In the days that followed, Ana said little to anyone except the children. The palpable tension between her and Lucho made their reluctant hosts uncomfortable. Carla fidgeted, unable to meet Ana’s gaze for days. She kept Victoria and Pedro entertained, distracting them with whatever task she needed help with in the kitchen or a television show whenever they clamored for their mother. The day after the procedure, Ana was well enough to offer her help with dinner and to clean up after the kids had gone to bed, but Carla never let her lift a finger. Sit down, lie down, take it easy, was all Carla said in those days, even after Ana had returned to work.
What made it worse for Ana was that Ernesto knew. It was impossible for Carla to keep it from him. In his own way, he showed his concern. “¿Todo bien?” he’d ask, nodding, as if he always expected her to say that, yes, everything was fine. He’d follow the question with another, “When’s Lucho coming back? Soon, no?” He always seemed to want to talk to Lucho. Lucho, who said little to her in those days, except to ask if she needed anything, to which she always said no.
After a full day of mostly resting on the Lazartes’ couch, her life continued as if that trip to the clinic had never happened. Not that there was any time to dwell on it. There was that familiar urgency to leave—this time, the Lazartes’ apartment—and begin anew elsewhere.
On the day they moved in to the new apartment, more than a week after the procedure, there was little left to actually bring into it. Lucho had retrieved the undone suitcases and boxes from Lexar Tower. On one of the few occasions he did speak to her, he told Ana he’d get the dresser and their beds on the day of the move, and that Rubén would help.
While Betty watched the children at Carla’s, Ana spent that first morning in their new home cleaning it. She swept a new broom across it three times and sprinkled Florida water along the floors and walls. She bleached the powder-blue bathroom tiles and scrubbed whatever stubborn brown stains Sully’s boots had left on the floor. She opened all the windows, then walked the length of the apartment with a lit incense stick, asking La Virgen to bless and protect the place and urging the spirits that lingered to leave.
When she was finished, she slumped on the empty living room floor with her back against its uneven wall. The incense stick was still in her hand, its smoke slinking toward the high ceiling. Her arms ached, her legs quivered, the nape of her neck perspired.
The cleaning and the incense and La Virgen—it had only been a halfhearted attempt to rid herself of the past, to protect herself from the unprotectable. She had moved almost mechanically in the days after the clinic. She had to keep moving, to keep each day going so as not to drift into the what-ifs. There was simply no room for that.
But it was then, in that empty, lopsided room, underneath its dim light, that she found herself alone, in silence, for the first time in a very long time. She was unprepared for it. The room contracted, compressing her body to the point where she could no longer take its pressure. She cried then, exhausted. If, in that moment, Lucho had again proposed returning to Peru or sending her children back, she would have said yes. For the first time, she wondered if Valeria had been right all along. If maybe they were not meant for this.
She wondered if Lucho had said anything to the woman, if he’d demanded an explanation for why she’d done what she did, if he’d cursed her out the way she wished she could have then; the way she still wished she could. She tapped the back of her head against the wall for even thinking about her.
She rubbed her wet cheeks with the bottom edge of her T-shirt. She didn’t want anyone’s pity, least of all her own. No regrets, she reminded herself. There was a point to it all, a reason for it. Her children were here; she was still here. She was not about to relent, not to this place or anyone, not to her own body. Certainly not to anyone named Falcón. She let herself finish her cry, then picked herself up, tossed the incense stick in the sink, and began to unpack.
The wind picked up as she sat on the empty bedroom floor, folding and sorting Victoria’s sweaters and Pedro’s jeans. It entered through the crevices along the window frames, and the entire building grumbled gently. She reached her hand out toward the window, sensing the cold air as it kissed her palm and encircled her feet. Winter, it seemed, had decided to stay after all. They’d need to cover the windows.
It was then that she heard Lucho and Rubén climbing the stairs. From the stairwell, Lucho shouted for her to open the door, and although she hesitated even getting up, there was no way to avoid either man.
