Sample chapters of work in progress

Prologue
Dream
         Moonlight ripples around me, pale white-gold, sliding across my skin with the light touch of a lover.  I stand thigh deep in the dark green-black leaf-covered coolness of the water.  Smells of the swamp are thick, filling my nostrils with deep rich ebony air.  I am one with all of nature and my body vibrates with a thousand energies I know and love.  A thought drifts through my mind.  Tonight all is well.

         Suddenly it is not.  Even as I merge with them, the energies begin to shred my serenity, to rip into my spirit, to tear at my heart. My breath comes faster.
         Far across the lake a ripple disturbs the stillness of the surface.  Very slowly Ka’an, Snake, emerges.  His hungry vibration precedes him, seeking food for his belly, seeking a sacrifice to Chac, God of Rain.  Though he is still far away, I see his eyes glowing golden yellow around dark slits. I smell the blood he craves.
         Behind me, crouched in the tangled grasses on the shore, I hear Bala’am, Jaguar, my guardian.  Ka’an moves nearer and my body fills with the cold dark blue of foreboding.  Bala’am growls softly, encouraging me to stand, to face this threat. 
         If this were only fear for myself, I know I would conquer it, but I am guardian of others and I hear their desperation calling me, their fear clawing the air, seeking me, unseen hands reaching, begging. Tiny cries echo over the lake, whimpers, soft sobs seep through dark air around me, growing louder as the ripple moves toward me, becoming pleadings, accusations, cries of despair and hopelessness. 
         I panic.  I can’t see them, reach them.  I must find them!  Help them!  These are children gathered for sacrifice to the greedy One whose demand for more and more fresh flesh is insatiable.          
         They are my children and I can’t remember their names. I can’t remember their names!  If I remember their names I can stop him.  Why can’t I remember their names?
         I know this Ka’an, this golden python rising out of the lake, coming faster and faster, jaws open wide now.  He loves blood.  He delights in hatred.  He bathes in greed.
         Now he towers over me. The jungle reverberates with their cries, their screams. A child rises with him, floating in the air.  He offers the child to me, a girl, her naked limbs dragging the surface of the lake.  I take her but I am too late.  She is dead.  Her heart is gone, a gaping hole in her chest, a sacrifice to keep his empire growing.  Blood drips from his jaws, pours from his mouth. He has eaten her heart.
          The lake is deep dark red.  I smell the putrid reek of her decay.
         Too late I remember her name is Daughter. My Daughter.
         “You have given your daughter,” he hisses.  “Now the other children will be saved.  Your name is Betrayer!” 
         He gloats at my despair.
         Jaguar screams her rage as the golden snake wraps itself around my legs, slithers up my body, squeezes my chest. I am choking, unable to breathe, gasping for breath, struggling. 
         Breathe!  Breathe! 
         I try to take a thick breath. My chest won’t rise. My throat won’t open.  I am dragged into the black water.
         I cross into the black and float there. I feel myself strangling, gasping, trapped…
{i/}
         I wake up struggling with a sheet entangled around my body, with fear pounding in my mind and through my spirit, with pain in my chest, in my heart.  I lie exhausted, my body shaking, waiting until my breathing slows, willing myself to a tenuous stillness.
         Another nightmare.  My enemies, my friends, these nightmares. 
         They have carried me across years of fear and loss.  Sometimes I even welcome them now.  They move me to action.  They tell my story. 
         I know why the nightmare comes now. I must tell the story today to the police who, after all these years, are investigating my husband’s death.  I must dredge up all the painful memories.
         When I stop shaking I leave my bed and move to my desk, turn on the small light, and begin my journal again, as I have so many nights these seven years since our world fell apart.  I fight the impulse to phone my daughter Marnie just to see if she’s safe.  The clock light glows 2:57 a.m.  The smell of a September rain drifts faintly through an open window. 
         Is it over?  Will we finally have some peace?


One
--journal of the events of Friday, September 20, meeting with police and Conrad--
         The police arrived at the Wentworth & Foster law firm at the same time AJ and I did, walking into the lobby and eyeing us suspiciously.  There were two of them, both in suits.
