Octavio had intended to keep his promise to marry Ana. During the Saturday half-day shift, as he did his work, he repeated over and again, “Yes, I will marry her. Yes, I’m in love with her. Yes, I want to spend the rest of my life with her.” He noticed, however, that his stomach ached all day long and that his tongue was dry and bitter tasting. He told himself that it meant nothing because he had felt this way since he had spoken with Father Gutiérrez earlier that week.
As the hours passed, however, Octavio’s resolve to keep his promise began to dwindle, to shake. The idea that perhaps he was too young to get married persisted, repeating itself even though he tried to dispel it from his thoughts. Alejandra’s image also surfaced in his mind, and Octavio remembered how much he liked her pouting ways and the innocent manner in which she looked at him. On the other hand, he remembered Ana’s constant attraction for him, a pull he had felt ever since they were children. He reminded himself how this feeling had become stronger, especially during the weeks and months before their intimacy up there on the hill.
When the buzzer sounded telling the workers that their day had ended, Octavio went to his locker where he folded his work apron. He withdrew a small hand mirror, and propping it against one of the shelves, he gazed at himself. He saw his hair, then his forehead, nose and eyes shadowed by thick eyebrows. He tilted his head back so as to see his mouth. He was young, Octavio thought, maybe too young.
He turned to look at the large clock attached to the wall above him. Two o’clock. He had two hours before meeting Ana at the church. He pulled out a sweater that hung on a hook in the locker, and then closed the door with a loud bang. He had to make the two-fifteen streetcar in order to reach the other side of town on time.
Octavio felt his feet becoming heavier with each step, but he made it to the bench where others were waiting for the trolley. He didn’t realize that he was biting his nails and that his brow was furrowed by three lines that creased his forehead from one temple to the other. As he waited, Octavio shifted from one foot to the other, and as each second passed, his heart pounded louder, faster.
He had not intended to go home before making his way to the church, but Octavio found himself walking up the shaky steps and into the front room of the Calderón house. Everyone was in the kitchen, even Rodolfo, who motioned to Octavio to join them.
“Have something to eat, Tavo. You look pale.”
“Gracias, but I have to leave in just a few…”
Alejandra broke in, not allowing Octavio to finish. “Come on, Tavo. I made some meatballs. You’ll love them. Here.” She didn’t wait for his answer before she served him a plate of the meat with steaming broth. Octavio did not resist; he couldn’t because he wanted with all his heart to stay there with those people who he knew were his family. He desired above all things to forget everything and to laugh and joke with the girls, with Alejandra especially. Octavio dreaded facing Father Gutiérrez and his kind but probing eyes. He was revolted by the thought of standing next to Ana, her abdomen visibly swollen. He admitted that he was ashamed of how she looked, and he knew that by marrying her everyone would know that he was the father of that child growing inside of her.
Octavio smiled sheepishly and, taking off his sweater, he picked up a spoon and began eating. Then everyone began to chatter almost at once. Alejandra sat staring at him, a wry smile on her lips. Each time he looked up from the plate, his eyes irresistibly turned to look at her. He returned her smiles because he felt his body relaxing as he did it. The jumpiness in his stomach began to go away, and the tightness in his neck was loosening.
When Octavio finished eating, Rodolfo signaled him with his head to follow him into the next room. They left the table and walked over to a couch in the front room where Rodolfo sat on a separate chair with his hands folded over his stomach. He was silent as he gazed at the floor.
He had been more silent than usual since he had beaten and thrown Ana out of the house. He seemed almost always lost in thought as if turning ideas over in his mind. Or maybe they were words that he never communicated to anyone. He had forbidden everyone to ever mention Ana’s name, and it seemed to even the youngest of the children that their father spent most of his days erasing their sister’s name from his mind.
Octavio sat in front of Rodolfo remembering that every second meant that four o’clock was approaching. Without even looking at the clock, he was sure that it was almost time. He knew that even now, if he jumped to his feet and sprinted to the church, he could still make it. But the older man’s grim face kept Octavio riveted to the seat.
