A Circle of Time

by Marisa Montes

  Allison shrugged. “I really don’t know. I can’t go back home. Joshua said we’d talk about it today, but I haven’t seen him yet. Come to think of it, I don’t know where he is.”

  Tere laughed. “That boy awakes each day before it is decent. I saw him heading toward the stables as I left the house. He had probably been working for hours.”

  Allison tried to hide her disappointment by inspecting her fingernails. Tere and Magda laughed.

  “Certainly one thing hasn’t changed about you, Bequita,” said Tere. “Your heart still belongs to Joshua.”

  Allison’s face grew warm. Apparently guessing the girl’s discomfort, Magda said, “I am a terrible hostess. Look how I have forgotten to offer you something to drink, Tere. You must be thirsty after your long walk.”

  “Gracias, Magda, but I almost forgot.” Tere opened the basket she had brought and began to empty its contents onto the table. “Here is some fresh goat’s milk and cheese, and bread still warm from Lolita’s oven. The three of us can have breakfast. Come, Bequita, sit here beside me.”

  Magda smiled. “You’re always so thoughtful, Tere. What would I do without you?”

  “You will never have to find out, Magda dear. You’ve been like a sister to me since Isa’s illness, and then Mamá...Well”—Tere tossed her head, pushing her curls away from her face—“back to the question of thirst. I would love some of your hot goat’s milk with cinnamon and honey. It will help take the chill from my bones. Early morning is cool and wet in the forest. But I adore the walk. It gives me time to think and to be free of responsibilities.”

  Magda raised an eyebrow. “Mmm, how is Don Carlos these days?”

  Tere’s laughter tinkled like a crystal chandelier in a passing breeze. “Oh, Papá, Papá! He’s as much of an old bear as ever. Since I turned eighteen, he’s been lining up rich old coots to court me. Four years of parading viejos in front of me. I stand them up, and Papá and I argue. But I can never stay angry at him for long. Anyway, I am not ready to marry.”

  “And your other responsibilities? Isa and Doña Ana?”

  Tere stepped to the tiny window at the front of the cottage. “Isa breaks my heart. She’s like one of your dried roses. A mere ghost of her former beauty remains, and she’s liable to crumble and disintegrate to nothing if she is not properly handled. Now she’s insisting—

  “Oh, Magda!” Tere turned, her eyes glistening with tears. “She escaped last week when the nurse fell asleep, and she wandered into her old room. She found a baby doll of hers and began to scream, ‘My baby, my baby! My baby’s alive!’

  “Papá heard her and took her back to the west wing, but he couldn’t pry the doll from her arms. She’s insisting it is her baby—that her baby is alive. Magda, I don’t know what’s worse—when Isa sits for months in a stupor, staring straight ahead, not speaking or recognizing anyone, unable even to feed herself, or when she’s in these mad frenzies, screaming and crying and accusing people of stealing her baby. Whenever I visit her lately, she asks me, ‘Have you seen my baby, Tere, have you seen my baby?’ Then she remembers the doll on her lap and begins to sing to it while she rocks it in her arms.

  “I was only seven when Isa and your brother eloped, but I still remember how beautiful and happy she looked that day. And when Papá brought her back, how her agonizing screams filled the house and ripped through my heart.”

  “Ay, qué pena, Tere.” Magda hugged her friend and led her back to the table. “What a terrible tragedy has befallen our families.”

  “And Mamá—ay, Magda, pobre Mamá! She lies in her bed, withering away, living more and more in the past, still believing her beautiful Isa is young and happy and well. I’m surprised she’s lasted these past years. If it weren’t for your wonderful herbs and potions, and the titrations you make to calm Isa—I do not know...”

  As she sat back down, Tere’s tears finally fell. She pulled a lacy linen handkerchief from her pocket and blew her nose. “Isa takes after Mamá. All they had was their beauty. No inner strength. Nothing but flowers in the wind, vulnerable to any passing storm.”

  Magda playfully tugged one of Tere’s curls and let it bounce back. “Thankfully, you have much more than your beauty. You are the graceful willow that bends and yields in the storm, only to remain steadfast in its aftermath. You are tougher than Don Carlos and his crusty old papá put together.”

