Delia's Crossing

by V. C. Andrews

  “Soy Delia Yebarra,” I said, approaching him. I looked past him, hoping to see my aunt and cousins waiting or sitting in the seats behind him.

  “How many bags you got?” he asked gruffly.

  I shook my head. I didn’t understand. Bags? Why did he want to know about bags?

  “Bags, suitcases!” he practically screamed at me, and then pretended to hold one.

  “Oh. Uno,” I said, holding up one finger.

  “Good. C’mon,” he said, gesturing, and led me to the baggage carousels, where we waited for my small suitcase to come around.

  He looked at me and squinted. He had big, pecan-brown eyes and a face that looked chiseled out of granite, the lines cut deeply and sharply around the corners of his mouth and at his eyes. He even had lines cut into his chin. I imagined his face suddenly shattering.

  “No sabe usted hablar inglés?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Jesus, you don’t speak any English at all?”

  “Poco,” I said, afraid to say I spoke or understood more. Whoever spoke to me would expect me then to understand. I thought about reciting some of the words I did know, but he grimaced and shook his head.

  “Yeah, a little. Little good that will do you with Mrs. Dallas.”

  I perked up at the sound of my aunt’s name and looked around again.

  “Don’t worry. She ain’t here. No aquí,” he said. “Like she would come to an airport to greet anyone,” he muttered.

  He pounced on my bag when I pointed to it, practically ripping the handle off when he grasped it.

  “It’s amazing this piece of junk lasted,” he said, tugging on my father’s belt.

  I knew he was making fun of my suitcase. I wanted to explain. After all, none of us ever traveled in an airplane, and whenever we did go on a trip, we put things in cartons. Before I could say a word, however, he turned quickly to march out of the airport. I had to walk very quickly to keep up with him. He led me to the parking lot, where a car that looked as if it were made of gold was parked. Later, I would learn it was a Rolls-Royce. The backseat was even more roomy than the limousine, but it also looked spanking new, not a smudge or anything on the windows or seats.

  As we drove away from the airport and headed for my aunt’s hacienda, my face was practically glued to the window. I was amazed at how well kept and new everything looked. The streets were so wide, and there were no potholes and cracks. Everyone seemed to be driving a brand-new automobile, too. The palm trees, varieties of bougainvillea, flowers, and even the grass all looked unreal. The mountains in the distance seemed more like scenery built for a movie.

  When we reached a side street and I saw gardeners working, I suddenly became very homesick. They paused in their work to look at us as we passed by, and I thought they surely thought I was some rich American girl safe in her fishbowl. If they only knew who I was and where I had just come from and why, they wouldn’t even bother turning in my direction.

  Of course, I was prepared to see a big house with a nice lawn, but I had no idea my aunt really lived in a palace, or at least what looked to me like a palace. There was a very tall chocolate-colored entry gate with elaborate scrolling that had to be opened first for us to enter the property. It swung in slowly, as slowly as the gates of heaven. I imagined the sound of trumpets.

  The driveway to the main house seemed as long as the road that had brought us from the airport. To the left of the main house were two smaller buildings, and farther in the rear I saw tennis courts and a very large swimming pool, as large as, if not larger than, most hotel pools I had seen. A small army of gardeners was cutting grass, pruning bushes, and trimming trees. Just to the right of the house was a four-car garage, but the driver, who had yet to tell me his name, stopped at the front of the main house.

  “This is it,” he said. “Vámanos. Out.” He waved, and I opened the door while he went around to the trunk to get my suitcase.

  I waited, looking up at the grand front door. It looked as if it were made of copper or brass, and it had the emblem of a lion embossed on its surface.

  The driver charged past me to the door and pressed the buzzer. He looked back at me and shook his head. Did he pity me or disapprove of me? Why was he so annoyed? Had he been pulled away from some far more important work?

  An elderly lady in a maid’s uniform, not much taller than I, opened the door.