Rodolfo finally spoke up and he did so in Spanish. When Octavio responded, he did likewise, knowing that Rodolfo hated anyone to interject English when speaking with him.
“You’re about twenty years old now, aren’t you, Tavo?’
Octavio, surprised by the question, sensed that what they were about to say to one another was important. He knew immediately that it meant that Ana would have to wait for him. “Yes, sir, about that age.”
“When I was your age, I was already married.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, what about you?”
He waited for Octavio to respond, but when he saw that no answer was coming, he said, “Have you ever been with a woman, Tavo?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I think you have. Something happens to a man when he lays with a woman. There’s a look in his eyes.”
Octavio’s head began to swim. His hands were clammy and the knot in his stomach returned, this time with flashing pain. His heart was racing with fear. “He knows,” Octavio told himself. “He knows about me and Ana, and this is his way of telling me that it’s my turn to be beaten, to be thrown out of the house.”
He felt that he was about to faint when he heard Rodolfo’s voice. “You look sick. Do you want a glass of water?”
“No, sir. I…think…I…that is, I just worked too hard today…my stomach hurts.”
Rodolfo ignored the stuttering and leaned forward in his chair as if trying to look through Octavio’s eyes into his stomach. His face was taut and stern as he uttered his words with care and deliberation. His voice was husky.
“It’s your turn.”
Octavio clamped shut his eyes, waiting for the first blow to fall, but he opened them when nothing happened. He saw the older man, his body slouched back in the chair, gazing at the wall above him. After a few seconds of confusion, Octavio realized with relief that he had been wrong, that he had misunderstood the whole thing, and that Ana had nothing to do with the conversation. Somehow, he told himself, Rodolfo had not connected her condition to him. He shuddered with joy and relief when he understood that the meaning of what was being said might lead in a new direction.
“It’s my turn?” Octavio’s voice was weak, little more than a whisper.
“Yes. Your turn to marry.”
“But…I don’t know of anyone who would marry me.”
When Octavio heard his words, he felt his body shiver because he knew that he had again betrayed Ana. He recognized that this was his second chance to reveal the truth. A sinking, wobbly feeling held Octavio back. Wiping sweat off his forehead, he told himself that the older man would surely kill him if he spoke up, and that even Ana would not have wanted that.
Rodolfo leaned deeper into the chair, and his eyes squinted until they were almost shut tight. “I know that you have eyes for one of my daughters.”
A hoarse gasp from Octavio’s throat escaped him. He was again plunged into the mire of fear from which he had pried loose just a few moments before. His skin lost all of its luster, turning an opaque, yellowish beige. He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off.
“I know, Tavo, that you love Alejandra. Your eyes almost scream it out, and only a blind man would not see that. And…” he held his hand up, palm outstretched when he saw that Octavio was about to speak, “I know that she loves you. I know because she has told me about it ever since she was a little girl.”
Octavio felt that he was ele
vating, that his head was filling with something weightless and airy, and that soon he would be able to fly. His eyes grew larger as he gaped at Rodolfo whose face had suddenly, inexplicably, become soft, almost tender. Octavio hardly recognized him because he had never seen that face so filled with light, and he wanted to embrace Rodolfo, thanking him for having freed him from the captivity of guilt into which he had fallen. Octavio told himself that here was proof that it would have been wrong for him to marry anyone except Alejandra. It had to be so, otherwise this harsh, stern man would never look as happy as he did. By the time Rodolfo spoke again, Octavio had forgotten all about Ana and that she was waiting for him at the church.
“Alejandra is sixteen years old and it’s her time. I want boys, even if they are to be grandsons.”
“What about school…”
“She’s a woman and has no more need for school.”
When both men stood, Rodolfo put out his hand to Octavio, who grasped it, shaking it with a newly found energy. Alejandra was born for him, and he for her, and he knew that he had been foolish and stupid to have ever thought otherwise.
