“Anyway,” he continued, “I hope this apartment is a step ahead. I don’t know if being here makes sense in the long run. There’s never any money. We work and work. They won’t even let us work in peace.”
“We can’t think about going back,” she said. “Not now, Lucho. We’re so close to starting over.”
He nodded, and after a long pause, she stood, ready to return to bed, utterly exhausted by the conversation and in a daze about why it was he was saying all this. As she turned to leave, however, he said, “There’s one other thing.”
She leaned against the door frame, suddenly overcome with sleep.
“Valeria said you’ve been talking to Rubén out here. Late at night.”
“Of course she did,” she said. “She’s always trying to make something out of nothing.”
“Were you?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said defensively, “we had some tea and we talked, that’s it. I can’t believe you’re really asking me this.”
“Were you talking about that other woman?” he asked. She didn’t respond. “I know Valeria,” he continued, “and I know she tends to exaggerate, but can you blame her, after all he’s put her through? She chose to stay, I know. She still thinks and acts like she’s in Peru sometimes. You know that if she were there . . .”
He let the words hang, and although she knew what he implied, she finished the sentence for him. “She’d have no choice but to stay. But she doesn’t need to. Not here.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s her marriage. I told her, and I know, that this won’t happen again.”
She nodded. She was expected to follow the rules, to refrain from doing anything that might raise doubts about her fidelity. She was treading the line of what was considered acceptable behavior for a married woman, of what was acceptable behavior for her. Late-night talks with a married man about his marriage wasn’t one of them.
He stood and said, “I’m going to shower.” He kissed her forehead as he walked by her, and she suddenly felt a pang of guilt. She’d done nothing wrong with Rubén. She felt no need to keep their conversations a secret, yet she didn’t feel obliged to tell Lucho about them either. She didn’t feel the need to tell him much of anything, and it was the secrecy more than the acts themselves that made her stomach drop at his kiss.
She waited until she heard the bathroom door shut, then headed to their bedroom. She lay in bed, motionless even after he lay down next to her, her eyes wide open as the winter’s night receded.
That morning, while Lucho slept and as she dressed the children, she realized it’d been days since the bleeding had stopped. She had only bled for a day and a half. She tiptoed into the bedroom closet, pulled a black plastic bag from behind a pile of sweaters stacked on one of the shelves, and headed to the bathroom. She was already late for work, and she had to breathe deeply just so the muscles in her body could relax.
She waited a few minutes, then several more just to be sure. She shook the stick, as if she could shake off the second line. But it was deep and static, and the two lines, together, matched the pair on the box.
14
SHE RUSHED TO LA FACTORÍA, THE COMMUTE AN UTTER BLUR. ALL she saw were the two lines staring back at her like a pair of eyes. She debated whether or not to tell Betty. A part of her wanted to keep as much of the affair to herself as possible. After all, Betty had only helped because she concluded that the children need their mother more than they needed a sibling. But she’d gotten Ana the pills, instructed her on how to use them. Why hadn’t they worked? Ana wondered if perhaps they had, and she only needed to wait a little longer. Betty would know.
By the time she arrived, the women were already settling into their stations. She pulled Betty aside, into the same closet Nilda had taken her nearly two weeks earlier. She told her the test was positive.
“And you took the pills?” Betty asked as she leaned against the door. “All of them?”
Ana nodded. “Just like you told me.”
“And you bled?”
“For two days,” she said. “Is that enough? My periods are never more than three or four days anyway.”
Betty rubbed the back of her neck. “We have to talk to Lety.”
“Lety?” Ana repeated. “Lety Pérez?”
“She’s the one who sold me the pills. We can go there after work. She’ll know exactly what to do.”
Ana swallowed hard. “So Alfonso knows?”
“So what if he does?” she exclaimed. “Ana, you just took a bunch of pills—”
“Pills you gave me,” she said.
“Because you asked me to get them for you. I don’t know what they’re supposed to do or not do. I’ve never taken them. If Alfonso knows, that’s a good thing.”
Ana crossed her arms. Her leg shook as she thought of Alfonso Pérez flipping through his notebook, going down the list to find her. She should’ve spent the money, taken the full month’s supply.