  The two friends laughed, and Magda changed the subject. “Becky, you must be hungry. Would you like some warm goat’s milk with Lolita’s special bread and cheese?”

  “The bread and cheese sound good. I’m not craz—partial to goat’s milk.”

  Tere turned her attention to Allison. “So, Bequita, let’s talk about you. Where shall you stay?”

  Allison shook her head. “Magda offered to let me stay with her as long as I like, but it’s too much of an imposition. If I could only find a job, something that would help me pay for room and board somewhere...”

  “Oh! A job!” Tere’s slender fingers flew to her mouth. “I know exactly what you can do.”

  Magda cocked an eyebrow. “What do you have in mind, Tere?”

  “Becky can come home with me.” Tere clapped her hands and spun around the tiny room as she talked. “We have more than enough room. And I need someone I can trust to help me with Mamá and Isa. Becky can also be our live-in seamstress. What do you think, Bequita?”

  “Are you sure? I wouldn’t be imposing?”

  “Ay, Bequita, if you only knew. You’d be doing me more of a favor than I would be doing you. I desperately need help—someone I can truly trust ... and talk to sometimes. Please, say yes.”

  “But, your father ... He doesn’t like me very much.”

  “Oh, Papá! Don’t worry about him. I can handle Papá. So, ¿qué dices? What do you say?”

  Allison turned to Magda. “What do you think? Would that be all right?”

  Magda nodded and gave Allison a meaningful look. “It is a wonderful idea, Becky. It may be exactly what you need.”

  Chapter 16

  I have the perfect room for you, Becky,” said Tere, as she led Allison through the maze of corridors that made up the family mansion. “You shall stay on the first floor, overlooking the rose garden.”

  Teresa opened a door and stood back. “Well, what do you think?”

  Allison stepped into a sunny bedroom suite. Two sets of French doors, on either side of the four-poster bed, opened onto a private balcony. A small stone fireplace stood near the hall door, in front of which squatted two plush chairs and a low table.

  Allison’s jaw dropped. Her living room at home wasn’t this big. “Oh, I couldn’t—this is too much! I’m just a kid and a ... servant.”

  “You may be but fourteen, Bequita, but you have great maturity. I know few people as trustworthy. And I would never consider you a servant. However, you shall be well compensated for your work.”

  “You mean in addition to room and board?”

  “Of course, only a slave would be expected to work solely for room and board. You shall be a valued employee.”

  Allison turned to Tere. “Thank you, Ter—I mean, Miss Teresa. I am very grateful for everything.”

  “I’ll have none of this ‘Miss Teresa.’ My friends call me Tere. And we shall be very good friends, you and I.” Tere stepped back into the hallway. “Come. Now you must meet Mamá. She’s been bedridden for so many years, I do not believe you have ever met. ”

  Allison followed Tere through another maze of corridors and past a wide staircase. They stopped in front of a massive double door. Tere tapped softly, and a tall, thin woman dressed in a long white starched uniform stepped out. A prim, starched nurse’s cap perched on the top of her head. The nurse reminded Allison of a sloop’s mast with its sails full and stiff from wind.

  “Is Mamá awake?” Tere asked the nurse. “How has she been today?”

  “Sí, señorita, she is awake. You may go in for a little while. This is one of her better days.”
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br />   “Gracias, Nelda.” Tere motioned for Allison to step forward. “I’d like you to meet Becky Lee Thompson. She will be helping us with Mamá and Isa.”

  “Hmmm.” Nelda gave Allison a curt nod. “More to share the load, eh?” Then she took a seat on a chair near the door.

  Tere led Allison inside a cool, dark room that smelled of incense, camphor, and candle wax. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, Allison made out a large four-poster bed, heavy drapes hiding immense windows, and candles scattered here and there on tables and nightstands. In a corner stood a shrine similar to the one she’d seen in Magda’s cottage, but more elaborate. Tall red glass cylinders in which candles flickered eerily held vigil before a statue of Madonna and child and a golden crucifix.

  “¿Mamacita, cómo te sientes?” Tere moved to the side of the bed and bent over the stack of pillows.

