The Forever Tree

by Rosanne Bittner

  She watched Hugo make his way through the crowd and out the door. She had no idea where he was going, and she didn’t care. She walked over to join in conversation with some other women.

  Hugo walked through the rose gardens outside. He well remembered where Santana’s old bedroom was, and he suspected that was where she had gone. She would be alone there, and each room had glass doors that opened to its own garden. On such a warm day, those doors would be open.

  In the great room, Hernando glanced around, looking for Santana. Not seeing her, he sought out Louisa and asked about her.

  “She went to her bedroom to be alone for a while,” Louisa said. “She needs to lie down and rest.”

  Hernando nodded. “I agree. Leave her alone.” He looked around for Hugo, but the crowd was so heavy he could not spot him right away. Another old friend of Dominic’s drew him back into conversation, and Hernando supposed Hugo had finally left.

  Twenty-Two

  Santana’s eyes quickly closed, weariness from her loss and from worry over Will settling so deep into her bones, she wondered if she would ever be able to get back up, now that she had finally lain down. She didn’t want to think about all the people beyond her room with whom she should be talking. She didn’t want to think about her father being dead, or the possibility of Will never coming home. She forced herself instead to think about good things, her sweet children and how their love and their need of her had helped her get through all of this; the good memories of her own childhood and good times with her father; the way she’d felt the first time she set eyes on Will Lassater…and the first time he made love to her.

  In only minutes she drifted off, voices fading, thoughts turning to nothing. Somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind she felt a presence, and in her dream state she imagined it was Will come home…come to lie beside her. Oh, how comforting that would be. She breathed deeply, allowing the dream to unfold, falling ever deeper into it, until she dreamed Will was lying on the bed. He was going to hold her. She felt the movement, and because she had fallen asleep, it took a moment for her senses to tell her that she was not dreaming, that someone really was on the bed with her, moving on top of her.

  She felt a sudden alarm, and her eyes popped open. To her horror it was not Will’s handsome face that she saw. Instead she looked into the evil dark eyes of Hugo Bolivar! She gasped and started to sit up to get away, but he covered her mouth and nose with a handkerchief that was damp with something that smelled strange. She tried to struggle, but her limbs grew heavy, her whole body went limp. She couldn’t speak, but she could still see his face…his grinning face.

  “At last, my sweet Santana,” he said, “I shall have what should have been mine years ago. I shall possess what Will Lassater stole from me, and it will be our little secret, won’t it?”

  Her eyes widened in horror. Why couldn’t she move? Everything felt numb, but not numb enough that she was not aware of him pushing her skirt and slips up to her waist. “One advantage,” he went on, “to having friends among the lowlifes of San Francisco, my dear, is learning about the wondrous drugs that they deal with, many of them from China. Sometimes, you know, unwilling women are bought like slaves and forced into prostitution. In the beginning, they have to be given something to keep them calm, until they have been with so many men that they give up and resign themselves to their slavery.” He laughed softly and again put the handkerchief to her face, until she felt dizzy and faint, her body even more numb.

  “I did not know if this opportunity would come, but knowing you were still without a husband, and would be in mourning for your father, I brought a little bottle of this drug along just in case I found the chance to use it. You gave me that chance when you came in here to sleep.” He grasped one of her breasts. “Now, Santana, I shall have you. You don’t dare cry rape, because we were once engaged, and with your husband gone for so long, how many will think that you simply got hungry for a man and turned to your old intended, Don Hugo Martinez Bolivar? If you try to say I forced you, I will deny it. You came here to take a nap, and I went for a short stroll. And, after all, my wife is here, right out there in the other room. How could I do such a thing with my wife so close? If you try to tell others what I have done, they will think you are a crazy woman. And besides, you know what people think about rape. They always think the woman wanted it.”

  He pulled off her drawers, and no matter how hard she tried to force herself to move, Santana had no control. She was immobile. She could not even scream, though she felt the screams deep in her soul.

  “Most of all, my dear,” Hugo continued in his hateful voice, “you don’t dare tell for the simple reason that Will would know, and you won’t want him to know, not ever. Not only would he probably try to kill me and end up hanged if he succeeded, but he would never look at you the same way again. He would never love you the same, and he would always wonder if perhaps you were willing.”

  Though Santana could not see what he was doing, she was aware that he had unbuttoned his pants, that he was preparing to enter her. She closed her eyes, wishing she could close her ears as well, wishing she could just lose consciousness. But he kept on talking, and she still heard him; and she felt the painful thrust as he forced himself on her.

  He kept grinning through it all, and Santana felt an ugly horror rip through every vein and bone and muscle and nerve end as she felt the sensation of his raping her.