         Detectives, no uniforms.  I remember Greg Klarkowski.  He looks older, more worn.  He doesn’t remember me.  He wasn’t a detective then.  Dull colors surround him—tans, greys, a streak of brown. 
         His suit is dark brown, shirt white, tie plain brown.  His black hair is cut within an inch of its life, looking like he has five o’clock shadow all over his head. There’s a bit of gray at his temples.  Small pouches sag at his chin, cheeks and eyes.  His eyes are sharp, alert. He is no fool.
         The other officer is bald, bullet-headed, bulky, and closet belligerent. 
         He’s barely controlling his macho mindset.  He swaggers, uses his eyes as daggers, challenging the room.  I see contempt when he looks at me.  His face and eyes change to curiosity when he looks up at AJ.  AJ’s height demands a form of respect.  Shorter people have to look up at others.  I know about that.  I am tall, five feet, nine inches, but Art and AJ, all my sons, are tall.  I am accustomed to looking up at men.  This man is not.  He’s looking at me again. He sees only female.  Condemnation.  I know condemnation because I have experienced it before, from myself and others.
         They did not introduce themselves or give any sign of acknowledgment. 
         I wiggled my fingers in a small wave to Ardith Seacrest, Conrad’s executive secretary, who was serenely typing dictation as we entered, her earpiece set over her perfectly coiffed pale blonde hair. 
Ardith insists on doing her work the old way, although she’s very familiar with computers. I like her for that. She removed the earphones and asked us all to be seated.
         She’s going gray slowly, easing into it.  Another year and she’ll be white, as distinguished looking as Conrad. 
         I spent the waiting time wandering around the office, looking at the new collection of artwork now on the walls. I’m at home here, having worked part time for the firm for years now, since Conrad had offered me a job. 
         AJ, his long legs stretched out into the room, was memorizing every detail as usual.           
         By use of a discreet button Ardith had already alerted Conrad we were here and he suddenly entered the room.  The faint cool smell of his aftershave floated by on the air.
         What a beautiful gray suit. That’s Thai silk.  I haven’t seen that one before. It must be new.  He looks like an ad for men’s suits from GQ or some upscale men’s magazine. 
         He faced the police, seated before him. Klarkowski relaxed a bit, but the other man looked like a coiled spring.   
         “Gentlemen, I’ll be with you shortly.  Help yourself to coffee.  It’s been freshly made,” he invited and he indicated a shelf where several pots were perking away, the aroma combining with the scented candle Ardith had burning on her desk.
         Then he turned to us. 
         “Anna, AJ, won’t you come in?” 
         We followed him into his office.
         Conrad offered us his usual selection of teas and coffees, his “private stock” as he calls it.  As I made tea for myself and got AJ some coffee, he wasted no time in getting to the point.
         “Anna, given that you’ve been having more posttraumatic stress again, are you sure you want to go through with this?  It may to be very difficult, even though these memories are seven years old. They’ll want to question you extensively.  Keep in mind that I will be the one in control here though, which is why I set the meeting here.  Better here than at police headquarters.  Still…”
         He waited for my answer, a concerned look on his face.
         I shut my eyes. The night had been difficult. Another nightmare. Another session at my journal. Little sleep. Preparing for this meeting had triggered old painful memories. I was lucky Conrad was at The House when the police called two weeks ago. He was able to set the meeting here, telling them he had reasons for wanting to sit in on it. 
         “I had very little sleep last night. I’m nervous. I’m worried. But there have been three deaths now and I don’t want any more.” 
         My mind saw the figures of Art, Andy and Sam as they had been while alive, as they had been for the many years my husband’s law firm had been part of our lives. The Firm, we all called it.  O’Keeffe, Kinnealy, Soderberg and Moss.
         “I want to contribute anything I can to finding out what’s going on. If going over events from all those years ago will help, well then, I’ll do it. Maybe what AJ and I remember will help. Maybe this will put it all to rest.”
         “Did you bring your journals?”
         “Yes. The condensations and the full transcriptions.  I’ll be using the condensed version today, leaving out the irrelevant parts. Did you get the copies I emailed to you?  I made them .pdf files so you can open them easily.” 
