now locked out. She opened her car door and pulled a few T-shirts from her bag. Soaking up some of his blood on the sidewalk with one T-shirt and putting another over his face, she scooched him out of the driveway toward the yard.

  Sprinting back to her car, she hopped behind the wheel, started the engine, and backed out, double parking on the street as best she could to obstruct the driveway from view. She used another T-shirt over her hands to drag him back to the bloodstained spot in the driveway where she had found him. Xóchitl turned him back over, facedown.

  She looked up and down the tree-lined street for signs of life. A few firecrackers popped in the distance and she smelled charcoal smoke from holiday barbecues. Apparently, everyone on this block had either already left for their lake houses or were sleeping in. The next door neighbors’ house had several newspapers piled in the front yard. She collected and carried them to their front door, stealing one so that she could stuff her bloody T-shirts in its plastic bag. Her clients would be returning at some point later that day.

  If she died outside, how long would it take, and who would notice? Would the pets in her care run away, or eat her? Might the neighbors notice when her car remained unmoved for days in the driveway? Or would vultures circle, drawn by the smell of her decomposed remains? She was freaking herself out and needed coffee. And—since life was short—donuts. On her way, she stopped by White Rock Lake. She emptied her newspaper bag of bloody T-shirts into the water by the spillway, then let it float off.

  That night, the fireworks were cancelled because of rain. Xóchitl hoped it would wash some of the evidence away. She waited for the call from the Lakewood clients. The next day, she started reading the newspapers she collected, searching for reports about the dead runner. Instead, she found many other haunting stories of people killed, bodies found, or lives tragically cut short. Unless it was a high-profile person or someone with a terminal disease, the cause of death was rarely named. She looked at every photo in the obituaries, but none of them resembled the horrible face she remembered from the driveway. She wondered how her own obituary might read, and if Valda would give her eulogy.

  The runner became her first waking thought every morning, and the last thing in her mind as she dozed off each night. She thought about confessing. But the more time passed, the more she feared the severity of her punishment.

  * * *

  Valda called and asked Xóchitl to come directly to her tiny apartment in Kidd Springs. Valda was sniffling, so Xóchitl asked, “Do you need me to bring anything?” She didn’t.

  When Xóchitl arrived, Valda’s eyes were red from crying and her voice shaky. Valda handed Xóchitl a bottle of beer, then sat with her on the couch.

  “I went to the doctor today,” Valda said.

  “Are you pregnant?”

  “I have stage-four cervical cancer.”

  Xóchitl lost her grip on the bottle. It fell to the floor, breaking into shards and splashing beer all over the place.

  Valda leapt up. Xóchitl followed her into the kitchen to grab rags, a broom, and a dustpan. They knocked heads as they stooped over to wipe up the mess. Then they started to weep and hug.

  “The doctor said I’m an unusual case because most sexually active women get a pap smear every year,” Valda explained. “I didn’t even know what that was, except expensive. I didn’t want anyone to know I was messing with my boyfriends. I just didn’t want to get pregnant. I never saw the doctor until my period wouldn’t stop. How stupid am I?”

  “You’re not stupid,” Xóchitl said. “You’re wonderful. I’ve done far worse, I swear. I’d trade places with you if I could.”

  Xóchitl started driving Valda to testing, treatment, and surgeries, staying with her whenever she wasn’t booked with clients. At every doctor’s appointment Valda’s prognosis grew more grim. The tumors metastasized from her lymph nodes and liver, to her lungs, bones, and brain. Her pain grew so severe, doctors prescribed her synthetic heroin. At Thanksgiving, Valda decided to stop treatment, stop staying home, stop waiting to die—and live a little. She set out on a “farewell tour,” visiting her favorite people and places. Valda asked Xóchitl and their old friend Tom to help her plan a New Year’s Day open house at Tom’s place.

  * * *

  A week before Christmas, Xóchitl’s mother Ana called saying she was sick, so she needed her daughter’s help making tamales. Xóchitl was slammed with clients traveling for the holiday. She offered instead to prepare some side dishes and bring them with her on Christmas Day.