  “Here she is, Mrs. Rosario,” the driver told her, and nodded at me. “She don’t speak much English at all,” he added.

  Mrs. Rosario nodded. She had soft eyes sunk in a round face with plump cheeks and a small mouth with puckered lips. Her complexion wasn’t quite as dark as mine, and there were strands of gray woven through her tightly brushed black hair pinned back into a bun. A small silver cross rested just below the base of her throat.

  “Venga adentro,” she told me, and stepped back.

  The driver handed me my suitcase, and I entered the grand hacienda. Señora Rosario closed the door, and I stood there gaping at everything. There were statues of two half-naked African women facing each other, with large, colorful tapestries above each that nearly reached the high dome ceiling. The floor was dark marble with white spots that looked like milk dripped over it. It led down a short stairway to a living room the size of our casa back in Mexico, if not bigger. The ceiling was as high as a church ceiling, and there were embossed elephants, birds, and tigers. I couldn’t drink it all in quickly enough.

  All of the furniture must have been built for a family of mythological giants, I thought. The sofas were long and thick, and there were oversized chairs that I was sure would swallow me whole if I sat on them. There was a very long and wide center table with carvings in its wood frame and other matching marble tables beside the chairs and sofa.

  Artwork of every kind was everywhere I looked, from grand paintings of what I imagined were scenes of world-famous cities to busts on pedestals, more tapestries and glass-doored armoires filled with crystal figures, as well as other kinds of collectibles. Everything appeared sparkling clean and new.

  Large area rugs were set over the travertine floors. Across the room were tall glass doors that opened to a grand Spanish tiled patio. I could see a large pink fountain, more statuary, and pretty turquoise, red, and yellow outdoor furnishings. The patio led down to a walkway through gardens, more fountains, and beautiful beds of flowers. I felt certain that the president of Mexico didn’t live any better or in a grander casa with as many servants. When people back in my village said Americans lived like kings and queens, they were surely thinking of people like mi tía Isabela.

  “Put your suitcase against the wall,” Señora Rosario told me, and nodded to my right. She spoke in fluent Spanish. “And go sit on the sofa on your left and wait. Don’t touch anything. Señora Dallas will be here soon.”

  I did what she asked and then walked into the living room. The richness of everything and the way everything glittered and sparkled made me feel as if I should tiptoe and be extra gentle. As I had envisioned, when I sat on the sofa, I felt lost, as if I could drown in gold. Señora Rosario watched me absorbing the richness and wealth. Finally, she softened her lips. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was on its way. I wondered if she had reacted in a similar way when she first had entered this hacienda.

  “Como se llama?” she asked.

  “Delia,” I told her.

  “Señora Dallas quisiera que usted me llama Señora Rosario, but,” she added, still in Spanish, “when we’re alone, you can call me Alita, but never, never in front of Señora Dallas,” she emphasized.

  “It’s so beautiful here,” I told her.

  She nodded like someone used to hearing it. “It’s all very expensive. Almost everything is imported from one place or another.”

  “It’s like a museum.”

  She smiled fully this time but then quickly erased it.

  “Don’t say that to Señora Dallas. She thinks it’s a home.”

  She told me she was goin
g to let mi tía Isabela know I had arrived and left to do so.

  I sat stiffly, afraid to move or touch anything. I was so nervous that I felt faint. When would I meet my cousins? I wondered. Judging from all of this, my room must be as beautiful and as big as Abuela Anabela predicted. Just the thought of having my own room was exciting enough, but looking at all this, I couldn’t help but let my imagination run away with itself.

  There was a clock placed in what looked like an oval-shaped piece of black marble on the mantel of the milk-white marble fireplace, a fireplace that appeared never to have held a spark, much less a fire. It was as clean within as any other part of the room.

  After more than ten minutes, I let myself relax and sit back on the sofa. It was very quiet. I didn’t even hear anyone’s footsteps. Where was my aunt? Why hadn’t she come quickly? I took a deep breath. The traveling had been more tiring than I had thought it would be, despite the luxury in which I was transported. Tension, fear, and confusion had worn me down. I couldn’t help but close my eyes. I fought back, but my eyelids were determined, and in moments, without my realizing it, I fell asleep.

