Ana winced at the irony she perceived in those words. Her heart welled up with resentment, thinking that life had taken her on different paths, but each one had ended in loss because there had been no shepherd; nothing but emptiness and pain.
When the minister finished his prayers, he went over to the Wrens to console them as he patted each one on the shoulder. He handed Mrs. Wren the small crucifix that had been placed on top of the coffin, and with that he left the mourners, who began to break up into small groups of twos and threes.
Ana was about to make her way back to her car, when she recalled that she had not said goodbye to the Wrens. She turned to approach them and saw a man, someone she had not noticed before, talking to them. She lowered her eyes for a few seconds, but then returned them to the man. She blinked, then focused her gaze, trying to see more of his face because there was something about his body and its movements that reminded her of someone. She turned away, wrinkling her brow in concentration. A few moments later she knew. It was Octavio Arce. He was stouter, and his hair had receded, but she knew that it was him.
She was overcome with confusion; she could not explain his presence there, nor his connection with the Wren family. She gawked at him, not noticing that he, too, had looked in her direction and that when the Wrens moved away, he began to approach her with a look of surprise on his face.
“Ana…”
Octavio extended his hands toward her, but lowered them when he saw that she had no intention of returning his greeting. He appeared to be intimidated by the way she was looking at him.
“What are you doing here?” Her voice was a hoarse whisper; it was charged with rancor.
Resenting her tone, he changed his attitude, and instead of answering the question, he fired another one at her, his voice also harsh. “How did you find out?”
“Find out? Find out what?”
Octavio responded bluntly. “That these are the folks who adopted Ismael. I’ve kept in touch with them all these years.”
Ana, who by now was standing next to her car, fell backward, but was stopped from landing on the concrete by the support of the limousine. She glared at Octavio, her mouth agape, her eyes opened so wide that they looked like pools of black water. Only seconds passed, but her mind had already grasped the pieces of the puzzle, putting it together. Years of searching had led to one dead-end after the other. The files had been sealed, she had been informed, but now she knew that Octavio Arce had been given every detail, and he had known the truth all along. She clamped shut her eyes. Ismael was Terrance and Terrance was Ismael. Her son!
Fearing that she would be sick in front of the others, Ana opened the rear door of the car and stumbled in headlong without closing the door behind her. Octavio followed her move and crouched down on his haunches. He saw that her eyes were shut tightly, and that her head was bent back against the seat. Her skin had become ashen.
“What are you doing here, Ana? How did you know?” When she refused to respond, Octavio frowned and bit his lip. “Are you the woman who was his employer? The one he was crazy about?”
He glared at Ana. Her head was still pressed against the seat, and she was holding her arms close against her stomach as if to relieve intense pain. Her silence forced him to piece things together, slowly at first, but it wasn’t long before his face betrayed his understanding of what had happened.
Shocked with what his mind was telling him, he asked, “You didn’t do anything wrong with him, did you?” Ana’s mouth was clamped shut, and her prolonged silence compelled Octavio to pursue questioning her. “How far did you go with the boy, Ana?”
The impact of this question struck her in the center of her being, making her shudder. Without thinking, she shouted, “Leave me! Get out! Go away!”
The driver, who had been standing, waiting for her next instructions, thought that the man crouching next to the car was assaulting Ana, so he ran to Octavio and, taking him by the nape of his coat collar, dragged him back. Octavio lost his balance and fell on his buttocks, but he was able to get to his feet almost immediately. Struggling, he shouted, “Get your hands off me, you son of a bitch!”
Another chauffeur came to assist Ana’s driver, and both men grabbed hold of Octavio’s arms and forced him to his knees. As he grappled with the two men, his coat and shirt hanging in disarray, he managed to wrench himself partially loose, and he turned to Ana. She was sitting rigidly against the seat, her jaw set and her eyes dilated.
“How far did you go with him? I’m asking you a question?”
Octavio’s voice was high-pitched and nearly hysterical, but instead of responding, Ana glared back at him, inciting him to scream even more. Ugly words sputtered from his mouth.