  “If you make them in advance they won’t be fresh,” Ana chided.

  “Could we eat Christmas Eve dinner instead of Christmas Day lunch?” she countered.

  “We have Christmas Eve Mass. Christmas Day your nieces will have your brothers up early to see what Santa brought them. They’ll be too hungry to last for dinner.”

  “Potluck?”

  “Your brothers will be busy with kids and their toys. I already bought all the groceries. It’s a sin to waste food.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “I guess I’ll see if your brothers can help, or Abuela.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  Ana never called. Christmas Eve, Xóchitl called Ana, who was directing Xóchitl’s abuela, father, brothers, sisters-in-law, and nieces to avoid handling food while ill.

  “So, everything’s fine without me?”

  Xóchitl got Ana’s answer on Christmas morning when she entered her mother’s kitchen.

  “How dare you not help? At your age, I was married with three children. I still cooked Christmas dinner all by myself. Fortunately, your brothers have good wives. They helped me, unlike you. You should be ashamed. Where did you learn such selfishness, puta?”

  Steeling herself against Ana’s rare use of coarse language, Xóchitl wanted to kill her. Then, horrified at her own thought, Xóchitl tried una broma.

  “Feliz Navidad! I can’t bear you a grandchild today, but would you like me to steam the tamales?”

  Ana raised her voice: “You must be so proud: letting me know months in advance how you always have to work holidays. Caring for pets and plants instead of your parents. Why don’t you live with us like I lived with Abuela until I got married?”

  At that moment, Xóchitl’s brothers and Abuela entered the kitchen. Xóchitl lost it and excused herself to splash her red face with cold water. Abuela followed her, saying Ana was going through “the change.” Ana had a full hysterectomy after her children were born, but Abuela’s dementia took that memory. Abuela also said Ana didn’t speak for la familia. They were glad Xóchitl was with them.

  In blessing the Christmas meal, Ana thanked God for each and every family member by name except Xóchitl. Xóchitl wished she were dead. She thought about confessing to killing the runner—right then and there. If Ana really understood why Xóchitl was truly unfit to marry or have kids, she might lay off.

  After dinner Xóchitl washed Ana’s dishes, heartbroken. She left to walk and feed her clients’ dogs and plug in their Christmas lights. Then Xóchitl met Tom at the Inwood Lounge that night for drinks. They talked about how sad they were for Valda. As they drank, Xóchitl got the idea to prove her mother right and seek comfort by seducing Tom. She claimed she was a little nervous about driving all the way to the Munger Historic District from the Park Cities after drinks, so she asked Tom to follow her, promising him a choice of extra bedrooms where he could crash.

  After she took the dogs to do their business, she washed her hands and brushed her teeth. Xóchitl went to the spare bedroom where Tom was passed out on top of the covers. She spooned in, then kissed him. It took Tom a moment to realize she wasn’t going to leave. He eventually kissed back as she pulled at his clothes—but he was too tired and drunk to get it up. They kicked off their shoes, turned down the covers. Xóchitl started rubbing his back . . . too hard, Tom complained. He wanted her to touch his skin lightly. He doz
ed off again when she was gentle, sleepily saying, “I’m worried about you.”

  Because she was a murderer? Or because her best friend was going to die, leaving her alone?

  “You might fall in love with me.”

  How could she begin to explain she chose Tom precisely because he was so weird and immature they couldn’t possibly last in a relationship—in part because her secret could be known at any moment. She pursued him only because they’d known each other forever. She knew he was as self-absorbed as she was bereft about Valda.

  She wanted a fling with him not because she really liked him, but because she was like him.

  * * *

  On New Year’s Eve, they bumped into each other at a party by the rooftop pool at the Manor House. Tom was on a first date with a woman who appeared ten years his junior. After introductions, Tom’s date excused herself to find the ladies’ room.

  “I’m sorry,” Tom said.

  “There’s nothing to apologize for,” Xóchitl replied.

  “I didn’t know you would . . . when she asked me . . .”

  “No worries.”