It was the first time she’d seen Rubén since the night of Valeria’s confrontation. As he set the mattress against the wall, she noticed his hair was freshly cut. Strands of gray sprouted from his mustache; he hadn’t dyed it. His face looked thinner, and he had an almost boyish look to him now that didn’t suit him. They brought up the box spring and frame next. The pair made several trips with the station wagon that morning, returning to Queens to pick up the television, the disassembled bunk bed, a few folding chairs, and finally the dresser. At the end of the first leg, Lucho asked for something to drink, and after that, she left Styrofoam cups filled with tap water on the table at the end of each run to avoid serving them. After the last trip, Lucho downed his water in a single gulp, then urged Rubén to sit down and rest as he ran back to the station wagon to fetch one last box. Just like that, after all those warnings and all that talk of impropriety, he left her alone with Rubén.
“This is nice,” he said, giving the kitchen a once-over as he leaned against the wall. He poked his head into the living room. His voice was smaller, even with the echo in the room. “It’s bigger than your last apartment.”
She picked up Lucho’s cup and rinsed it under her new faucet. It didn’t matter if they were alone or not. She had no intention of saying anything to the man.
“May I sit?” he asked. She didn’t reply, but like he always did, he sat down anyway, on one of the folding chairs he’d just carried up the stairs. She kept the water going as she wiped the counter, trying her best to keep him quiet while they waited for Lucho. But she realized Rubén had something to say.
“I’m sorry, Ana,” he almost shouted. “I’m sorry for what Valeria did.” He rubbed his hands against his thighs. “She can be a lot to handle when she drinks. Irrational at times. I never should’ve left you and the children there with her. Not in the state she was in.” His voice was tinged with an almost childlike pleading. “I never thought she’d do what she did. Never. Not to you. Not to anybody. You’ve got to believe that. If I did I never would’ve left.”
An unexpected wave of anger hit her. She turned around to face him. There was that look of his again, the one that she’d caught glimpses of during their talks, and she immediately resented that look of melancholy. He had no right to it.
“Come on, Rubén,” she said. “You left Valeria a long time ago. You’ve ignored her for years. It’s why she is how she is. You can’t sit there now with that stupid look on your face and try to apologize for it.” It might have been Valeria who called the police, but Rubén was at least partly at fault for what she’d done. He let his wife navigate new motherhood alone. If he’d taken care of her then—if he’d paid more attention to her than whatever stupid impulse drove him to an affair, then maybe Valeria wouldn’t have doubted him or her marriage. Maybe if he’d been faithful, or if he’d even stopped seeing the woman, or if he’d shown Valeria a hint of affection, some respect, perhaps she wouldn’t have seen Ana as a threat. If he’d taken care of the business, then maybe that could have restored her faith in her husband. Maybe that would’ve been enough. Maybe then Valeria would’ve never called the police at all.
Ana held up her hand as if to stop herself from feeling any sympathy for the woman. “You know what? I don’t care. I didn’t marry her. I don’t live with her anymore. She’s your problem, not mine. I just thank God I got my children out of there.”
He kept his eyes on the ground. There was nothing left for him to say, nothing she wanted to hear. Wha
tever apology he offered for himself or his wife couldn’t change what happened that night. She couldn’t fathom ever forgiving Valeria. The woman was as good as dead to her. Whatever affection Ana had for him, whatever friendship and love of a brother she might have felt, also died that night.
She turned toward the living room, set on getting the bedroom organized now that her furniture was there, when he said, “She’s leaving me.” His voice was once again small. His eyes were set now on the empty cup he kept turning in his hand. “She didn’t actually leave,” he clarified. “I left. She asked me to leave.”
Suddenly, Ana understood the look of remorse on his face. It wasn’t for the wrong his wife had done to her, but for the wrongs he’d done to his wife and their consequences.
“I’m renting a room for now,” he continued. “Until we sort this out. She wasn’t there just now, when we picked up the furniture. Lucho had to convince her to let me back in the place.”