         Conrad nodded. “Yes, and I’ve read part of them. That’s why I offer you a way to back out. The police don’t really need your input to continue their investigation. They’re fishing.”
         “I can do this.”
         AJ, in jeans and a Packer sweatshirt, was standing at the window, watching the gulls fly over the river.  He turned to Conrad, arms folded across his chest.
          “Tell me again why we have to do this. I just got in from Minnesota an hour ago and before we do this I’d like to know more about why.” 
         AJ, at 27 and just finishing his MD, had never been one to do anything without finding out all about it.
         “Absolutely!” Conrad nodded emphatically. “I’ll keep it brief. In the process of negotiating your mother’s settlement with The Firm since the death of your father, I found some suspicious discrepancies in their books, including a large influx of money just before your father was killed. 
         “Parallel to that and possibly intersecting, the police departments of Northeast Wisconsin, especially Green Bay and Brown County, have for years battled a rising tide of drugs in the area. Because of the death of your father and two other members of The Firm, they have begun to question if there may have been a connection. This is particularly true due to the most recent death, Sam’s, which appears to have been execution style.  Even though Sam left The Firm some time ago, tentacles of suspicion reach back for many years. 
         “They are aware, as is anyone who reads the newspapers and watches tv, that there’s been a Mexican connection with drugs for a long time. I’m sure you realize law enforcement agencies of every level, local to international, are exploring every avenue. Since you were the family members who went to Mexico just after your father died, it’s logical that the police called your mother and asked if she would cooperate by telling them all she remembers of what happened back then. She agreed and volunteered your services also. I hope that’s all right with you?” 
         He raised an eyebrow in inquiry. AJ nodded but looked none too pleased. “Is The Firm under suspicion?  Is my father’s reputation under suspicion?  What’s going on?”
         He wants every detail of what the police know as well as what Conrad has found and he wants it before we do this. Well, he’ll just have to wait.
         I rose and walked to the window and put a hand on his arm.
         “AJ, can we just do this? Conrad can bring you up to speed on his information later. You and I can talk more tonight. You know you’ve never been really satisfied with what you learned in Mexico. Maybe the police should know that now. If you want to back out, I’m fine with that but I have to do this.”
         “I don’t want to back out, Mom. I’ve always felt something was going on that we didn’t know about or see.  I’m just worried about you.  It’s re-traumatization.  I’d feel better about it if I knew you wouldn’t suffer this again.”
         “I have a counseling appointment with Grace this afternoon. She’ll be doing her hypnosis magic to help me relax and release it. Caitlin and Caroline are coming with me as backup. I don’t think it will be as bad as living through it the first time.”
         AJ remained at the window with his arms across his chest, body language that told me he was steeling himself for the worst. 
         For him or for me?  We both are going to suffer with this.  He’s remembering the charcoaled corpse. I can see it in his eyes.
         I looked at Conrad. 
         “Let’s get on with this.”
         Conrad hit his intercom and asked Ardith to send the police in.
         Introductions were made. The other man’s name was Rudmann.
         Klarkowski still doesn’t remember me. No matter. I was with schoolchildren on a visit to the police department back then, just another mother with kids. That must happen all the time.
         Conrad took charge immediately, his whole persona changing, his voice deepening as if he was in court, his face set in serious lines.
         “Gentlemen, as you know, I was at Anna’s home when you phoned requesting an interview. Anna does research for a number of firms and I was bringing her more work from ours. I have also represented her for seven years, since her husband died, attempting to get a fair settlement from that firm. I have been unwilling to jeopardize that without proof if illegal dealings. I set this meeting because my research into what is now the O’Keeffe law firm left me with suspicions about what had happened back then, and what may still be going on.  A few days ago now, Arthur Kinnealy Sr. was officially declared dead and Anna will finally be getting the financial settlement due her from her husband’s interest in that firm. With that settled and two more deaths, the most recent one a homicide, I believe it is important to take a long look at what happened. 
         “I will be recording this and will see that your office gets a copy. In view of my client’s serious previous posttraumatic stress history, I will be stopping this interview if I deem it necessary. Mrs. Kinnealy does want to cooperate with you in any way and so does Dr. Kinnealy. Both were the members of the family who had to travel to Mexico to identify the body.” 