“Oh, you dirty, filthy woman! You slept with him! You! His mother! You actually did that with him! And you poisoned him, too, didn’t you? Just like all the others, you killed him with your poison! Not even God will forgive you this time! Pig! Go blow your brains out! That’s what you should do! You bit…”
Someone, an unseen hand, slammed the door, shutting out the obscenities that Octavio was vomiting.
I was oblivious of everything except the sight of his bloated face and neck, which were deformed by hatred and which I could see through the sound-proofed window. I saw that his contorted, muted mouth was spewing words that were riddling my spirit.
When the driver returned to the car, he was red-faced and sweating. I asked him to take me to the airport, where I boarded my plane and headed back to the shelter of my home.
It was the twelfth of December in Mexico City. Ana was kneeling on the rough concrete courtyard leading up to the Basilica; her knees were bare and unprotected. She wore a loosely fitting black cotton dress, and a mantilla designating her as a woman who had committed a grievous sin. As she looked in front of her, she saw that there were hundreds of other people also on their knees. When she turned around to look behind her, she saw that there were as many others back there, too. She was surrounded by penitents, men and women who were about to make their way across the immense plaza of the Basilica on their knees until they reached the altar of the Virgin of Guadalupe.
She looked up at the facade of the building, scanning its intricate design of coils and loops and niches. Ana’s eyes, blinking in the vivid sunshine, made out statues of saints, martyrs and virgins, their limestone faces eroded by centuries of exposure to wind and rain. She looked at the pigeons and how they moved around their nests, craning their necks to peep down on the mass of people beneath them.
Over to her right, Ana saw Indians dancing in homage to the Virgin. The dancers were resplendent in their headdresses crowned with long, green quetzal feathers. The loincloths worn by the men were decorated with metal patches, and the womens’ dresses were of white cotton decorated with rainbows of color. Rattles and strings of dried pods were wrapped around the dancers’ ankles, and as as they moved to the cadence of drums, they pounded their bare feet against the ground, creating a rhythmic clatter that rose to the far sloping hills fringing the expansive valley of Mexico.
Her knees were beginning to ache, but Ana forgot her discomfort as she looked in every direction and saw thousands of brown-faced people, their hair shining jet-black in the rarified air. The men had sparse beards, and their moustaches were stringy tufts that hovered above long, tapered upper lips. The women she saw had round, flat faces, and their eyes were slanted and bright. Most of them had children with them, some lashed to their backs in a shawl.
They were jammed into the open courtyard facing the Basilica. Ana knew that the mass of people spilled out beyond the churchyard, clogging city arteries that led to the shrine like spokes hooked to an axle. Her eyes took in every imaginable color: white and turquoise balloons; magenta, royal blue and green sarapes; brown, tan, gray huaraches and sombreros. There was food and drink and sweets everywhere, and in the center of that mass of human beings were the penitents who waited their turn to crawl all the way to the altar to fulfill the promise that would cleanse
them of their sins.
Ana’s mind drifted away from the din and chanted prayers to the days that had passed since Terrance’s burial. She had returned to the protection of her home, but she had been unable to sleep or eat because of what she had learned. Her confusion was so great that she could not think clearly or make sense of what had happened to her.
Her son had been taken from her and she had found him only to lose him again. Unknowing, she had become his lover, and this perplexed and depressed her. She was far from understanding why this had happened to her. The world was large, inhabited by millions of people, and yet the most unlikely, improbable thing had happened to her. Her son had returned to her by accident. There was a void inside of her. For days, she floundered, struggling to keep from drowning in a sea of blame that filled her mouth with bitterness, choking her as if it had been caked mud sticking in her throat.
The day came when she could hardly breathe, and the idea of suicide began to obsess her. She sat for hours staring at a gun; its bluish glint seemed to seduce her and yet fill her with fear. At night, she became afraid of the darkness. During the day the light made her seek refuge in the gloomiest corner of her house. She felt defeated by the memory of her sin because no matter how much she resisted, she was constantly assaulted by recollections of Terrance, of his kisses and caresses.