I couldn’t get out of bed even though Doña Hiroko told me that I was not sick. I stayed in bed, just staring at the ceiling, not wanting to even open my lips. I couldn’t speak or whisper. I hardly did anything for myself except walk down the hallway to the toilet. I didn’t comb my hair nor wash my face, and I didn’t want to take a bath. It was Doña Hiroko who came with large basins of warm water with which to clean my body and to wash and comb my hair. I remember that while she did this she spoke to me. I didn’t listen to her words. My heart and mind had shut down.
Doña Hiroko spoke in a low, resonant voice, but Ana hardly responded. “Ana, in the land of my birth, the father, too, is all-powerful. He has the power to caress or to strike a daughter. My father chose the man whom I married, and I was never asked what I felt or what I wanted.”
The rhythmic strokes of the brush on Ana’s hair filled the silence of Doña Hiroko’s pauses. “When the child comes, it is the same everywhere because then the woman must live for that new life. But let it be different with you, Ana. Live for your own life”
She put the brush down on her lap for a few moments as she gazed out the window. Ana turned her head slightly, wondering why the words had stopped. Then the older woman returned to her brushing. “When my first son was born, I was a field worker. And every morning I used to tie him to my back and go out to the rice paddies where I worked, water up to my knees. I wondered even then if there were any other kind of life for a woman.”
She laughed quietly as she stood, and she looked at Ana for a long time before leaving the room. “You must be brave, because to be afraid, Ana, will lead you only to a living death. You must be courageous for the child in you. It matters not if it is a boy child or a girl child because they are equally important.”
News of what had happened to Ana flashed through the barrio, and during those days, César came only once to see his sister because now, more than ever, he feared that his father would discover what everyone else knew. He knew that Rodolfo would stalk across the street to keep his vow to kill Ana. César came to Ana’s bedside and knelt there for a long time before she opened her eyes. When she saw him, she smiled weakly, and when he took her hand in his, she pressed lightly against his strong squeeze. He couldn’t speak, so he began to cry, and Doña Hiroko took him into the kitchen where she gave him a cookie while she spoke to him for a long while.
Other neighborhood women also came, hoping to shake Ana from her trance. One of them, Doña Trinidad, tried more than the others to strengthen Ana’s spirit which, the woman said, wanted to die. She did this by reminding her of the women of Mexico.
“¡Ándale, muchacha! Get up! Remember that you come from good women, with strong blood. Some of them were even soldiers in the Revolution. Real fighters! Can you believe that, Ana? They were women who wanted to live. To prevail! Nothing stopped them! Not bullets or fear of dying.”
Because there was no reaction to her words, Doña Trinidad would take Ana by the shoulders, shaking her and speaking loudly. “Ana! Ana! You came to this country for a reason. You didn’t come all that distance, on buses, on trains, on foot through deserts, just to die of sadness rolled up in a bed. No, Ana! You’re a fighter!”
Doña Trinidad usually began speaking softly, in barely a whisper, but as she was caught up by what she was saying, she became intensely agitated and her voice escalated in volume. She seemed convinced that by shouting, her strength would somehow fuse into Ana’s heart, shaking her from the lethargy. The woman often ended her yelling and gesticulating by thrashing her brown, stringy arms in the air. Her voice always carried through the house, making Doña Hiroko run to the room to make sure that Ana was all right.
Nothing seemed to work. No one was able to penetrate the shell of Ana’s withdrawal. When Doña Hiroko brought her food, Ana tried to please her by eating, but ended pecking at the food and shifting it around on the plate with the fork. As the days passed, she grew thinner. Doña Hiroko went to the women of the barrio, explaining her fear that Ana and her child might die if she continued in such a state.
They turned to Father Gutiérrez, who came a few times to visit Ana but was unable to make her speak to him. He spoke kindly and at length, but it always turned out to be a monologue. “Ana, what happened was not your fault, remember that.” His words were met with silence, yet he persisted. “You must live. Please try! Touch your spirit, Ana, and tell it to live.”