He stopped turning the cup and looked up at her. “You said she wouldn’t leave me.”
“She didn’t leave you,” she replied. “Like I said, you left a long time ago.”
“I suppose you’re right,” he said. “I don’t even know if I want to go back. I loved her once. She was so beautiful and smart. Smarter than I’ll ever be. She still is. I just don’t know if we can go back to how things used to be. Not after everything that’s happened.”
It never occurred to her that Valeria might actually end things with Rubén. There was Michael and the money tied up in the auto body shop, of course, but there were also the marriage vows. Once a Falcón made a promise, they kept it. To an outsider, it might appear as if they were loyal and devoted, but to an insider—to Ana, to Rubén—it was nothing more than hubris. A separation, a divorce, was a failure. There was something wrong with a person if they couldn’t make a marriage work. For that reason alone, Ana always believed Valeria would stay, no matter how much Rubén betrayed her.
“Yes, you’re different,” she said. “You have Michael now. She’s got this family that I know she’s proud of. If there’s one thing that never changes, it’s that Falcón pride.”
His gaze grew distant. “She won’t stay with me for Michael’s sake. I don’t know if I want to either. I pushed her, Ana. I admit it. I pushed too far.” He snapped his head up. “You know he’s been asking about you. And Vicki and Pedro. Where’d you go, when you’re coming back.”
“Your son turned out to be my angel that night.” She smiled weakly. “But I think some distance is good for everyone right now.”
Her implication was not lost on him, and Rubén stood just as Lucho climbed back up the stairs. He declined Lucho’s invitation to stay for lunch, and in the middle of their exchange, Ana disappeared into the bedroom, unwilling to put on a show of civility any longer than she needed to. When Lucho bellowed that Rubén was leaving, she ignored him. Did he expect her to run out and say goodbye? Good that he was leaving, and good that his wife had finally had enough. He deserved it for opening his mouth and telling Valeria who-knows-what about her. And good that Valeria’s marriage was over. It had been over for a long time, but neither she nor Rubén was willing to admit it. Qué pena, she thought. Now all that remained of what they once had was that faltering business and Michael.
* * *
MOMENTS AFTER RUBÉN LEFT, LUCHO WALKED INTO THE BEDROOM.
“We need plastic,” she said matter-of-factly, as she placed a pile of clothes on the bed. She pointed to the windows. “Look at those. They’re uneven. The cold just keeps coming in.”
“What did you say to him?” he asked.
Her head snapped. “That it’s best for our families to avoid each other for now,” she replied. “And that he’s been ignoring his alcoholic wife for years.”
He grunted. “You always like to point out other people’s problems, don’t you? You could’ve just accepted his apology.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because he’s sorry for what happened, Ana. And now Valeria’s thrown him out.”
“You want me to show him compassion, is that it? You want me to feel sorry for that mujeriego? None of this would’ve happened if he’d just kept his pants on. Or bothered to pay her or that business of theirs some attention. I’d almost feel sorry for her if she wasn’t the piece of garbage that she is.”
His eyes narrowed. “Do you honestly think you’re so much better, Ana?”
She hurled the sweater in her hand against the floor. “What are you saying?” she demanded. “That I’m garbage, Lucho? You’re comparing me to her?”
“You’re not perfect. And I’m not saying that what Valeria did was right. It wasn’t. But you’ve got no right calling her or Rubén out on their mistakes when you can’t even acknowledge yours.”
“Don’t do that,” she said, standing up. “Don’t start going down my list of defects when you won’t even see your own.”
A month ago, she wouldn’t have dared to challenge him. She would’ve listened to that list. She would’ve accepted Rubén’s apology, insisted that he stay for lunch, made lunch, even heeded Lucho’s call to say goodbye, as if she were a child who needed a refresher on a lesson in manners. She might have prayed harder to La Virgen for things to work out. She would’ve forced the ghosts out of their new home, out of her, instead of only nudging them to leave. That’s how much she feared losing him.
