She found a bench, damp from the rain, and wiped it with her hand before sitting.
“This isn’t about the sex, Mark,” she said. “I wish it were. Even after she cheated on me again with Murphy, it wasn’t about the sex. Sex between us has always been good.”
“It’s always about the sex for me,” he said.
“I know.”
“Men cheat because they want sex,” he added. “More of it and in different and new ways.”
“And women cheat because…” Her voice trail off and she stared into the night sky, the horizon and cityscape of Seattle. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know why women cheat. But more important, I don’t know how to overcome my anger and resentment toward her. We wanted another child, a brother or sister for Sophia. She wanted to go to counseling, to work on us.”
“And?” He sat down next to her.
“And six months ago, I would have been ecstatic to think I’d get her back and put all this behind us. But now…” She buried her face in her hands.
“Now you’ve moved on,” Mark answered.
Callie wiped her tears. “I’ve moved on.”
“Then what’s the problem?” he asked.
“My head’s moved on,” she said, “but my heart is still hung up.” She cursed, stood, and began walking down a side street.
“Where’re you going?” he called.
“I don’t know,” she called back, not looking at him. “Anywhere, somewhere as long as I keep walking. I gotta keep walking.”
“You can’t run from your problems, Callie.”
That brought her to a stop and she turned around. “That’s rich coming from you, Mark. Really. The irony, dear God!” She threw her hands in the air and continued on.
She left him sitting on the bench while she rounded a corner and found herself in a narrow street, an alleyway, between tall buildings. Without a phone, she couldn’t even call someone to come pick her up. She decided to cut across to a parking lot she could see ahead and then to a major street. Maybe she could pick up another cab, preferably one without a ghost from her past.
But she hadn’t gone more than a few yards when the sound of guitar music floated her way. She glanced around. She was at the back of buildings, and from what she could determine, there was no open doorway, no source for the music.
Then she heard the voice singing. It was a deep voice, a woman’s voice, dripping with a sultry tone, measured and breathless.
“Adoro la calle en que nos vimos…”
Callie stopped and peered into the shadows as a woman dressed in traditional Mexican leathers with brocade on the shoulders and a poncho over one arm came strolling toward her while strumming a guitar.
“La noche cuando nos conocimos…” the woman sang.
Callie cocked her head and studied her. She had long, wavy hair, framing a heart shaped face with prominent black eyes highlighted with dark lashes.
“Adoro las cosas que me dices…” she continued to sing.
Now she was right up to Callie, and she continued to strum her guitar and smile as she sang.
“Nuestros ratos felices. Los adoro vida mía…” she sang another verse then strummed her guitar loudly and ended by resting her arms cross its body.
“Ay, mi hija, you have trouble with the woman,” the stranger said.
“I do.” Callie blinked a few times. This woman seemed familiar, yet she couldn’t place the face.
The stranger bobbed her head. “The woman, she is a complicated being, no? Good that you are one. You are better equipped.”
“Who are you?” Callie asked.
The woman pushed her guitar, which dangled from a strap on her shoulder, behind her before bowing ceremoniously. “Chavela Vargas, mi bella dama. Here to guide you in the ways of a woman’s heart.”
“You’re dead,” Callie said.
“A slight inconvenience for me, yes.”
“I got some sort of funky tequila, didn’t I?” Callie felt her head. “Some weird alcohol poisoning.” She touched her wrist. “Shit, I can’t feel my pulse!”
“Mira,” Vargas said and reached for Callie’s arm. She turned Callie’s hand toward her own heart and held it there. “It beats still. Now to have it beat with the same cadence as your beloved’s.”
“I don’t have a beloved,” Callie said. She backed away from Vargas and continued toward the street ahead. “I really, really need to stop drinking,” she muttered.
She turned a corner but found herself back in the same spot she’d just left. A bench had appeared in the middle of the narrow alleyway, and Vargas sat with a large sombrero on her head, which was bent and hiding her face in the shadows while her guitar lay across her knee. She strummed it and hummed.
Callie shrugged. Apparently this drunken toot wasn’t going to be ignored so easily. She sat down and listened.
When Vargas’d finished playing, Callie said, “My father had your records. I remember he’d play them on Saturday nights while he and my mother danced in the kitchen.”
“A man of good taste, I see,” Vargas said. She pushed her sombrero back and smiled at Callie.
“Did you and Frida Kahlo really have an affair? Or is that one of those lesbian urban myths?” Callie asked.
“Do I look the type to brag about my conquests?” Vargas asked.
“I’m not sure what type you look. I was only curious.”
“I see.” Vargas brought a cigar from her breast pocket. She bit the end and spit the wad away. She snapped her fingers, and a flame appeared at her thumb from which she lit the cigar. She pulled a deep drag from it, causing the end to crisp and glow.
“You know those things will kill you,” Callie said.
Together they erupted into laughter; Callie clapped her hands as Vargas slapped her knee.
“Ay, humor is a good quality to have in the ways of love,” Vargas said after settling down. She blew smoke rings about her head, and Callie saw many of them took on the form of a woman’s silhouette.
“Arizona and I laughed a lot together,” Callie said. “But there were more times when we didn’t speak. More silence than yelling even. Silence and a lot of tears.”
“No doubt,” Vargas said.
Callie grew more melancholy and kicked at a bottle cap on the pavement. “I love her, but I resent her. I don’t know if I can get over it, get over her infidelity.”
Vargas continued to smoke, blowing the fanciful rings about them while nodding and listening.
“She says she loves me,” Callie continued. “That’s an improvement at least. She hasn’t always been able to say that on a regular basis.”
“And you love her,” Vargas said.
“Of course. But it isn’t enough. Not for her, not for me.”
“Enough for what?” Vargas asked.
“Enough to make it work, to keep us together,” Callie said.
“Hmm.” Vargas squinted through the smoke. “Permanence is not always a sign of success. Sometimes the intensity of an affair is more important than its longevity.”