Ana knew that to remember was to sin all over again. But she was incapable of not thinking of him and of the love they had shared. She understood that by clinging to the memory of her love, she raised her fist in the face of God. But Ana could not erase the image of Terrance’s face or the sensation of his body inside of her.
Driven by desire to be forgiven, she made her way to Mexico City with the intention of approaching the altar of the Virgin of Guadalupe. There, she was convinced, she would find the absolution that would keep her from losing her mind. Ana remembered again the penitent woman, and she now understood her grief. Her own misery, she told herself, had begun when her father had cursed her and Ismael.
She was suddenly jolted from her thoughts by prayers that signaled the penitents to move forward. Hail Marys blared from gigantic speakers, and people began to weep and shout words that she couldn’t make out. There was a surge of bodies, and they pushed at one another roughly as they began to hobble their way across the pavement to the entrance of the church. Ana, trying to keep up with the crowd, began to lose her balance. Sweat coursed down her back and between her breasts as the mantilla wrapped itself around her neck. She felt a flash of searing pain which made its way from her knees up her body, and she realized that her legs were bleeding.
People began to sing hymns in honor of the Virgin. These merged with mumbled prayers and weeping, and with petitions that were yelled out. Body odors mingled with the pungent smell of incense and the smoke of the candles inside the church. The heat was stifling. Pain in her knees forced Ana to crawl on all fours. Then she realized that her hands were smeared with blood from those ahead of her, and she knew that behind her others were wiping up her own blood.
As she groveled toward the altar, Ana was overwhelmed by her nothingness. Her money, her success in business, the respect and admiration of her associates, her massive business with its corporate headquarters paled as her father’s curse echoed in her mind. She was, as he had predicted, a sinful, wretched woman who had lain with her son.
When it was finally her turn to kneel at the railing that towered above her head, Ana looked up to see the frame that housed the image of the Virgin of Guadalupe. She murmured, “Virgencita, perdóname.” She held her breath, as if expecting the image to speak, forgiving her.
Ana froze as she clung to the railing. Soon, people began to push her, grumbling that she was taking too long, and that it was now their turn. She didn’t pay attention to any of them, although she was vaguely aware that a custodian was approaching. She knew that nothing could drag her away until she was given an answer to her prayer. But there was no answer. There was only stillness and emptiness inside of her. The Virgin was silent and there was no miracle to calm Ana or to help her rid herself of the disgust and shame that had stalked her ever since she could remember.
After a while, she got to her feet, turned and dove headlong into the crowd, elbowing through the tightly squeezed bodies without pausing to look back. She could not wait to get out into the sunlight and fresh air. When she emerged from the dark interior of the church, she saw a young woman seated on a mat. She was selling fruit. Ana gave her the shawl that had covered her head, saying that it was a gift. The girl took it gladly, her face showing that she was puzzled by the strange woman who did not stop even to be thanked.
It could be said that my story ended that day in Mexico City, but it didn’t. I returned to Los Angeles convinced that like other people I would continue to live my life with unresolved doubts and questions. This thought made me feel shallow, and because I couldn’t think of anything to fill the emptiness, I threw myself once again into my business.
During those years I still received letters from Amy and Franklin who had grown old but seemed always to watch over me despite the distance that separated us. A letter came from Franklin in 1975. It was brief, but what it said affected me as I hadn’t imagined possible. Amy had died in her sleep, he said. There had been no pain. When he discovered her that morning, he could tell that her passing had been serene.
He ended his letter saying, “Amy has left you something that I’ll mail you soon. I want to tell you, also, that hardly a day passed in which we didn’t speak about you and Ismael. You were the daughter we never had; he our grandson. And, Ana, just recently, we remembered Hagar all over again. Just before going to bed one night, Amy said to me, ‘If ever I die before you do, Franklin, I want you to promise me that you’ll remind Ana of Hagar.’”
