Unfinished (Historical Fiction) - By Harper Alibeck Page 0,42

no life for me.

Two sentences that destroyed him.

And now she was here? Why? To completely humiliate and debase him?

Maria's fury grew obvious as he sat in a stupor, mind racing to understand why Lilith had journeyed so far to see him. The telegram had arrived six weeks ago, a knife so sharp and that cut so deep it seemed to cleave his heart in two with one clean stroke. Staggering out of the telegram office, James had two different passersby ask him if he'd just received news of a death in the family. Essentially, he had. His entire future died in two sentences, along with his heart.

Maria had appeared the next day, checking in for her father. Drunk to the point of near unconsciousness, James had reached for her. And now, six weeks later, she still warmed his bed and poured his pisco, the light liquor he'd grown to enjoy a bit too much. While it – and Maria – did not fill the hole created by Lilith's telegram, it made him forget the hole for brief moments.

Or, at least, allowed him to pretend he forgot.

And now – this? Lilith, here in Santiago?

“Why is she here?” Maria asked angrily.

“You tell me,” he laughed harshly, standing and pacing in the tiny room. The laughter turned to a deep, ragged cough, one that had settled into his lungs recently and, it seemed, permanently. The bed sagged in the middle and the window faced a small courtyard. A chipped glass pitcher of water and two lip-stained glasses littered the top of the bedside table. The room stank of sour sweat and sex. His stomach roiled as he fought for clarity. Pouring himself a water, he tossed it down quickly, followed by a second glass, emptying the pitcher.

“She wasn't supposed to come.”

Eager to find Lilith, he walked unsteadily to the door once more, then halted abruptly at her words. “What? What did you say?”.

Her nostrils flared in anger, hands gesturing wildly. “If you leave, you'll never see me again.” Maria's voice was ice, palms splayed and facing him, like an angry mime with words.

Without so much as a backward glance, James stepped out into the bright hallway and ran down the hall.

Maria did not call for him.

“Busco una Americana. Rubia. Ayudame, por favor?” James begged of the well-dressed businessman standing in front of the Church of San Francisco. I am looking for an American woman. Blonde. Please help me. Ah, his simple Spanish plagued him, though it certainly had improved this year. Ayudame – such a simple phrase that meant so much more. Help me find my heart. Help me sew it back together. Help me find the love of my life. Help me to kill the pain.

Help me.

Some beggar children played nearby, taunting a mangy stray dog who looked to be days away from starving to death. He found the boys as pitiful as any in South Boston, only more so, two of them half blind – literally, with scarred eyes– and most running barefoot and filthy. Desperate, he asked if they'd seen a blonde American woman. Promising them a hot meal if they could find her, he sent them off into the streets, despair seeping into his heart.

If Lilith didn't want to be found, it would be hard to hide. Santiago had few inns decent enough for a woman of her class, and he set out into the dusk in search of every single one. His tattered Spanish proved sufficient to confirm that she simply would not be found. Desperate, he visited the docks, finding one steamer ship with passenger accommodations that befitted someone of Lilith's class. Unable to board, he hounded every ticket-taker and dock hand with descriptions of Lilith, begging the main office to pass on his desperate plea that she contact him. He hastily scribbled a message:

My Dearest Lilith,

Please come back to me. You were not supposed to see what you saw. It is not what you think. Please. Please.

Your love,

James

The ragged street kids would comb the streets until their feet bloodied and their voices went hoarse, he knew. A hot meal was a rare treat. Indeed, he planned to feed them regardless, but in the receding sun's anemic light, as each hotel concierge turned him away, all James could think about was that afternoon in the wildflower field, when the sun watched over a hope that died now as the stars awakened, darkness taking control of the city and James' heart.

Chapter Twelve

“IT IS ANOTHER ONE, MISS STONE.” The