         He pressed the button on the tape recorder.
         “If you would state your names, employers and reason you are here…officers, will you begin, please?”
         “Detective Gregory Klarkowski, Green Bay Police Department, drug investigation.”
         “Detective Thomas Rudmann, Brown County Sheriff’s Department, also drug investigation.”
         Conrad nodded to me, signaling me to speak.
         “Anna M. Kinnealy, widow of Arthur Kinnealy, who was formerly partner in the Green Bay law firm of O’Keeffe, Kinnealy, Soderberg, and Moss.”
         “Arthur J. Kinnealy Jr, MD, son of Arthur Kinnealy Sr.  I’m called AJ.”
         Conrad then set ground rules.
         “I want Anna to go through her journals in their entirety with minimal interruption. Gentlemen, you’ll find paper and pens available and I ask that you write down any points you want to explore but save them for later questioning. I think this will keep us from getting off track. I want to emphasize this is entirely voluntary on the part of Anna and AJ and in a spirit of complete cooperation. I reserve the option to end this meeting at any time. Are there any questions or observations?”
         I had never seen Conrad in court but had been told by Art years ago that he was formidable.  Now I was seeing just a part of that and even the detectives took notice, sitting up straighter and acquiescing without a peep out of them.  Not for the first time I was so glad I’d sought him out for my lawyer.
         “Anna, begin please.”


Two
         I took a deep breath and began.
          “This is from my journal of seven years ago when my husband was killed.  I wrote this in the months after the events described, at the insistence of my counselor, to help me come out of my immobilizing shock.”

Merida, Yucatan, Mexico-September
         The long, mind-numbing plane trip to Mexico was a horror.  Fear moved everywhere through my body and I was unable to stop it.  I didn’t know fear could paralyze the tips of my fingers, numb my toes, twine around my muscles, drag at my skin.  Mostly it sat inside my chest, squeezing my heart, making every breath I took an effort.
         Huddled on a hard bench in the airport in Miami, willing myself to breathe, I sat waiting for our flight to Merida. 
         Airport smells made my stomach queasy.  Someone nearby reeked of smoke.  A woman’s cheap perfume, faint but unpleasant, drifted by on the air.  From another part of the airport, fast food greasiness edged its way through the halls and wedged itself in the back of my nose.  These smells and the non-stop sounds were making me physically uncomfortable, adding irritation to apprehension.
         AJ, restless and impatient, moved back and forth in front of the pay phone across the wide lobby, on the phone to his brothers and sister, to MomKat and Aunt Carrie, one last call before we took off again.  I watched my black-haired son, at 6’ 4”, towering over most of the passersby, trying to concentrate on anything but what was ahead, the final leg of our flight to Mexico.

         I, who loved flying with my husband, dreaded entering the planes to Merida.  Each plane on the flight from Green Bay became a prison carrying me through time to knowledge I didn’t want and never intended to learn.  Three planes.  Two down, one to go.
         AJ came back across the room, weaving his way through other travelers who moved swiftly past, or stood in chatting groups, or stood immobile watching the flight listings on the overhead monitor. 
         “Everything’s as OK as it can be, Mom,” he said, sitting down next to me. “ Aunt Carrie is taking them all to a ceilidh tonight down in Kaukauna.  Cory wants to sing.  MomKat says Alex is wearing Dad’s Packer jacket and won’t take it off.  I told her to let him.  Marnie swings between clinging to Aunt Carrie, on the phone to her Girls, and flirting with Caroline’s boys.  Was I that weird at twelve?”
         I smiled a bit as I pictured Marnie, her long black hair, intense blue-green eyes, tall and awkwardly slim for her twelve years, phone glued to her ear. 
         “No, you were never weird.  You’ve been Mr. Responsible since you were born, although some of your basketball buddies came close to weird.  I’ve always thought you were too serious.” 
         He smiled in return. 
         “They were weird!  That’s why I liked them.  They were my alter ego.” 
         His smile faded. 
         “I miss them.  College has been, well, too serious.  I miss the fun of high school.”
          His gaze wandered over the crowd, as if his buddies would somehow materialize to lighten the tensions he’d felt the past few days. 
         He’ll be longing for the mere seriousness of college before this is over.
          I shut out the thought of what would come.
         My thoughts turned to Cory of the bright copper hair, our poet and singer and artist.
          “I forgot about the ceilidh.  It’ll be good for Cory to sing.  I hope he sings his own songs, not just the old Irish tunes. It’s a good thing we’re Irish.  He’ll get his chance to be himself at the ceilidh.  Alex will like it too, although he’s almost too, well, normal, for this family.” 
         An eight-year-old composer/poet and a ten-year-old sports nut/accountant.  A twelve-year-old supermodel and wannabe princess, and a twenty-year-old who wants to know everything.  What a contrast!
         Normal is a relative term for this family.  Alex will want to go to school and spend endless hours on the basketball court.  Marnie will gather Sammi and Alicia and more of her Girls and drown themselves in makeup and fashion magazines. Cory will compose poetry and songs. 
         Good!  Let them!  Better they’re not here!
         And AJ, our doctor wannabe, is here to help me identify a dead body. His father’s body.
For a few seconds, thinking about the children, I forgot my own apprehension, but it returned quickly and a wave of guilt twisted through me.
         I want to be able to comfort them and here we are and there they are.
         Until the Mexican police and the consulate had said only two should come, we’d had a long family discussion about how to get us all to Mexico.  Trying to decide if we could all go and how we could all go made the suspense and tension worse, almost precipitating a family argument. 
         Cory and Alex, their imaginations on overtime, immediately went into scenarios of how they would rescue their father from the jungle.  Marnie, at twelve, as Daddy’s Girl, simply refused to think there was anything wrong, believing her dad, her hero, could not possibly be harmed.  I wanted to be together with them so I could comfort them with hugs and touches and reassurance.  I wanted to be brave for AJ’s sake.
I’m their mom.  I’m supposed to be brave for all of them.
         AJ caught the worry in my eyes and took my hand, trying to comfort me.  All the while I saw his own face tense and lined.  Our thoughts ran in the same direction.
         Will the body be Art’s?  Am I a widow?  Is AJ fatherless at twenty?  And Marnie?  And Alex and Cory?  Oh God!!!  Jesus, Mary, Joseph!  It’s too cruel!
         I was already tired by the days leading to this trip, when we all hovered at The House waiting for news after that first call from Mexico.  But I had managed.  When Big John O’Keeffe came over and took over our library for an office to lead the search for his son, Jonny O, and for Art, I managed. When our house was flooded with friends and neighbors and well-wishers and even, outside, the reporters, I managed.  I was used to a house filled with people and dogs and cats, coming and going.  I always had managed that.  It’s what I did as Art’s wife and mother of our children.  It’s what I loved to do.  It was all I ever wanted to do, be a wife, a mother, have a big Irish family. 
         This struggle is made worse by memories of the other deaths.  I…
         “Mom.  You’re remembering the deaths again.  Don’t go there!” 
         AJ put his arm around my shoulders.
         I nodded.  I felt the tears start behind my eyelids.  My mind swerved there anyway.
         Such pain! 
         This is bringing it all up again.
         My father, a quiet drunk, slowly sipped himself to death when I was twelve, leaving a deep hole in his place, a deep hollow inside of me, an unfilled presence that left my mother, Katherine O’Neill, MomKat, in a long gray silence that shut me out.  Before that, MomKat had not been a silent woman.  When she withdrew it was as if I lost her too.  By the time she came out of it, I was emotionally gone from her as well as my father.
         Drunk or not, I loved him.  I missed his presence deeply. It shook my world. I know what it will do to Marnie.
         My Aunt Carrie and my best childhood friend, Caitlin Dunleavy, had taken their place. 
I wasn’t a little girl anymore.  I grew up fast after that.
         And more pain!  Our little baby daughter who died in her sleep at three months, a crib death. 
{indent}He’s right.  Don’t go there!  I have to shut this out or I’m not going to make it through this!
         “I’m here for you, Mom.  The others are too.  Do you want me to call them again?”
         Both his arms went around me.
         “No.  I don’t think there’s time. I’ll be all right. It’s I who should be here for you.  God, I never wanted you to have to face anything like this!  It’s the waiting.  It’s hard to wait.”