  A tiny gnarled hand, like the claw of a bird, crept from beneath the thick comforter and pushed it down, revealing a halo of silvery curls. Tere kissed the curls, took the tiny claw in her hands, and kissed it, too. Then she perched at the edge of the bed and stroked the silver curls, whispering and cooing in Spanish.

  Not wishing to intrude, Allison stepped back into a corner, hidden by the shadows. She could hear the soft, weak voice of Doña Ana responding to her daughter’s questions, but because they were whispering, she did not know what they were saying.

  Tere turned and gestured to Allison. “Becky, come meet Mamá. Come.”

  Allison approached slowly, not knowing what to expect beneath the silver curls.

  “No veo nada,” whimpered a soft voice.

  “Come closer, Becky. Step into the candlelight. Mamá says she cannot see you.”

  Allison stepped into the light and froze. Beneath the comforter lay a frail sparrow of a woman; The moment she saw Allison, the woman lifted her head, exposing her face to the candlelight. Two small eyes peered at Allison above a delicate beak of a nose, and pale, petal-thin skin hung loose but smooth around a proud, uptilted chin. The longer the woman stared at Allison, the more her slim neck stretched, pushing her head upward and away from the pillows, as though she wanted to get a better look but could only move her neck.

  Something seemed to click in her brain, and her small eyes opened wide. The tiny hands fluttered up to her mouth.

  “Isa!” she cried. “¡Ay, Isa, mija, ven aquí!” She held out thin arms and continued to cry out about Isa, but Allison couldn’t understand her frantic Spanish.

  “Shhhh, Mamacita, shhhh,” cooed Tere, stroking her mother’s shoulders and pushing her back down in the bed. The more Tere pushed, the more animated the woman became, trying to peer over her daughter’s shoulder to get a better look at Allison. They argued softly in Spanish, Tere apparently trying to convince her the girl she saw was not Isa, and Doña Ana becoming more agitated by the moment.

  “Bien, bien, Mamá. Shhhh.” Tere gave an exhausted sigh and turned to Allison. “Mamá is confused. She thinks you are my sister, Isa, and she wants to hold you. Would you mind playing along?”

  Allison hesitated. “Uh, no, sure—What do you want me to do?”

  “She wants to hug you. I’m afraid she misses Isa, and with your golden hair ... in the candlelight, well...”

  Tere stepped aside, directing Allison to sit on the bed. The old woman held out her arms, her faded eyes shimmering. Allison leaned forward and let the woman hug her. She gently placed her arms around the frail body, which through the fine cotton nightgown felt as warm and bony as a featherless baby bird. Doña Ana’s thin arms were surprisingly strong. She clung to Allison as if she believed the moment she let go, her beloved Isa would be gone forever.

  Allison’s face was pressed into feathery curls that smelled of lavender. Is this what it would be like to have a grandmother? she wondered. Both of Allison’s grandmothers had died when Allison was very young.

  At long last, Doña Ana released Allison. Her eyes studied Allison’s face, and she smiled. Then she took one of Allison’s braids in her gnarled fingers. “ ¿Trenzas?” She looked at Tere and whispered something else Allison could not hear.

  Tere sighed. “Isa never wore braids. Mamá wonders why you are wearing braids today. She would like to see your hair loose. She wants to brush it.”

  Allison smiled at the woman and nodded. If brushing her hair loose would make the old lady happy, she didn’t mind. She wasn’t crazy about wearing braids, anyway. Allison hadn’t worn her hair in braids since she was eight. She removed the ragged ribbons that held the braids and unraveled her hair.

  Tere handed her mother a silver hairbrush and boosted her to a sitting position, fluffing the pillows to support her back. Doña Ana chuckled like a child as she brushed the honey-gold hair. Although Becky’s hair was naturally straight, wearing it constantly in braids had given it long flowing waves, thick and full.

  When Doña Ana was finished brushing, she mumbled something. Allison looked questioningly at Tere.

  “She wants you to stand up,” said Tere, “in the candlelight, where she can admire your hair.”

  Allison did as she was told. She shook the luxurious hair about her shoulders, enjoying the feel of it, and glanced at Tere. The young woman was staring at her as if she’d seen a ghost. At that very moment, the door swung open. Startled, Allison turned.

  Framed by the doorway, the light from the hall glowing around him, stood Don Carlos. At the sight of Allison, his expression changed from concern to disbelief, then to anger.

