“For what?”
I stared at him. There was no need for any words in any language to get the answer across to him. His eyes widened.
“That bastard,” he said.
He started the car. Then he stared ahead a moment and turned off the engine. My heart had started thumping even before he turned back to me, his eyes now showing more than anger. They looked fearful.
“Bradley,” he said. “Yesterday. Did he take you right home? Did you go straight to mi hacienda?” he asked, gesturing ahead.
I knew what he meant but hesitated, pretending not to understand, so I could think about what I should say.
“He didn’t, did he?” he answered for me. “Where did he take you?” he asked. “What did he do?”
I started to cry.
Edward’s eyes widened. He nodded and sat back, staring. Without saying another word, he started the engine again and drove. He didn’t say another word or ask any more questions until we arrived at the hacienda.
“Don’t worry,” he told me. “He won’t bother you anymore. Bradley, no más.”
I said nothing. He did not get out with me. Instead, as soon as I was out, he drove off again. I watched his car speed down the driveway and turn the corner so sharply the tires screamed. A sense of dread came over me. It was as if heavy clouds had moved over the sun. It was still a nearly perfect sky, but I felt shadows pouring down over and around me nevertheless, shadows that followed me into the house.
My sadness and anxiety were driven away the moment my eyes spotted the letter from mi abuela Anabela waiting for me on the marble table just inside the entryway. I recognized her handwriting immediately and practically lunged forward to seize the envelope. I hurried upstairs to read it in the privacy of my room.
I placed the envelope on my bed and gazed down at it as if it were some very precious jewel to be admired and not touched. The stamp, the paper, and her handwriting sent me flying back over miles and time to my little village.
Once again, I was walking to school with my girlfriends, waving to store owners opening shops and cantinas, seeing the farm workers seated in the backs of trucks heading out to the fields, some of the younger men calling out to us and making us giggle. The village made its own music, music we heard just listening to the sounds of our people as they woke and dressed and ate breakfast to prepare for their day. Back home, my grandmother was preparing her tortillas and listening to the radio.
In the distance, I could see the sun spread its light like butter on bread across the mountains, exciting the birds. On mornings like this, life opened around us like the blossoms of beautiful flowers. As children, we trusted the future, looked forward to fiestas and holidays and the pending excitement of our own maturing. Our dolls would give way to real babies, our make-believe weddings would evolve into real weddings, with our families celebrating, our mothers crying with both joy and sadness over losing their little girls, and all of our fantasies would settle like light rain and glisten into modest ambitions. It all seemed so simple and true. We weren’t even aware of how poor we were and how unhappy we should be. Was it all one great lie?
I sat on the bed and opened th
e envelope. Before I read the letter, I brought the empty envelope to my nostrils and smelled it to see if I could catch some wonderful aroma I associated with our small casa, mi abuela’s cooking, or simply the scent of wildflowers behind the house, anything that would bring me home for an instant. There was nothing. I sighed and began to read.
My dearest Delia. You must forgive my spelling and grammar.
I have read your letters with such happiness in my heart. To learn about the wonderful hacienda you are in, the warm way your cousins have welcomed you, and to think your aunt had already thought of a private tutor to help you with English…how wonderful.
I read and reread each of your letters every night. Everyone asks about you, of course, and now I have things to tell them, to read to them. I can see how impressed they are. I know when you return, you will already be a real lady, educated and even more beautiful than when you left.
You must not worry about me. I am fine. I have some new mole customers, and occasionally, I bake something for Señor Lopez, who insists on paying me. So I am fine.
I know you are busy with your new life, but whenever you can, write to me. Having your letters is the next-best thing to having you here.
I am in church daily praying for you, and Father Martinez has written special prayers for you as well.
I am sure that your parents would be proud of you and what you accomplish in your new life.
Remember you are loved.
Abuela Anabela
My heart felt so heavy under my breast that I was certain it would simply explode with sadness and I would die on this bed. No one here would shed all that many tears for me, if anyone shed any. Since I had come, I had brought only trouble. It didn’t matter whose fault it was. None of it would have happened had I not come.
But it was Tía Isabela who had brought me here. I was still confused about why she wanted me. She didn’t need another house servant, and when she looked at me, all I did was remind her of her unhappy days back in Mexico. There had to be a good part of her, something inside her that was strong enough to overcome her anger and her hate. Surely, there was a part of her that wanted her family back, and perhaps that was why I was brought here.
I must have patience, I thought. I must have faith, even in this house that had no faith in anything. I knelt beside my bed, and with mi abuela’s letter in my hand, I prayed for everyone, even Sophia, who I believed was burning up inside herself. Her selfishness, jealousies, and spite would eat away at her until she was torn apart.
Rising slowly, I took deep breaths and neatly folded my grandmother’s letter to put it back into the envelope. I slipped it under my pillow. I would read it again before I went to sleep, and I would read it every night until I received another letter from her. It would be my way of remaining close to her.