Vengeance. Mystery Writers of America Presents B00A25NLU4

gardeners in need of work.
    One day, Alejandro had an orchid to show him, a minuscule cluster of green leaves. It was a hybrid, the boy said. A new one. If it turned out to be as beautiful as he hoped, it would be named for his mother.
    The General looked at his smiling face and said, “What a splendid idea.”
    Nonetheless, when Alejandro went off to school, the General felt grumpy and out of sorts. Who was this gardener to remind him of Maria? He stepped onto the terrace and studied his lush foliage. The original garden had been too tidy and suburban for his taste. Now, without its ever looking sloppy or unkempt, the garden reminded the General of his native thickets and jungles. Though the birds’ songs were different, there were moments when he felt at home, when he felt returned, almost. He traced the beginning of those moments to when Manuel had taken up residence in the garden.
    It would have seemed a simple matter for the General to question the old man directly, but this he did not do. First, he was confident that the man would lie, on principle, if not out of fear, and second, it was surely beneath his own dignity to investigate one of his servants. If he had real questions, he would let Hector and Jesus handle the business; they would soon discover anything he needed to know about Manuel. Anything.
    The awareness that this might be done consoled the General. In his mind, having the power to do something ran a close second to actually doing it. Besides, Alejandro was often alone, and the General preferred for him to have a companion within the compound instead of running wild among the neighborhood boys with their motorized scooters and skateboards and their delight in surfing rough water.
    Already the boy’s English was full of slang and his Spanish corrupted. There could be no harm in the old gardener, and the General thought himself well enough protected by asking the occasional question.
    “Manuel must be very patient,” the General said one day. “He teaches you a great deal.”
    “He had a son once,” Alejandro said. “A boy like me.”
    “And where is his son? Back home or here?”
    Alejandro shook his head. “He did not grow up. He is dead.”
    “Ah,” said the General. That explained much. Alejandro looked reflective, even melancholy, and the General thought it well to add, “So many children die back home. The peasants are ignorant of even the simplest care.”
    Alejandro did not answer this observation, and some delicacy kept the General from pressing him.
    Another time, he asked Alejandro where Manuel came from.
    “The highlands,” Alejandro said. “He picked coffee and then he made gardens for the plantation owner.”
    “Do you know what village that might be?” The General kept his voice low. There were lots of coffee plantations, and he did not fear the answer. It would be too much of a coincidence. Still, even the idea was unwelcome.
    Alejandro shrugged — a nasty habit he had picked up from the boys next door.
    “Answer your father.” Unintentionally, the General spoke so sharply that Alejandro flinched.
    “I don’t know.”
    “I was just curious,” the General said, to pass over the moment.
    “I can ask him,” Alejandro said.
    “It is not important,” said the General, though now he greatly desired to know, to know that it was not Santa Lucia de Piedras. But he did not want to disturb Alejandro. There were surely other ways to find out.
    One day, quite spontaneously, Alejandro said, “I think Manuel is very sad.”
    Sorrow was always a danger, and the General thought again of firing the old man. “Perhaps he would be happier in another job.”
    “I hope he never leaves us,” his son said quickly. Oh, the boy was careless like that, just like his mother.
The innocent are careless
, the General thought,
trusting.
He felt a moment of fear — and then of anger. His son would have to learn caution. It would serve him right if he fired Manuel, but, weakened by his love for the boy, the General said, “I would be very sad if I lost you. The death of his son is why Manuel is sad.”
    “I think that is true. He can never forget what happened,” said Alejandro, but his face told the General nothing.
    “The child was ill, wasn’t he? There was no one to blame.”
    “I don’t know,” said Alejandro. “Mother —” He started to speak, then stopped. The General looked at him sharply.
    “Mother didn’t die of illness.”
    “Evil men murdered your