  I woke up to what sounded like someone screaming at me.

  “How uncouth, unwashed, and impolite! Look at her!”

  I opened my eyes quickly and sat up. Glancing at the clock, I saw that I had been there nearly an hour waiting. The woman I knew had to be my aunt stood before me, her hands on her hips. An older man with thick, well-trimmed gray hair and slightly bulging dark brown eyes stood beside her, smiling at me.

  Of course, I had seen stately, elegant-looking women in magazines but never one in person as regal in appearance as mi tía Isabela. She was taller than my mother, full-figured in a form-fitted, sequin-covered dress the color of alligator. The V-neck collar dipped well down into her cleavage. Her ebony hair looked too rich and bright to be natural. Everything about her was somehow emphasized. It was as if she walked about under a magnifying glass that highlighted her eyes, her lips, her body, and her complexion. Nothing was out of place. There wasn’t a crease or a blemish. She was like one of her statues come to life. I could only gape in wonder, and as I focused in on her, she appeared to grow taller.

  Of course, I was desperately searching for more resemblances to my mother, but except for the curve of her chin, which was as smooth as my mother’s, the color of her eyes, and a similar diminutive nose, I saw nothing to convince anyone beyond a doubt that they were sisters.

  The gentleman beside her wore a gray sports jacket and slacks with what looked like tennis shoes. All of his facial features were a bit too large, starting with his protruding nose and thick lips. His chin was sharply rounded, with a slight cleft, and when he smiled, he revealed big teeth as well. Not quite my aunt’s height, he was slight of build. I saw that he had long, thin fingers that looked more like feminine than masculine hands. Those hands never did any hard labor, I quickly thought. They never opened a tightly closed jar. It was how my father would have characterized them.

  “Look at how she’s gaping at us. Tell her to sit up straight,” my aunt said. “Especially when she is in my presence.”

  “Siéntese derecho, señorita joven, especialmente en la presencia de su tía,” the gentleman told me like an obedient translator.

  Why did my aunt need him to translate, and why was she speaking to me now only in English? She must know I had a very limited understanding of the language, I thought. This was no time to put on airs. Besides, she didn’t have to do anything more to impress me.

  I sat up as straight as I could. She beckoned for me to stand, and I did. Then she walked around me, looking me over. Suddenly, she put her hands under my breasts and lifted them.

  “Why aren’t you wearing a bra?” she asked. I knew what she meant.

  “No lo tengo,” I told her, and she made a face.

  “See how they live, John.”

  “Your daughter doesn’t wear a bra most of the time,” he told her, and she spun on him. I picked up a word or two, and from the smirk on his face, I thought he was referring to my cousin.

  “She does when it’s proper to do so, John. It would have been proper for her family to have her wear a bra the first time she met me.”

  “But her parents were killed,” he said.

  I understood that he was defending me. Why was she so angry?

  “Her grandmother should have had the…oh, what the hell am I talking about? They don’t know anything about social etiquette back there. Tell her I’m having a bra sent to her room, and I want her wearing it all the time.”

  He did so, still smiling at me. I thought it was time to tell her or ask her to speak to me in Spanish.

  “I don’t know little English,” I said. “Please. Talk español.”

  “How idiotic she sounds. You want me to speak español?” she asked sweetly.

  I nodded.

  Without any warning, she brought her hand up and slapped me sharply across the face. The blow spun me around, and I had to catch myself on the arm of the sofa.

  “Never! Never tell me what to do!” she shouted. “Tell her, John.”

  He spoke quickly in Spanish, looking as terrified as I was. My eyes filled with tears, but I trapped them quickly. I would not cry. I held my palm against my cheek. It still stung.

  “Sit down!” she shouted, pointing to the chair, and I did so. She strutted about a moment with her arms folded under her breasts and then began dictating to the gentleman, who told me the following.