Betty reached out and held her arm. “Okay,” she whispered. “We’ll talk to Lety first.”
* * *
WHEN THEY ARRIVED, LETY WAS PERCHED ON THE SEAT AT THE FRONT register, her eyes on the portable television. She grinned at something on the screen, and greeted them with the same smile she greeted everyone who entered the pharmacy. Betty approached the counter, leaning over to whisper that this was the friend who needed the pills. Lety’s grin contracted and her eyes went into focus as Betty explained that Ana had bled for two days and took a pregnancy test that came back positive.
“Mi amor,” she said to Ana, “come closer. Take your hat off.” She placed the back of her hand on Ana’s forehead then on her cheek. “You don’t have a fever. Give me your hand.” She put her fingertips on Ana’s wrist. “Have you vomited?”
“No,” she replied.
“Your pulse is fine,” she said as she let go of Ana’s hand. “Well, I told your friend here exactly what to do. If it didn’t work, it didn’t work. There’s not much else I can do.”
“But why didn’t it work?” Ana demanded, her voice louder than she expected.
“Mi amor, no lo sé,” said Lety. “Maybe you skipped a dose. Maybe you’re farther along than you think. I don’t know. But what I do know is that you need to see a doctor. Even if that test came out negative, I told you,” she said to Betty, then turned back to Ana, “I told her you needed to see one anyway, once it was over. They’ve got to see what’s going on inside.”
Ana held her breath. She didn’t want to know what was going on inside. She was terrified of what she’d see, what she’d hear.
“Can we talk to Alfonso?” said Betty. “He’s got to have something back there he can give her.”
Lety grinned once more, only this time her eyes blinked repeatedly as she leaned over the counter. “Amiguita,” she said to Betty, “this was supposed to be between you and me, remember? You were getting them for a friend, you told me, right? I respect people’s privacy. I think you do too. That’s why you came to me. So, really, I think this should stay right here.” She made a circle with her index finger as she pointed to each of them. “Among friends. Understand?”
Lety then reached beneath the counter. Ana heard something unzip, and Lety licked her thumb as she counted. She handed Ana several bills. “That’s what your friend here paid. We understand each other, right?”
Ana shoved the money inside her pocket. She understood that whatever it was Lety was doling out from behind that counter, it was her own affair. It wasn’t something she wanted Alfonso to know about and, like Lety, Ana would rather it stay that way.
“Now what?” said Betty as they walked into the waning day. The rush hour commute had begun, and a crowd had gathered at the bus stop. A few blocks away, trains squealed as they pulled in and out of the station.
A doctor, that’s what Lety had said. She’d wanted to do it all on her own terms, in private, with only a trusted friend to help and guide her. It was too late now to try to fix it how she wanted to. She ne
eded to go back to that clinic, and the money in her pocket wasn’t enough for whatever it was she needed to do next.
“You go home,” she told Betty. “I’ve got something to do.”
* * *
SHE SQUEEZED INTO THE TRAIN, HER SKIN STICKING TO HER CLOTHES IN wet patches, as she headed to Mama’s street. Her head thumped, her gut was in a tumult. It didn’t matter if Mama was perched at her window when she got there. She didn’t even know if Don Beto would be in the back house, but if he wasn’t, she’d wait. And if Mama happened to see her, she’d make up some excuse for the visit. Whatever it was didn’t matter—she needed to see him.
She shot down the block, the trees silent except for the wind that rustled the leaves too stubborn to die in the winter. The florid first-floor window of Mama’s building was empty. Ana spun into the alley, toward the back of the house and passed the aged burgundy car. The back house was lit from the inside.
He was there.
On the train ride over, she’d thought about how she’d tell him, then decided she didn’t need to tell him anything at all. It wasn’t his business, and no one else needed to know. She’d just ask him for the money and repay him later, however it was he wanted her to.
But as she stood outside, watching his shadow pass across the window, doubt crept in. What if he refused? She’d already slept with him. What if he didn’t care to repeat it? What if he’d had enough, and that form of payment wasn’t an option anymore?