  “She’s home from Austin for the holidays. But we’re having fun.”

  “Of course.”

  “Thanks, kiddo,” Tom said, as he winked and patted Xóchitl on her shoulder.

  She smiled, wincing.

  On New Year’s Day, Xóchitl attended Valda’s potluck open house at Tom’s place. It felt less awkward than she feared. His New Year’s Eve date wasn’t there. Xóchitl brought a pie from Norma’s on Davis. The guest of honor arrived without a cane or wheelchair, wearing cute jeans and makeup. Valda fixed her own plate without assistance. And though she had little appetite, she ate a slice of the pie from Norma’s.

  Tired after making the rounds, Valda perched next to Xóchitl in Tom’s smallest room. It was a makeshift office off the kitchen that was once a pantry. Visitors streamed in and out steadily. Valda seemed so uncomfortable; she closed her eyes as people spoke to her. Xóchitl knew her friend’s spine was about to crack—the pain in her back was literally killing her. Xóchitl lightly brushed her fingers over Valda’s sweater and counted her ribs. Valda weighed less than ninety pounds.

  “That feels good,” Valda said faintly. “You’re very gentle.”

  * * *

  Driving Valda home, Xóchitl confessed she’d killed the runner. Valda was hallucinating on painkillers. Xóchitl wasn’t sure Valda was conscious, much less able to comprehend what she said.

  Then Valda whispered, “Shame and secrets will kill you. Just look at me. Don’t keep that to yourself.” It was the last time they spoke.

  Xóchitl wrote Valda’s obituary and gave her eulogy at the funeral. At Valda’s request, she scattered her ashes at White Rock Lake, not half a mile from where Xóchitl had tossed the evidence after killing the runner. Then she traded in her murder weapon to buy Valda’s Toyota Camry.

  * * *

  That spring, Xóchitl went alone to the post office on tax day with four minibottles of pink wine. Tom was long-distance dating the woman in Austin, so he either forgot or lost interest in their tradition. Xóchitl recognized Jeremías’s Honda in the lot and parked beside it. She drank to the memory of the unknown runner and spoke aloud—skyward, to herself, but with faith Valda could hear her.

  Jeremías walked out briskly after just midnight. His pace slowed once he saw Xóchitl sitting on the hood of the Camry, talking to herself, surrounded by empty travel-sized wine bottles.

  “Hey,” he said. “Guess what? I’m moving to California.”

  “Felicidades!” Xóchitl replied. “Good to see you too. Why are you moving?”

  “My brother sold his company to Google. He’s a dot-com millionaire now.”

  “No way!”

  “Yeah, he bought a house in San Francisco and wants me to come live with him.”

  “Wow. What’ll you do?”

  “I’ve applied for a job at Banana Republic. That’s their headquarters.”

  “Retail?”

  “I want to work in their catalog shipping department, kind of like my job now. Or in their warehouse to supply all their stores.”

  “That makes sense.”

  Tiring of small talk at the end of a long day, Jeremías stared at her. “Thanks. Know what? I’m great, and you should’ve given me a chance.”

  “It’s true,” Xóchitl said. “I’m sorry.” She realized he still cared enough to be ticked that she’d blown him off. She was sparing him from a relationship with a criminal. She looked east toward downtown. The towering lit skyscrapers were beautiful. The sight made her feel insignificant, like the runner whose name she never knew. She searched the sky for the moon, feeling guilty. For a moment she wondered if Jeremías would follow her home again. She missed Valda.

  “Anyway, if you ever visit Frisco,” Jeremías said, “you have a place to stay now.”

  She thanked him, but knew she wouldn’t—even if he had an employee discount at Banana Republic and lived with his millionaire brother.

  * * *

  Xóchitl’s Lakewood client called her for the first time in almost a year. She was afraid to answer.

  “It’s Karen Johnson. Could you stay with my Salma and Angie again this June?”

  The thought of returning to the scene of the crime filled Xóchitl with dread. Were they setting a trap to ensnare her? Would declining signal her guilt? She accepted, making an evening appointment to return to their house to get a key. Several hours later she parked on the street and searched their driveway in the dusky evening sun. She saw no bloodstain. Had she imagined it?

