Guilt

“If that father of yours had known how to be strategic, he might be alive right now. Then again, even if he was strategic, it may not have mattered. Returning to Maimón after such a long time, Pietro walked in here like he was famous. He ran around like he was royalty from the moment he showed his face. He was boastful and showy, traits he wasn’t remembered for when he was last seen around here,” Guzmán shared in Spanish with Hector.

It was Hector’s first time in the Dominican Republic since his father’s death. He was fifteen when it happened. At age 35, the hurt and the anger no longer carried weight. The old feelings were now a memory, like faded drawings on a cave wall. Through the years, Hector tried to get information about his father’s death, but he got nowhere. If anyone knew anything, they weren’t saying much.

He was stabbed, the tucked-away newspaper entry said. Over a woman, many thought. No, he was taken advantage of by his bodyguard, others gossiped. Wait, what? He had a bodyguard? Yes, and he did old Prieto in. No, it was his cousins. They arranged his death. Contracted for it. The moment Prieto showed his face in Maimón, you can bet they immediately started scheming to get rid of him. Who had most to lose? They did, of course, the speculators said. Because Prieto was going to kick them off the land. True. It wasn’t their land, after all. Actually, it’s your land, Hector. It’s yours and your sister’s land. Prieto went back to claim it. They knew that they would have to get off the land if he returned. After more than forty years on that land, of course it was them. Don’t let stories about hookers, backstabbing bodyguards, or jealous boyfriends throw you off the scent. The real killers were his own cousins. At least, so the speculation went, Hector recalled.

Hector lost all contact with his father’s family after his death. Since they all lived in the Dominican Republic and his mother didn’t like them, they just faded from Hector’s life. So when he arrived, the first thing he did was call old phone numbers he’d managed to collect. He connected with Guzmán, his father’s younger brother, who was (luckily) still alive.

“The last time I saw you with my own eyes, you were a year old,” Guzmán said when they met. It didn’t take long for him to relax and treat Hector like a nephew he’d always known.

After sharing stories about Prieto as a young man, and a few from the time of that fateful visit, Guzmán suddenly stopped talking. For a minute, he seemed unsure of what to say next.

“Why did you take so long to come visit?” He asked as he stared straight ahead at the string of cabanas where it all took place.

Hector stared at the rolling hills just beyond the valley below. He had some ideas. Something to do with his mother not liking them, anger at his father for getting murdered, and a lingering guilt about his teenage intentions to disobey his father’s plans to live in the DR. They felt inadequate.

What would have happened had the old man lived? Would Hector’s life in the U.S. have disappeared? Or would he have severed his relationship with his father to stay in New Domangue?

“I don’t know, uncle,” Hector said after a while. “Probably just life, you know. We never made much money, so it was hard to travel. But, hey, at least I made it here.” He placed an arm over his uncle’s shoulders.

Hector was glad he came to see this place with his own eyes. He learned what no one could have told him, saw what no one could have shown him, and got a chance to breathe in the same mountainous air where the body was found.

“That’s where father was killed?”

“Yes, in that cabana right there.”

“But the report said he was killed in a bar.”

“That report is full of shit. I was called by the police to the cabana to identify him. He was drunk. The clerk said he saw Prieto arrive with a woman. She disappeared. No one knows who she was. Your father was found the next morning. All his possessions taken, even his clothes. They left him in his underwear, stabbed everywhere. Can you imagine? What a terrible way to die. May God forgive him. Prieto didn’t deserve this type of death. Could he have been a better husband? A better brother? A better father? Sure. But he didn’t deserve that. And I’ll tell you what, the people who did this planned it.”

“You think so?”

“I know so. You know your father and I are only half-brothers. Your father’s father, your grandpa, left him that land up the road, which I will show you tomorrow. Our cousin, Antonio, he’s been working and living off the land since Prieto left for the states. He thinks it’s his because he’s worked it his whole life. I’m pretty sure he had your father killed.”

Hector let these words sink in. Strategy or not, he would have ended up dead, according to Guzmán. Does it matter who killed him now, after all this time?

Perched atop a hill, the string of cabanas overlooked the town in the valley below to the southeast. Maimón is truly ugly, Hector thought. Why in the world would the old man want his family to live here? Hector tried to see the place through his father’s eyes, to see the old man’s connection to it, but it was hard. Maybe, if he could ignore the grittiness of the town below and the story of betrayal and death, maybe he could see the beauty in the green hills and mountains all around, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t belong to this place. Now, he was only thankful he didn’t have to disobey the old man.