to do. And I felt an urgency to be doing something.
I pulled onto the road and turned back to the Tollway, covering the thirty miles south as fast as I could. Giant tractor trailers roared around me all the way down as the open land bordering the Tollway changed to the bungalows lining the Kennedy and then to the scrap-metal piles and grocery warehouses that bordered Pilsen where the Guamans lived. It was a relief to get away from the noise and into a residential neighborhood, although parking was a challenge. People who’d shoveled out spaces had blocked them off with garbage cans or broken-down furniture, a Chicago tradition. I found a half-legal space around the corner, not quite blocking a fire hydrant.
Bungalows and two-flats stood on lots so small that the buildings almost touched. Many were decorated with ceramic tiles; one even had a mosaic of a jaguar worked all the way across the front. Nativity scenes and Santas still stood in front of some of the houses. The Guamans didn’t have tile or a crèche, only a statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe. She was knee-deep in snow, a black ribbon around her neck serving as a heart-troubling reminder of loss.
A woman came out of a nearby house. She had a wagon, a toddler, and a drawstring bag filled with laundry that she was carrying down the stairs. I hurried over and took the wagon and bag from her. She thanked me but looked me up and down frankly. In my Lario boots and tailored coat, I wasn’t dressed for the neighborhood.
“Is that the Guaman home?” I pointed at the black-ribboned Lady of Guadalupe, just trying to get the woman talking.
“Are you from the lawyer?”
“The lawyer? No, I was a friend of Nadia’s. That was terrible, how she died.”
The woman nodded solemnly. “But why was she in such a place as that nightclub to begin with? It’s very hard on Cristina to have her daughter in the news that way.”
“Nadia told me she and her mother had quarreled. That must be hard, too, on Cristina, to know her daughter was killed while they were estranged.”
“They’re a strange family. Ever since the oldest girl died—”
“I know. In Iraq.”
“Alexandra’s death deranged them all,” the woman said. “Next thing you know, the boy turns into an idiot from a motorcycle accident, then Nadia fights with her mother and moves away!”
The toddler began to fuss. I pulled a sheet of paper from my case and folded it into a cocked hat while I spoke. The child stopped whining to watch me.
“Poor Nadia was angry and upset all the time,” I said. “She took Alexandra’s death very hard.”
“Cristina will never talk about Alexandra to anyone. Maybe to the priest, although he’s not a man who inspires confidences.”
I handed the cocked hat to the child. “I guess I’ll try to pay a condolence call, anyway.”
“Cristina works during the day. Only Ernest is there, with Lazar’s mother. They take him for therapy, they hope he’ll learn to live on his own one day. Of course, he can walk, he can dress himself, he can talk, but in many ways he acts like a child. Almost like Fausto.” She pointed at the toddler. “How they can bring back his memory, that I don’t understand. They’re lucky they got a little extra money.”
“Extra money?” I blurted. “Nadia never mentioned that.”
“Oh, everyone knows it’s why she fought with her mother. They got some money, I think from Ernest’s accident, and Nadia, she thought her mother shouldn’t take it. Although, why not? What are you supposed to do, live on air and water?”
“What, the person who caused the accident paid them something?”
The settlement hadn’t shown up in any of my databases, but if it had been done through mediation it wouldn’t be part of the public record.
The neighbor shrugged—the money was old news, not interesting anymore. “Wherever it came from, they need every penny of it. His therapy, all the extra care. Why couldn’t Nadia stay at home and help instead of fighting with her mother and leaving?”
“It must be hard on Clara,” I suggested. “Two sisters dead, her brother seriously injured.”
“Everyone’s life is hard.” The woman settled Fausto into the wagon and started down the street. “My husband, he left me when I was pregnant with Fausto. But I keep going, and the Guamans do, too. And maybe the therapy will help Ernest. Two days a week, off he goes with his abuela to see if he can