  Mrs. Johnson invited her inside and offered her a glass of water. Xóchitl’s heart was pounding. Her palms were so sweaty she feared she might drop the glass like her beer bottle the night she’d heard Valda’s cancer diagnosis.

  “Is that a new car?” Mrs. Johnson asked.

  “New to me. It was my best friend’s,” Xóchitl said, her voice breaking. “She passed away.” Xóchitl thought she was going to burst into tears, but took a deep breath.

  “Oh dear,” Mrs. Johnson said, handing her a box of Kleenex. “I’m so sorry. That explains why you never called us to get your check last summer after we got back from Santa Fe.”

  Mierda, Xóchitl thought. A dead giveaway.

  “Oh! How could I forget something like that?” she exclaimed, her mouth dry and her foot tapping fast.

  “Please. No worries,” Mrs. Johnson said, as she took her checkbook out of her purse and started writing. “We were totally distracted ourselves when we got back. My husband ran over our neighbor in the driveway when we got in that night.”

  “Dios mío!” Xóchitl shouted. “What happened?” She was horrified to think the runner had been there all day. Had Dr. Johnson gone to prison in her place?

  “It was a terrible shock. But we’re okay now,” Mrs. Johnson said. “We were quite shaken until the coroner confirmed the man had died many hours earlier. Apparently he had a seizure while running.”

  “A seizure?” Xóchitl’s face hurt. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  “Yes, it was awful. We whipped right into the driveway as it was getting dark so we didn’t see him at all. His body was just lying on the sidewalk, already gone. We called 911 and the ambulance came. He’d already been gone awhile.”

  “That’s awful,” said Xóchitl. “Who was he?”

  “We didn’t know him, but he lived nearby. He had a history of seizures because of a rare health condition. He was unmarried and didn’t have any family in town, so it took awhile to figure out who he was and get his affairs settled. He wasn’t carrying any ID.”

  Mrs. Johnson handed Xóchitl her house key and a check for $1,500.

  “That should cover last summer and next month. Anyway, the lesson is always carry ID and an emergency contact number, because—well, you never know.”

  Xóchitl stared at the check in her hand. “Verdad. You never know.”

  MISS DIRECTION


  BY J. SUZANNE FRANK

  Downtown

  The redhead’s hands trembled as she pulled up to the “love shack” on the wrong side of the so-called Trinity River. Music filtered through the night from a dozen shantytown honky-tonks, the sound of cussing and laughing as the colored side of town enjoyed their Saturday night, separated by a floodplain that hadn’t had a trickle of water in more than six months.

  The house, no curtains, glowed with electric light. Wyatt might hide out over here, but he didn’t make himself uncomfortable. He walked in front of the screened window, like a bad dream summoned. He peered out and the redhead waved, saucily, she hoped. He wasn’t expecting to see anyone other than his mistress, Cayenne DuPre.

  Wait. Cayenne always waited, never jumped her cue. It was like she had a dance coach living between her ears. She just knew how to pick the right moment. The redhead slipped out of the car, carrying her train case and stepping carefully in the “glass slippers” still with their Neiman’s tag. The filmy stuff her peignoir was made of caught in the light, and her hair, she knew, gleamed in contrast.

  Plastering on the smile of a woman confident in her seductiveness, she knocked.

  The door flew open. “Ain’t you a hot one,” he said. “I thought we were having dinner at your house.” But his gaze barely brushed hers; he stayed fixated on her barely covered thirty-eight-inch DDs. A key part in her plan. Something she and Cayenne had in common.

  Well, something besides Wyatt.

  “A woman has a right to change her mind. Invite me in?”

  He stood back and she stepped up. Once the door was closed, there was no going back. The door clicked shut and she reminded herself that he’d brought this on himself.

  “Why don’t you slip onto something more comfortable,” he said with a laugh. She glanced back and saw him gesturing to his groin. He might have been born to wealth and breeding, but it certainly hadn’t taken. She laughed.