  He scowled at Tere. “What is this girl doing in your mother’s room?”

  Tere rushed to her father’s side. “Shh, Papá! Mamá is feeling better than she has in weeks. And we owe it all to Becky. Please, do not ruin it for her.”

  Don Carlos glared over his daughter’s head at Allison, but when his gaze moved from her to his wife, his face softened. “We shall discuss this later, Tere. For now, take the girl and allow me to visit with your mother in private.”

  Without another word, the man strode in his imperious way to the side of the bed opposite Allison. Doña Ana’s tiny hand disappeared in his large ones. Taking the hint, Allison followed Tere out the door.

  As the door closed behind them, Allison heard Doña Ana say, “Carlitos, mi amor, ¿viste a Isabelita?”

  Rather than take Allison back to her room, Tere led her through a different part of the house.

  “This is the gallery, Becky,” Tere said as they entered a wide hallway lined with paintings and tapestries on one wall and tall windows on the other. A glassed double door led to the garden beyond. “My grandfather brought all the family portraits from Spain when he built this house. Most are kept here. Some are in the library.”

  Allison gazed around in awe. There appeared to be hundreds of paintings. Some life-size, others miniatures, and many more in between. The portrait of a young woman with a dog caught her attention, and she stopped to admire it.

  The young woman was perched on a low stool, the full skirt of her turquoise gown surrounding her like a quiet lagoon. Golden-red curls tumbled about her shoulders, cascading from beneath a black lace mantilla that draped lightly over a high comb and hung behind her, reaching far below her waist. Her chin tilted up in the characteristic haughty manner of the Cardona Pomales family, and one of her hands poised delicately on the great head of the huge white sheepdog resting at her feet.

  “That is my older sister, Isabel, and old Paco when he was still a pup. It was painted when Isa was seventeen—fifteen years ago.”

  “Oh,” Allison replied, remembering the woman’s sad story. “She’s beautiful.”

  “That she is.” Tere led Allison past the gallery and through another corridor, pointing out important rooms as they passed. Finally, they reached the kitchen.

  A short, round woman bustled about, giving frenzied instructions in Spanish to two young maids.

  “Lolita,” said Tere, leading Allison through the kitchen, “do not be so hard on the girls. They are doing fine. Becky, come here. I wan
t you to meet Lolita.”

  Tere placed an arm around Allison’s shoulders. “Lolita, this is Becky Lee Thompson. She will be living with us, helping me with Isa and Mamá. I’d like you to make her some lunch. And give me Joshua’s lunch. While Becky eats, I’ll take it to him. I need to talk to him, anyway.”

  At the mention of Joshua’s name, Allison perked up. “Joshua’s still here?”

  Tere smiled. “Yes, he’s in the stable working on one thing or another. He is quite handy.”

  “Could I—I mean—”

  “Would you like to see Joshua?”

  Allison nodded, her face flushing.

  “Lolita”—Tere flashed the cook a smile—“on second thought, pack us a picnic lunch for three.”

  Lolita glanced at Allison and cocked an eyebrow, obviously disapproving of her mistress having lunch with a stable boy and a servant girl. She turned her back on Allison and gave the two maids brisk instructions in Spanish, sending them flying about the kitchen grabbing bread and bowls and a picnic basket from the pantry.

  With the basket swinging from the crook of one arm, and Allison’s arm locked in the other, Tere swept through the kitchen door and into the backyard.

  “I like your hair like that, A1—uh—Becky.” Joshua’s impish grin broadened as his gaze took in Allison’s loose golden hair, rippling over her shoulders in soft waves.

  Allison’s ears grew warm. She shook the long tresses in front of her face, noticing what a convenient hiding place they made. She could still feel Joshua’s gaze on her.

  “Miz Teresa,” Joshua said, the smile still in his voice, “this was real thoughtful of you.”

  “My pleasure, Joshua.” Tere leaned against the ancient oak that provided a deep shade for their lunch. “I wanted you to know about Becky’s plans. I knew you would be worried.”

  “It sure sounds like the right decision.” Joshua turned to Allison. “What did Magda think?”

  “She agreed,” Allison said, tucking her bare feet under the hem of the calico dress.