         This waiting!  This inaction!  This helplessness!  This gray of unknowing!  This watching our belief in the security of our lives dropping away like the shedding of skin.  This is pain of a kind I could not have imagined.  I never wanted any of my children to know this.
         The PA system came to life with a squawked garbled message over the heads of the crowd and passengers began to stand and gather their things.
          “Mom, they’re calling our flight.” 
         AJ stood, pulled me up with one hand, grabbed our bags with the other, and we walked to find out what Death had wrought this time.


Three
         We walked off the plane in Merida into a wet blast of overwhelming heat, humidity, noise, and screaming tropical colors. I felt slapped by the scene.  I tried to make sense of it but sounds of strange languages assaulted my ears.  Torrents of staccato Spanish, a snatch of German, a brief conversation in French, slow stilted British English, and other languages I’d never heard rattled through my head.  Confusion.  Chaos. 
         People of all colors and sizes looked like they knew where they were going, laughing, hugging, chatting, while AJ and I stood in the midst of all this, clutching our bags, unable to decide what to do next.           Abruptly, we were surrounded by four Mexican police who directed us toward a white door labeled Securidad. I was conscious of raised eyebrows and strange looks as we were escorted through the crowd.  A man in chinos and sunglasses lounged against the wall and his face followed our progress as police cleared people out of our way.  I felt embarrassed. 
         I was thirsty and had to go to the bathroom.  Without listening when I requested a bathroom, they began the questions the police captain had fired at me on the phone days ago.  As they spoke, that first phone call played over again in my head and I was home, standing in the kitchen, cutting up a chicken for supper.  It was Monday of the third week after Art and Jonny O had flown out of Green Bay…

          On the phone a strange male voice with a Spanish accent asked, “May I speak to Senora Anna Kinnealy, por favor?” He pronounced it “KEN’ a lee”.
         “I’m Anna Kinnealy.
         “Senora, I am Capitan Jesus Arispe Sandoval from the Merida Police.  I am calling from Merida, Mexico.  Is your husband Arthur Kinnealy?”
          His voice was stern, clipped to a sharp edge, unemotional and cold.
         I felt myself tense.  Why would a Mexican policeman be calling me?  Why would anyone Mexican be calling me?  Why isn’t this Art calling me?
         “Yes, he is.”
         No call like this could be good.  A quick shiver rippled up my back and down my arms.
“Why are you calling?  What’s wrong?”  Tiny lumps of dread formed and congealed in my chest. 
Why would Mexican police even know about Art?  What reason could there be except something out of the ordinary?  If something is wrong, why not a call from an embassy?  A consulate?
         “Senora, I am very sorry to inform you that there has been a serious accident.  Does your husband pilot his own plane?” 
         “Yes, he does, but he’s fishing right now.” 
         Of course, he’s fishing.  Why would he even be in the plane?  He’s not in the plane. 
         “He’s fishing on a charter boat based in Cozumel but I don’t have the name of the charter company right here with me.”
          Where is it?  I think it’s somewhere in the library.
         “Senora Kinnealy, we have information he was flying his plane and has perhaps crashed into the jungle.
But we have only a little information at this time.  A distress call was heard at the airport tower here but there was no time to obtain more knowledge because contact was broken too quickly.  We would like to know if you have knowledge of his travel plans and the plane registration or identification.”
         “But is he alive?  Where is he?  Is he injured?” 
         Cold fear coiled inside me now.  Suspicion too. 
         How does this man know about me?  How did he get this information to call me, if not from Art?
“We do not know for sure if he was the one flying the plane, but is not at the airport.  At this time we have not yet located the place where this plane went down.  We have men out searching the area.”
My mind jumped all over the place. 
         Why is he saying “we”. He sounds like a robot. The plane went DOWN? Art’s not in his plane?  Why would he let someone use the plane?  He would never let someone else use the plane!
         “We need more information,”  he continued, “and we thought you might know more details of his plans.”

         “Senora!  Are you listening?” 
         A harsh, rasping voice smacked my ears, demanding my attention.  A police officer had thrust his face up into mine, his black mustache and goatee dominating his features, twitching with impatience.  He was almost a head shorter than my five feet, nine inches, with a wide body, heavy shoulders, hands on his hips, reeking of cigarettes and sweat.  He looked as if I had insulted him. 
