It seemed that every decision, no matter how small or large, would have a negative effect on our relationships here. It was probably far better to find ways to avoid each other so we could avoid even the possibility of conflict.
Thinking about that, I realized that if Tía Isabela didn’t leave before I did, she would see that I had lied at the table. I had one eye on the clock and another on the door. Just at nine forty-five, she came down the stairs and went out to get into her limousine. I hurried after her, watching Señor Garman drive her down the driveway. As soon as the car was gone, I walked quickly down the driveway myself. It was still better that I be out of sight when Casto picked me up. The worst thing that could happen would be Sophia seeing him do it. She might even get him fired.
I felt very sneaky, but I felt confident that I had not been seen leaving the house. A little after ten o’clock, Casto pulled up to the curb, and I got into his car.
“Gracias,” I said again. He nodded.
There were three employees at mi tía Isabela’s estate who had been there before her husband had died: Señora Rosario, Señor Garman, and Casto. It was natural for me to wonder what things had been like back then. Señor Garman was not as friendly to me as Señora Rosario and Casto, but both were still reluctant to say too much, even after all this time with me.
“It is good that y
ou are careful, Delia,” Casto said. “The Davilas are good people. I would not like to see any more trouble come to them.”
“Nor would I.”
“I’m not sure they could survive here if the truth about their son was revealed. Are you sure this is all still a good idea?”
Tears came to my eyes before I could respond. I took a deep breath.
“La esperanza no engorda pero mantiene,” I said. He looked at me and nodded. It wasn’t just my grandmother’s saying. All of the people in my village lived by it. Hope doesn’t fatten, but it nourishes. Our lives were so hard, hope was sometimes all we had, but somehow it was enough to get us through terrible droughts or sicknesses and accidents.
How desperate for hope poor Ignacio must be, I thought. To do anything that would wound and destroy that hope would be cruel and painful now, not only for him but for me. Our current living conditions were as different as could be, but we shared the same dream.
“My aunt and her children,” I said, “were they always so unkind to each other?”
I thought he would not answer because he was quiet so long, but then he shook his head. “When Señor Dallas was alive, he doted on the two of them and Señora Dallas. His love was like the glue that held them together. Sophia was always spoiled,” he added, smiling, “but Señor Dallas could keep her in the corral.
“Señor Dallas was not happy that Señora Dallas was at war with her own family in Mexico. He tried many times to mend fences, but the flames of her anger never diminished. I think he was always worried about this.”
“Por qué, señor? They were poor people back in Mexico. How could they do him any harm?”
“He wasn’t worried about what they could do. He was worried about Señora Dallas. If she could hate her own family so long and so much, how could she love her new family? I once overheard him say such a thing,” he revealed. “Sometimes they would shout at each other, and ears that weren’t meant to be filled with these things were flooded with them.
“It is not right to speak unkindly about your employer,” he continued, “but this is a mother who was jealous of the love her husband had for his own children. I do not think I say anything you do not know yourself.”
I nodded, and we settled into our own quiet thoughts until we reached the street on which the Davilas lived. Just being here where Ignacio once lived helped me to feel better. I saw his younger brother, Santos, out in the front yard trimming some bushes. He had grown quickly since Ignacio’s leaving and had the same broad shoulders. From the rear, he looked so much like Ignacio my heart actually skipped a beat. What if he turned around and it was Ignacio?
He did, and of course it wasn’t. His brother looked more like their mother than Ignacio did. He had his mother’s eyes and softer features. When he saw it was I who was going to get out of the car, he smirked with displeasure. Even though Santos looked more like his mother, his father had the greater influence on him.
“Gracias, Señor Casto,” I said.
“I will be back in an hour’s time,” he told me, and drove off.
I walked slowly to the gate. Santos returned to his bush trimming as if I weren’t even there.
“Buenos días, Santos,” I said anyway. He nodded and grunted a response, but he did not look at me. I imagined he was afraid of being too friendly because it would upset his father.
Ignacio’s mother greeted me at the door and smiled. It would be the only smile for me in that house for now, I thought. His father was sitting in the living room reading a newspaper. He glanced at me and continued reading. Ignacio’s mother led me back to the kitchen and had me sit at the table. She poured me a glass of Jarritos lime soda without my asking. She knew it was my favorite Mexican soda.
She told me Ignacio’s younger sisters were at the home of a friend.
“Cómo estás, Delia?”
“Muy bien, gracias.”
She handed me the letter, first holding it as if it were a precious jewel, stroking the envelope, her eyes mixed with joy and sadness.
“Gracias, Señora Davila,” I said, and carefully opened it. She left me in the kitchen to read it in private.