She realized that she didn’t anymore, yet she felt deeply the sting of what he said next. “You lied to me. You lie so much. Do you even know what’s true and what’s not anymore?”
“I was late,” she said. “And it’s not like you even wanted to know. You never want to know anything. You just expect me to take care of things. Well, I did. I took care of it.”
“Yes,” he whispered, “you take care of things in ways I think I’d rather not know about.”
The room held on to his words much longer than she thought possible. The walls yielded to the glacial wind as it poured through the crevices. Her face suddenly became hot. “Of course you’d rather not know,” she said. Her pulse quickened, urging her to say what she had wanted to say for so very long. “You prefer not to see anything, don’t you? The rent, the bills, how much we spend on food, when the kids need new clothes. It’s so much easier to have someone else do it all for you.” She wiped her brow with her sleeve. “But I’m the one who’s had to make those decisions, Lucho. I’m the one who’s had to make those sacrifices.”
He slammed his hand against the door and her body jolted. “Don’t act like you’re a victim, Ana! I’ve had to make sacrifices too. I’ve had to wipe shit off toilets and pigs’ blood from my mouth because you are set on staying here. If I were in Peru, do you think I’d be doing any of this? Driving around delinquents, trying to have conversations with people who barely have an education? You know I wouldn’t even be here if—” He stopped himself and began to pace, letting out a long breath and grabbing the back of his neck.
“¡Dilo!” she shouted. She already knew what he was going to say. She never threatened to expose his own regret, not to spare him from the truth of his own feeling, but to spare herself from seeing just how deeply the crack in their marriage ran. “Say it, Lucho. I know you’ve been thinking it. You’ve been thinking it all these years. So won’t you just say it? If I had never had Victoria. That’s what you want to say, isn’t it? If I’d only had an abortion then.”
The word still felt blasphemous. She could hardly say it without a choke. She never regretted having Victoria. Her birth gave her a chance to grow and nurture a new family, her very own, the kind Ana had only imagined others had, the kind she tasted only in the moments when her father was home. She could be a good mother. She’d never yell or hit or blame her children for the circumstances of her life. But she had to let go of some things—her body, that restaurant. She had to try to make peace with the memory of her mother, of what she had to do to keep Ana safe. Her children had that at least. They were safe; they had her. They had
their father. She’d had to let go of hers long ago; she didn’t want to let go of theirs.
But soon after she had Pedro, she began to mourn the woman she had to bury under the soil of motherhood. Every birthday, every holiday, and soon every evening brought with it an impulse to create, to prepare a meal as if to serve her own dead parents, and this left an unexpected ache for what could have been. The dream to have a restaurant—what was once un sueño tonto—didn’t seem so silly anymore. Not after being at Regina’s; not in New York. She didn’t know if the ache she felt was for that elusive dream, or if she merely longed for the father who never came back from the mountain and the mother she knew with certainty was gone. They were phantoms who never seemed to leave her side.
She thought she had buried away the what-ifs, but when the blood failed to come, the what-ifs rose up from the very pit of her being. What if, back when it was Victoria in her womb, she had chosen differently? What if she had chosen differently with Pedro? Would there be no ache for that dream of hers? Would that ghost of the person she thought she could be linger like it did now? Could she silence the voice that kept telling her that sacrifice was part of the journey?
She waited for him to say something. An admission, a confession that yes, he had wanted her to make that choice then, and he had wanted her to make it now. That it wasn’t just she who cared about what was lost; about what could have been or what could be. That he might somehow lighten the weight she’d been carrying.
But when he said nothing, she pressed on. “You blame me for everything. But I never asked you to marry me.”
He rested his head against the door frame. “We both know things would’ve been different. If you hadn’t had Victoria . . .” His voice broke, and he couldn’t finish. “But she and Pedro are the reasons I keep going.”
The Affairs of the Falcóns Page 23