         I couldn’t remember what I had said or if I had said anything. 
AJ’s mouth opened as if he might protest but he shut it suddenly, lips in a thin line. 
         He’s only twenty.  He’s even more unsophisticated than I am. We have no credibility with these men. Where is the person from the consulate?
         I was so numb from the past days of tension, I couldn’t feel my own face when I touched it. I couldn’t push away the thought that this really had nothing to do with our family, or Big John’s family, that it was all some strange dream and I would wake up sooner or later. 
         Abruptly, without any explanation, the questioning ceased and I was escorted to a dirty bathroom by a very overweight, angry-looking female officer. The floor was gritty under my shoes. There were no stalls, just one toilet, no toilet paper.  The seat was smeared with dried feces in two places, discolored, filthy. She paced impatiently, watching every move I made,  while I took the few towels left to line the toilet seat, relieved myself, used my own tissues for toilet paper, washed my face and hands with wipes, and tried to collect my thoughts. 
         “Agua, por favor.  Yo quiero agua, por favor.”  I asked her twice. 
         I knew very little Spanish but I was sure of these words. She ignored me, shrugging as if she didn’t understand what I said. She did. Once outside the bathroom door, I heard her tell a male officer what I had said, catching the words agua and gringa. 
         He ignored both of us. 
         I had no energy left to protest when we were informed we must now go to identify the body. We were escorted out into the dust and heat and deposited in a police vehicle. 
         No offer of a visit to our hotel. Or water. Or any help. 
         While we were still at home in Green Bay, Big John O’Keeffe had called the consulate. They had told him someone would meet us. If anyone from the consulate was at the airport, he or she didn’t make any contact with us.

          The streets of Merida were a blur of people, dogs, bicycles, mopeds, carts, wagons, and numerous larger forms of transportation. I remember seeing a dusty donkey who I thought looked as tired, frightened and out of place as I felt.  I watched AJ lean forward in the police car, absorbing the scenes with intense interest. I felt only dread. 
         It’s strange how each person deals with these things. His way is to take in every detail. I only want to shut it all out.
         Colors assaulted and overwhelmed me. Colors of clothing on the women, fiercely bright colors on many of the buildings, colored flags and banners, colored flowers, colored buses. I love color but these were, in the intense sunlight and in the state I was in, scraping my skin and eyes. I dug through my bag for sunglasses, which brought some relief. 
         The vehicle was air-conditioned, but dust from the streets swirled faintly through the car. I sneezed several times and finally resorted to holding a tissue over my nose and mouth. That drew another contemptuous look from the female officer, who sat in front with the driver.
         We rode a seemingly endless series of streets, through a large business district, past colonial buildings and Spanish churches, through another district where wealthy homes displayed their superiority with long driveways and manicured lawns, and through a barrio of small shacks housing people who barely had clothing. That was followed by our entry into what seemed like a place of many warehouses.
         We stopped at last at a windowless cement block building, whitewashed in some distant past, now stained with whatever had been flung at it or poured on it or quite possibly peed on it. Litter had been dropped or blown or thrown against it. A cat slunk behind a large metal barrel near its walls. Three thin ragged dogs fought over some scrap, snarling at each other. The air smelled simultaneously of dry dirt, garbage, sweat from the officers with us, and a faint putrid stink I couldn’t identify. 
         Capitan Arispe Sandoval arrived in a police vehicle and introduced himself to AJ. He was an inch taller than I, a thin man with a very long face like the faces in Modigliani paintings. His voice held no warmth, all business. He did not make eye contact with anyone, not even with other officers. He didn’t introduce himself to me.
         Arrogant! He’s arrogant. I have met lawyers and one judge like that! Businessmen, too. They don’t look at people; they look over them, around them, through them. He isn’t even seeing me. 
         Without saying a word to me, he took my elbow to escort me in. His grip felt too strong and I pulled away. He reacted by taking an even firmer grip. Another officer opened the door, then stationed himself inside it, as if guarding it. 
         From what? Why the guard? 
         I looked at AJ. 