When I finished reading the letter, I sat up until past midnight. I stayed in the dark watching the images of my life drift by me. I reached far back into my memory to my girlhood, when I played and danced outside the hut with the palm roof. The faces of the campesinas of the tomato fields seemed to melt off the white plaster walls, and I saw Tavo’s face as the setting sun wove strands of gold into his hair. I felt his caresses and kisses, which blurred with those of Ismael. I saw myself sitting at the kitchen table as I listened to Amy’s high-pitched voice reading from the pages of the Old Testament. And the enigma of Hagar swirled around me, unsettling me as it always did.
As Franklin had promised, a package came from him some weeks later. I put the bundle on the coffee table and sat for a long time staring at the brown wrapping paper and twine that held the parcel together. I knew what it contained even without opening it. I could tell by its weight and by its shape, because I had held it in my hands countless times.
When I finally unbound the ties and ripped the paper away, the worn edges of Amy’s Bible appeared. I noticed the faded leather marker, and I knew what I would read when I opened the book at that place. When I stuck my fingers between the pages, the book opened to the verses telling of Ismael and Hagar.
I closed my eyes to calm my nerves. When I looked again, I focused on those lines that had been underlined over and again with different shades of ink, as if Amy were trying to tell me something. I took the book in my hands and read the words. “You are with child and shall bear a son; you shall call him Ismael because the Lord has heard you in your humiliation.”
“The Lord has heard you in your humiliation.” These words hit me with such force that I think I stopped breathing. I searched my memory, recalling the night that Amy had read about Hagar. Had Amy skipped that verse? I couldn’t remember. I put the book aside, but the turmoil inside of me went on for days, and my agitation grew with each hour. My mind groped and floundered until I decided to return to the place of my birth, hoping to find the answer there.
I left Los Angeles not knowing what I would discover in the land of my childhood. When I arrived in Puerto Real I went to where the palapas had stood and found that in their place were condominiums a
nd hotels. There was nothing left of the hut in which I and my sisters had been born. There wasn’t a trace of Tía Calista’s house, either, or of anything that might have reminded me of my childhood days when I sat gazing at the sea, dreaming of becoming a dancer.
I returned to the cove of my childhood only to find it crowded with bathers and skiers. I was surrounded by people and children who shouted as they played games, as well as by vendors who peddled coconuts and fried fish. I left and returned next day at dawn, hoping that it would be as it used to be.
It was still dark that morning as I walked from one end of the cove to the other. I was alone, waiting for the sun to rise. I felt excited because I had not seen the sun come out over the gulf since the day we had left to go to the Valley of the Yaqui. I sat down and buried my toes in the black, moist sand as I watched the yellow ball begin to peek over the horizon.
My mind recreated the steps that had taken me away from Puerto Real, and those that had brought me back. I remembered when my father cast me away from him, as well as the loneliness from which Amy and Franklin Bast had rescued me. I felt Doña Hiroko’s gentle hands, and I saw Doña Trini’s face.
I looked out toward the rising sun and my heart filled with memories of César and my sisters. I felt my heart beating faster because Ismael, still a baby, was walking by me. He was so real that I saw his footprints on the sand, and when I reached out to him I saw that he was grown, and his name was Terrance.
I raised my hands to my eyes to get a closer look at them, and I saw that they were spotted, and that the veins bulged against skin that was beginning to wrinkle. I felt under my chin, running my fingers over the loose layers around my neck. I had grown old, and I knew that only now was I beginning to see what before had been blurred shadows.
I listened to the early sounds of people beginning their workday, and it struck me that I would be one of them if ’Apá had not taken us north. I thought of the people I would not have known and the moments I would not have lived. Then I tried to visualize my sisters and Octavio just as we had been at the time we trudged, single file, over the very sand I was sitting on. I tried to see our faces as they had been when we were children. Finally, after some minutes, I was able to draw up that picture.
The Memories of Ana Calderón Page 22