  “My name is Señor Baker. I’ve been Señora Dallas’s daughter’s tutor on and off for years, and now, anticipating your arrival after your family tragedy, she has hired me to tutor you in English. You are permitted to speak Spanish only with the servants and never in front of Señora Dallas and never again to Señora Dallas unless she so permits.

  “Furthermore, Mrs. Dallas wants you to forget your Mexican background immediately. Never talk about your family or the…slum village you come from. It is an embarrassment to her to have any reminders of it or of your family. Your cousins don’t speak Spanish very well, so don’t hope for that.

  “Eventually, Señora Dallas will make your adoption formal, and you will become a legal American citizen, but until then, you are to earn your bed and board here just like any other servant. Señora Rosario will show you where you sleep and will tell you what your duties are. You are not to wander about the property without permission or go into anyone else’s room without permission. You are to do your work properly and efficiently, and you will be held accountable for anything you break or damage.”

  “What about school?” I asked him.

  “Until you learn enough English to get by, you will not attend public school here. Those are your aunt’s specific orders. For the time being, until otherwise instructed, you are not to tell anyone that you are Señora Dallas’s niece.”

  What?

  I looked at her. Of course, she understood everything he was saying in Spanish, but she kept her face unchanged and stared at me.

  “Por qué?” I asked. I had to know why I couldn’t do that. She was my mother’s sister. We had the same blood.

  She muttered something to him that I couldn’t hear.

  “Señora Dallas is a woman of high regard in Palm Springs. She is very well respected and admired. She would find it an embarrassment for people here to know that she has such an uneducated, unwashed relative living under her roof.”

  “Unwashed?”

  “She doesn’t mean you’re dirty. It simply means unsophisticated, uneducated.”

  “I’m not uneducated. I go to school,” I said.

  “It’s not the same thing. Don’t worry. I’ll be teaching you all about social etiquette. I’m very good at what I do. I’ll have you ready for school in no time, if you listen and do what I tell you to do,” he added, smiling and drawing very close to me.

  He’s the one who looks unwashed, I thought. His teeth were yellow, and now that he was close to me, I could see he wasn’t very care
ful about how he shaved. There were tiny pockets of stubble along his jaw bone. He put his hand on my upper left arm.

  “Repeat after me, Delia, in English. Thank you, Mrs. Dallas. I am pleased to be here and grateful for all you are doing for me. Go on.” He winked. “She’ll like that.”

  He repeated it, urging me strongly.

  I turned to her and said it.

  “See how easy that was?”

  “Well, John,” my aunt said, relaxing her posture, “if anyone can turn her into something at least tolerable, it’s you, I’m sure.”

  “I might need to spend a lot more time with her,” he said, scrutinizing me as if he were going to adopt me and not her. “I’ll let you know when we begin and I see how much we have to do. I have no idea how quickly she can learn.”

  “Spend as much time as you want. She has no important appointments at the moment,” she added, and they both laughed. I knew the words spend and time and important. I could figure out that they were making fun of me.

  “Dare I say I see some resemblance between you?” Señor Baker asked her, pointing to me and to her.

  “No. She looks more like her father than my sister.”

  “Your aunt says you look like your father,” he told me. I took it as the first sign of familial warmth, but when I looked at my aunt, she seemed even angrier. I was afraid to say anything or even smile.

  I glanced at the front door. The thought crossed my mind that I should pick up my suitcase and walk out now, but how would I get back to Mexico? I had no money, and I didn’t even know the way back. Abuela Anabela would be so disappointed, too, even if I did find my way home.

  My aunt saw the look in my face and the direction of my gaze.

  “Tell her she can leave anytime she wants and go back to that squalor she calls home,” she told Señor Baker, who translated for me.

  I looked directly at her now. I would not speak through him.

  “I am here,” I told her in Spanish. “I will do what I must to make you happy, and in the end, you will be proud to have people know me as your niece.”