         He mouthed, “It’s OK, Mom.” 
         It’s not OK, not at all. I’ll have bruises from his fingers on my arm. This is not ok at all! 
         I jerked my arm away and walked ahead of Arispe Sandoval.
         Another officer scrambled to open an inner door for me. AJ followed me.
         We were hurried down a grey corridor lined with closed doors and led directly into a bare room with a long metal table covered with a black cloth mounded by something under it. The putrid smell was intense. I tried breathing through my mouth. It was terrible, gagging. I am tasting Death. 
         Lighting was dim and I wondered how we would be able to see clearly. I should have counted my blessings. Without any preliminary warnings, the Capitan uncovered the lump on the table. 
         Oh god! Oh god!
          I took in a sudden breath and then retched. 
         I was not prepared for this sight at all. Somehow it had not entered my mind that I was to see a burned, decaying human body.  Nor would I have been able to imagine what that might be like. I was looking at the charred remains of what may or may not have been a person. There seemed to be legs, arms, a head. There were no features where the face should have been. No hair. No fingers or toes. The entire body was a charred black massive cinder.  Yet some greenish, grayish pus oozed out of a hole where an abdomen might have been. There is no way to describe the smells. Charred flesh has a smell of its own. Rotting flesh has another. The air was reeking. There was no air-conditioning. 
         I was so surprised and shocked I could only stare. I tried to look away and couldn’t. I couldn’t move.
         This is not Art!  This is not human!  This could not have been a living being of any kind!
         I remember sensing that my mouth was open with astonishment. I closed it and was sorry I did.  Forced to breathe though my nose, the full stink hit me and I gagged again. Nausea rose in my throat from deep in my stomach.  I fought to keep from retching and lost the struggle. A small man in a dirty white medical coat handed me a pail and I threw up. When I looked again at the corpse, I grew faint. 
         I glanced at Arispe Sandoval.  He seemed almost amused at my horror, one side of his mouth turned up in a small sneer. 
         “We think this is your husband, Senora.  Is there anything you recognize?” 
         His voice was flat, cold, sarcastic.          
         But he’s smiling! Is he enjoying this? Is this his cruel joke? Does he enjoy cruelty?           
         I turned my eyes back to the corpse. More horror! I was forced to really look for something familiar and I found it. 
         On one blackened, clawed protruding lump jutting out from the body near me, there was a ring stuck in the remains of what might have been the hand.  Dirty and discolored, but with an unmistakable outline that was familiar, it was the ring we had picked out together before we married, the ring that matched my wedding ring. We had designed it ourselves, our own Celtic design. In our entire marriage, I had never seen it off Art’s hand. He never took it off.
         In a daze, I held out my hand and saw the Capitan look from one ring to the other and nod. AJ put his shaking arms around me and I saw tears sliding silently down his face, felt his whole body trembling. There was no other way we could find to identify the body. I couldn’t speak. 
         AJ haltingly told the Capitan the height and weight of the body seemed to match that of his father. 
         There was no clothing. No personal effects. No luggage. Where are his other clothes?  His bags?
         We left the room and were taken to a small office with a desk littered with papers.
         AJ read the papers Arispe Sandoval  presented to us. I signed them. I didn’t care what they said. I just wanted to get out of there. I asked for copies. I was told it was not necessary. We were told we could pick up the body in two more days. 
         Suddenly I was furiously angry.
          “I want the ring!” I stood up.
         “That is not possible, Senora.”
         “Yes it is! It’s mine! I want the ring now.” 
         I turned and ran back down the hall to the room and snatched the covering off the corpse. I reached down and broke off the part that had the ring. It crumbled in my hand and I shoved the loose ring on my largest finger. 
         Turning around, I found myself face to face with the Capitan.  He was reaching for me.
         I drew myself up to my full height and growled, glaring at him, rage pouring off me into the air.
         “Don’t you touch me!  Don’t you dare touch me!” 
         I moved around him as he stood there and went to where AJ stood in the door with the officer who was our driver.
         “We’re leaving now,” I announced.
         I walked outside, AJ following, the Capitan fuming and ranting inside.          
           After an interminable wait outside in the hot sun we were brought to our hotel in a police car.