She tapped on the door twice before he finally opened it. He greeted her in a navy satin robe and a pair of dark flannel pants. A patch of slate hair peeked through his white V-neck top. He wore slippers, black with red trims and no backs. His teeth, still new and broad, bit into the end of a cigar; the lines along his lips like strings, holding his mouth open. Whether he was preparing for an evening in or had never gotten out of his pajamas to begin with, she couldn’t tell. “Ana,” he said, shocked when he opened the door. “What are you doing here?”
This time, she didn’t hesitate to go inside. “We need to talk,” she said as she squeezed between him and the door frame. She had always stepped inside the place with trepidation. Everything in it seemed to have eyes. This time, there was no throw on the couch, and she could see a stain on one of its cushions. A nearly empty glass of brown liquid sat on top of the coffee table, nothing more. A pair of women’s voices ping-ponged from the television screen, relaying news about a Colombian election as the coffee maker gurgled on the counter. The scent of his cologne was so faint that she could not distinguish it from the musk that had settled in the room. Even the woman in the picture that hung on his wall, with her palm on her forehead and her leg up in the air, seemed too bored to pay her any mind. It was as if the room went blind.
Don Beto’s tepid reception was itself disarming. He didn’t greet her with a kiss. There was no offer to take her coat, no hand on her back as he spoke. He did remember to ask her to sit, but she declined. He was taken aback by her abrupt entrance, and this emboldened her. This was business, and she could treat it as such.
“¿Todo bien?” he asked as he walked past her.
“No,” she said quickly. “I need to borrow some money.”
“Oh,” he said as he sat on the couch. “What for?”
“Does it matter?” she asked. “You said I could ask you whenever I needed it, no questions asked, and I need it.”
He shrugged. “I’d like to know all the same. You come here all of a sudden with that look on your face like you’ve just robbed a bank and you demand I give you money.” He laughed. “I’m curious. Is it for your husband again?”
“It’s for me,” she said curtly. “I can pay you back any way you like.” She hoped that was enough to end his questioning.
“I see,” he said, raising his eyebrows. A smile formed on his mouth. “Well, now I really want to know! Tell me. Have you run into some trouble?” He scanned her body, then, as if finding the clue he was looking for, his eyes settled on her stomach. “You have gained some weight, Ana. Don’t tell me you’re not taking care of yourself?”
The question hung in the air, between the drip-drip of the coffee maker and the ja-jas of the anchorwomen. Its weight pinned her to the floor. “You can’t even say it, can you?” he said. She felt the rush of blood to her face and averted her eyes. “Well, Anita, I can’t give you money for an abortion. Even I have to draw the line somewhere.” He picked up the remote control and turned up the volume, spreading his legs wide as he sat back and settled into the cushions, his cigar still plugged in his mouth.
Her voice faltered. “I need the money, Don Beto.”
“I understand you need the money,” he said, “but don’t ask me for it. It’s not like it’s mine. Now, I don’t know who’s it is, but I suggest you go ask the father for that money instead.”
“Just because I’ve slept with you doesn’t mean I’ll sleep with anyone.”
“I don’t know that,” he said. “I don’t who’s been between your legs. I thought you were one of the good girls.” He picked up the glass with the brown liquid and drank whatever was left in it. “But even if it is your husband’s, that’s still not my problem, and I don’t want that on my conscience.”
A vibration moved through her body. Something—her heart, her stomach—jammed in her throat. Contrólate, she told herself. She needed to stay calm. There was no one else who could help her; no other way than to ask him. Mama wouldn’t help, and there was little money left in the canary envelope. Nothing remained in that doll. All she had now was Don Beto.
She gripped the back of the chair. “Por favor,” she pleaded, “por favor, Don Beto. I already have two children, and it’s hard. It’s so hard. My husband wants to send them back to Peru. If it were up to him, we’d all go back. But I can’t go back, and I can’t let him take them from me. There’s no way I can stay here if I have another. I can’t leave. I won’t. And I need my kids to stay here with me.”