Father Gutiérrez walked away from those visits feeling that his hands were empty, and his concern for Ana gnawed at him as he filled with outrage against Octavio Arce. When several weeks passed and she remained fixed in the silent world into which she had locked herself, the priest decided to approach Mr. Calderón to advise him that his daughter’s health and perhaps even her life were in danger.
Father Gutiérrez’s conversation with Rodolfo lasted only a few minutes because the moment the priest first uttered Ana’s name, her father sprang to his feet and angrily motioned his visitor toward the door. With his mouth clamped shut, Rodolfo took Father Gutiérrez by the elbow and forcefully pushed him outside. He slammed the door on the priest’s face without ever having allowed him to say another word. The priest was not intimidated; instead he was incensed at Rodolfo’s bitterness towards his daughter who he felt had done nothing to deserve such rancor.
The priest then decided to approach Octavio; he did it as the young man was waiting at the bus stop. Struggling with his voice so as not to let it betray his feelings of outrage, Father Gutiérrez opened up. “I think, Octavio, that you ought to know that Ana is very sick. You’re responsible, you know.”
Octavio was surprised by the priest’s bluntness, and he felt his stomach react nervously. “I…I…What do you mean responsible? It wasn’t my fault! I mean, how could I know she would misunderstand me?”
“What? Say that again? This is me, Octavio, the priest you contacted for the wedding arrangements! Señor Arce, I was a witness to how you left her waiting at the altar, remember?”
Emphazing his point, Gutiérrez poked Octavio’s chest roughly, but Octavio only shrugged his shoulders weakly in return.
Before jumping aboard the bus, he turned to the priest. “It’s not my fault. Besides, I’m going to marry Alejandra.”
Trotting alongside the bus before it picked up speed, the priest shouted through the window at Octavio, “You’d better find another church, another priest for that wedding.” It gladdened Father Gutiérrez to see Octavio’s embarrassed face as the bus sped away.
After this incident, the priest decided to take action. He convened several of the neighbors at Reyes Soto’s house and challenged them. “Which one of us has not sinned, eh? Which one? Speak up!” The priest’s stocky body was shaking with pent-up anger at what was happening to the girl in Doña Hiroko’s home. Standing with legs spread wide apart, his arms akimbo and his worn-out cassock limply hanging over his shoes, he
glared at anyone who dared to return his look.
“When one of us suffers, we all suffer!” His voice was sharp, his words to the point. “What hypocrisy is this that we allow this child to bear the weight of a sin that many of us have committed? Eh, what is this? I want to hear an answer!”
“Padre, why are you angry with us? We have not turned our backs on Ana. It is her father that…” Reyes was speaking.
“Yes! Yes! I know! But what are you doing about it? Do any of you go over there, across that narrow street, and tell Rodolfo Calderón that his daughter is in danger of dying?”
“Look, Padre, we all know that you did, and begging your forgiveness, what did you get out of it? I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but we all know that you came out with nothing. And if that happened to you, a priest, what do you think will result if one of us tries to intervene?”
Father Gutiérrez was forced to accept Reyes Soto’s words as being true. He pressed ahead, however, this time in a more subdued manner. “Forgive me. Ana’s condition has frightened me, and her father’s coldness has terrified me. I don’t mean to be offensive with any of you. I called you here, not to insult you but to see if all of us together can think of what to do for Ana.”
Doña Carmelita spoke up; the tone of her voice was prophetic. “Es la maldición, Padre.”
Instantly, voices shot out from different sides of the room. “¡Ridículo!” “¡Absurdo!” “¡Qué estupidez!”
Intimidated and humiliated, Doña Carmelita slouched back in her chair, sulking. Soon, from behind her, came someone’s comforting hand which patted her on the shoulder. “Don’t listen to them, Doña Carmelita,” the voice whispered. “We all believe that a father’s curse does terrible damage. They’re just trying to pretend that they’re modern people. Worse, they’re trying to be like the gringos who don’t believe in anything.”
The Memories of Ana Calderón Page 10
