Nothing More Deceptive
by April Vazquez
Lalo was resolved to have it out with Irma before his forty-seventh birthday. The idea of turning a year older without having addressed his wife's infidelity was even more depressing than the prospect of divorce. The evidence was strong, but not, as yet, incontrovertible: her empty-handed returns from "shopping" trips; the extra expenses she couldn't account for; the phone calls she refused to answer in Lalo's presence. It had been going on for weeks.
Lalo went to Don Ignacio, the fortune-teller, but the old man only pursed his lips and said grimly, "Una gran sorpresa awaits you. You will find its results crippling."
The hell I will, thought Lalo. I enjoyed life for thirty years before Irma, and I'll make a go of it once she's gone. Aloud, he complained that Don Ignacio might as well be the Oracle of Delphi for all the help he gave.
It was Irma's checking and rechecking of his Friday schedule that let Lalo know when he could expect to throw a light on his wife's misdeeds. Instead of working late, he staked out their ground-floor apartment from a street corner at the back of the building. The bedroom was clearly visible. Lalo stood smoking in the dusk, watching shadows move behind the window shade. Irma wasn't alone.
He stamped out the cigarette, then, without taking his eyes from the window, stepped off the curb. A screech of brakes preceded a thump, a momentary weightlessness, and a sudden, white-hot pain. As the ashen-faced driver peered at him in the gloom, Lalo gasped out, "Apartamento 104."
By the time the man had half-carried, half-dragged Lalo to his front door, the latter was in a near-delirium of agony. "You slut, I've caught you now!" he shrieked as the driver threw open the door. A flash of overhead light revealed cake, streamers, and several of Lalo's friends, crouched in silence, their "¡Felicidades!" frozen in their throats.
Lalo, who afterward walked with a cane, never saw Don Ignacio but he shot him a smoldering, hangdog look.
"More's the pity," the old man sighed, "but Sherlock Holmes was right. There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact."
Lalo was resolved to have it out with Irma before his forty-seventh birthday. The idea of turning a year older without having addressed his wife's infidelity was even more depressing than the prospect of divorce. The evidence was strong, but not, as yet, incontrovertible: her empty-handed returns from "shopping" trips; the extra expenses she couldn't account for; the phone calls she refused to answer in Lalo's presence. It had been going on for weeks.
Lalo went to Don Ignacio, the fortune-teller, but the old man only pursed his lips and said grimly, "Una gran sorpresa awaits you. You will find its results crippling."
The hell I will, thought Lalo. I enjoyed life for thirty years before Irma, and I'll make a go of it once she's gone. Aloud, he complained that Don Ignacio might as well be the Oracle of Delphi for all the help he gave.
It was Irma's checking and rechecking of his Friday schedule that let Lalo know when he could expect to throw a light on his wife's misdeeds. Instead of working late, he staked out their ground-floor apartment from a street corner at the back of the building. The bedroom was clearly visible. Lalo stood smoking in the dusk, watching shadows move behind the window shade. Irma wasn't alone.
He stamped out the cigarette, then, without taking his eyes from the window, stepped off the curb. A screech of brakes preceded a thump, a momentary weightlessness, and a sudden, white-hot pain. As the ashen-faced driver peered at him in the gloom, Lalo gasped out, "Apartamento 104."
By the time the man had half-carried, half-dragged Lalo to his front door, the latter was in a near-delirium of agony. "You slut, I've caught you now!" he shrieked as the driver threw open the door. A flash of overhead light revealed cake, streamers, and several of Lalo's friends, crouched in silence, their "¡Felicidades!" frozen in their throats.
Lalo, who afterward walked with a cane, never saw Don Ignacio but he shot him a smoldering, hangdog look.
"More's the pity," the old man sighed, "but Sherlock Holmes was right. There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact."