Read Online The Dead Women of Juarez by Sam Hawken - Free Book Online Page B

with his fingers again and again, the flesh pliant beneath the skin. Paloma put her hand against his chest over his heart.
    “I love you,” Kelly said.
    “Shut up.”
    “You always say that.”
    “And you never shut up.”
    “That’s because—”
    “Hush,” Paloma said. She urged him onto his back, straddled him and made a face when he entered her from below. They moved together, her breasts brushing his face. Kelly kissed and sucked her nipples. The urge overcame him. Paloma pushed her hips down hard when he came into her.
    Now Kelly was quiet and they heard the sound of traffic, not so distant and never still. Kelly drifted to sleep. When he awoke, Paloma breathed deep and even in the crook of his body. He pulled the sheet over their hips. He listened and watched until she stirred.
    “I love you,” Kelly said.
    “Fuck you,” Paloma said.
    “Why can’t I tell you I love you?”
    “Because I don’t like it,” Paloma said.
    She started to rise. Kelly held her back. “That’s bullshit,” he said. “You don’t want to hear because—”
    “Because why, Kelly?” Paloma sat up and pulled the sheet around her completely. Her hair was mussed, but it didn’t make her unlovely. Kelly didn’t like it when she looked angry and she did now. “Why?”
    “Because I’m white?”
    Paloma’s expression curdled. “
¡Pinche cabrón!
”
    She left the bed and gathered her clothes. Kelly didn’t move; he knew he should stop her, but he couldn’t and didn’t. He heard her in the front room putting her shoes on. He was sweating again.
    Kelly expected to hear the door slam. Paloma reappeared. She was flushed. When she pointed her finger at him, it trembled. “You are a goddamned
baboso
, Kelly! Is that what you think of me? Are you my fucking white-boy stud? Why are you such an idiot?” Paloma demanded.
    “What the hell did
I
do?”
    “What did you do? What did you
do?
” Paloma ripped the sheet from the bed and threw it at Kelly. He knocked it away. He saw Paloma’s eyes tearing. “I cook you food every week, Kelly. I fuck you. I bring you money. I don’t say nothing when you want to get your face bashed in over and over… why isn’t that enough for you? I’m not
ready
, Kelly!
¿Tú no entiende?
I’m
not ready for that!
”
    Tears came. Paloma battered them with her knuckles.
    “I just want you to say you love me,” Kelly said. He hated the sound of helplessness in his voice.
    “Of
course
I love you,
retresado!
Why do you got to make me say it?”
    Kelly got up. He felt strange, naked in front of Paloma fully dressed, and he embraced her awkwardly. She hit his arms with her fists, but the blows were soft and he barely felt them. She cried against his chest until her whole body heaved.
    “Don’t say it,” Kelly whispered to her. “You don’t have to say it. Don’t say it.”
    Paloma held him tighter and they said nothing after that.

SIXTEEN
    T HE S UNDAY WAS LIKE THE OTHERS : the same prayers, the same church, and the same conversations. Paloma didn’t see the black pick-up this time, but she imagined it had been there while she was at mass, or just around the corner.
    Their group had a new member and Paloma walked beside her to the Sunday gathering. The woman, Señora Muñoz, was the youngest of all the mothers, though still older than Paloma. A black veil framed her face. The visible strain of hard work and sorrow would turn her into an artifact like the others, a monument to loss and pain.
    Señora Muñoz’s daughter cleaned and vacuumed floors in the offices of a
maquiladora
called Electrocomponentes de Mexico. The Muñoz family lived in a home made of cinder blocks with no water or power. Belita Muñoz Castillo was thirteen years old, pretended to be older, and took a company bus to work at three o’clock in the morning alone.
    Paloma preferred to talk about other things with new women in black, but the subject could never be changed, as the first question was always
have you heard