She faltered at every word. She loved her children. Her life had morphed into a mechanical, mundane existence since they arrived. She had resigned herself to the role of mother, of provider, of preparing and packing meals, of looking at the clock when she got home, urging it toward bedtime, of resisting the impulse to smack Victoria when she rolled her eyes or of yelling at Pedro when he refused to finish his dinner. She was a sleepless bundle of thinning hair, of fingernails stained a perpetual mustard, of patches of puckered skin, powered by a motor that constantly rammed at her chest. Her children and the circumstances of her life in another country had done this to her. Yet they were her children; she belonged here, with them. She loved Victoria’s sass because it meant no one would ever shut her up. She loved Pedro’s assuredness because he always knew what he wanted. Here, no one cared if she braided her daughter’s hair. Here, no one told her to keep her boy out of the sun. They had no prejudices, made no judgments about her. She was only ‘Mami’ to them, and she hoped they could someday see her for that and more. She wanted to see, for herself, who and what she could be. She couldn’t imagine doing that in a place where everyone had already made up their minds about who she was.
She needed to stay, but the only person she believed could help her now had already made up his mind. “I’m sorry,” said Don Beto, “but I don’t kill babies, Ana.”
She wiped the tears from her face then gripped the edge of the chair. She struggled to keep her hands there. She wanted to wrap them around his neck, see him writhe like the animal he was as he struggled to breathe. “You don’t get to judge me,” she said. “I need the money, and you’re going to give it to me.”
His body shook as the room filled with his hyena-like laugh. “Goodbye, Ana.” He rose from the couch, wiping his glassy eyes. “I’ve got a lot to do tonight. And shouldn’t you be with those children you need so much?”
She grabbed his arm as he brushed past her. “You’re going to give me the money,” she gritted. “Mateo is dying. Mama doesn’t have much time either. I know what those
pills are for, the ones on her tray. They’re not for her arthritis. They’re for pain.”
His lips became a thin line.
“You want to get everything, don’t you?” she said. “The houses, the car, the money? Do you think she’ll leave you with anything if she knows you’ve been sleeping with her clients?”
He gripped her face so quickly that her gasp got stuck in her mouth. He squeezed her cheeks until her face distorted. Her teeth seemed to swell beneath the pressure of his fingers.
“And what do you think your husband will do,” he asked, “if he knows you’re fucking around?”
She wrung her head and pushed her hands against his chest, dislodging herself from his grip. She caught her breath, readjusted her jaw, and wiped his spit off her cheek. “He’ll break your face for touching me,” she said.
He smirked. “Not before he breaks yours. Now get out.”
Her face was wet, though she couldn’t pinpoint when the tears had started to come down again. She wiped her wet chin as she headed to the door. “Fuck you, Beto.”
She wished she’d denied it, made up some lie. A small part of her suspected that Mama already knew about what had happened between her and Don Beto, or at least wouldn’t be surprised by it. Still, it was a mistake to come to him, and she cursed herself for using all the money she’d put away. She hurried back to the station, the sleet coming down harder now. She needed to figure out what to do next.
A doctor, Lety had suggested. She could go to a clinic, but what if they asked for papers? She’d been told that hospitals and clinics don’t in this part of the country, but what if they did? Even if they didn’t, someone could be watching, listening, waiting for her to make a mistake and grab her.
And then how much would it cost her?
She was climbing the escalator to make her train transfer when she remembered one particular clinic. It was near the pawn shop where she’d handed over their wedding bands, her mother-in-law’s earrings, and her mother’s gold ring, just after Lucho lost his job. After she pawned her items, she fed her sadness a greasy buñuelo and a cup of sugary coffee from a Colombian bakery a few blocks away. She’d taken a seat at a counter, on a red swivel chair that faced the street. From behind the glass window, she’d seen a narrow blue awning with the words “Women’s Medical Care” written on it in white letters. She thought it odd at the time. There was no shortage of women’s clinics along Roosevelt Avenue. She’d passed by enough telephone booths and flipped through enough newspaper ads to know where to find one if she needed it. This clinic, however, was discreet. Its awning was on a second-floor window; one could walk by the building and miss it entirely.
The Affairs of the Falcóns Page 18