  “No one is going to come,” he said, his breathing coming faster. “I bolted your door and locked the garden doors and pulled the curtains. When I am through, I will go out into the garden and reenter the house through the back. Everyone thinks you are napping, and they will not want to disturb you. You have made it all so easy, my dear.”

  He began moving in faster rhythm, his dark eyes glazing with sick pleasure. “But then maybe that was what you wanted,” he added, his voice more strained from his own excitement. “Maybe a little part of you has always wanted this, always wondered if perhaps Hugo Bolivar might have been better in bed than Will Lassater!” His smile turned to a wicked sneer, and he gritted his teeth and kept up the horrid invasion until finally he shuddered in relief.

  He breathed out a long sigh and settled on top of her, keeping his face close to hers. Santana could not stop the tears from coming then. They ran out of her eyes and into her ears while she lay there paralyzed from the drug he had given her. She could not even open her mouth to say anything, and the only sounds she made were little grunts and sobs that only gave him more pleasure.

  “Ah, there, there,” he said, wiping at her tears with his fingers. “I suppose you’re weeping because now you realize you made the wrong decision. Now you realize I am the one who should share your bed. But, alas, the deed is done. You have another husband, and I have a wife, useless as she is. But there are many women in my life. You, on the other hand, think you must be true to one man. What would he think if he found out another man has been inside of you? I think you would be wise never to tell him. You can live with it the rest of your life, Santana, and be sick about it!” His smile was gone now, replaced by a dark, hateful glare. “You bitch! How dare you choose a gringo over Hugo Bolivar! How dare that Americano make me look like a coward, embarrass me in front of my business friends, steal my woman!” He kept his voice to a low growl, but the viciousness in it and in his eyes was horrifying. He deliberately turned his head to point out the scar from Will’s hatchet. “Now Will Lassater has paid for giving me this!”

  He finally moved off her, yanking her skirts back down over her legs. He buttoned his pants, then picked up her drawers and threw them on her chest. “Don’t worry about the drug. It wears off in about thirty minutes. You will be fine after that.” He grinned again. “Except that you will remember, for the rest of your life, that Hugo Bolivar raped you, yet you can never tell! You have no marks of force on you. You would look like a fool, and people would talk.”

  He leaned close again, touching her breasts while he kissed her with cold li
ps. “Please let me express my sorrow over your loss,” he said mockingly. “And I do hope your husband returns home safely.” He snickered, then turned and quietly left through the patio doors.

  Santana lay trembling, still unable to move. Her head felt as though it might explode with her need to scream, to kill, but she could do nothing except lie there and contemplate what had just happened to her. The ugliness of it sank into every bone, horror raking her mind and heart. She had always known Hugo was a cruel, vengeful man, yet had never dreamed he could be capable of this kind of evil. And he was right to say that no one would believe that a man of such wealth and position would come to the funeral of his father’s best friend, bringing his own wife along, and rape the dead man’s daughter. Waves of nausea rolled through her at the realization he was right about all the rest of it. Even if she could prove rape, people had an opinion of women who claimed such things. There was always the vague wonder if she had asked for it or enjoyed it. She would be a marked woman, gossiped about, considered loose. The drug would leave her incapacitated long enough for Hugo to rejoin the others and mingle, looking perfectly innocent. He had planned this well, for he was also right that she could never tell Will.

  Will! Hugo had just destroyed the joy she would have felt at her husband’s homecoming. She would have to pretend to be happy, pretend to want her husband again, when the thought of any man touching her—even Will—repulsed her. If Will knew the truth, he would indeed go and kill Hugo and probably hang for it. He must never know. She would have to live with this for the rest of her life or risk losing her reputation, bringing shame and embarrassment on her brother and her own children…and risk losing Will. Even if he did not kill Hugo, his love for her would be dead. He would never look at her the same way again, never want her in the same way, never trust her. The adoring look he had always held for her would be gone.

  She lay agonizing over what had happened to her, wanting to believe it had all just been a horrible nightmare. Yes, she had lain down to sleep, and because she had seen Hugo at the funeral she’d had a terrible dream about him. But as the feeling returned to her limbs and she was able to move, she realized it was all too real. Her underwear still lay on her chest. She managed to sit up, and she bent over, shivering in gasps of wretched anguish, muttering “No” over and over. This could not be true. But it was all too true.

  She suddenly jumped up and ran to the washbasin, pouring water from the pitcher into the bowl. She washed herself vigorously, several times over, another hideous thought taking shape. After four children, she knew when it was the best time of the month for her to conceive, and this was one of those times. What if she became pregnant from Hugo? How would she explain a pregnancy to Will? He would think she had slept with other men while he was gone! Will was an Americano with a quick temper. Even after all these years, she did not know everything about gringos, how they dealt with a situation like this. Would he kill her? Would he take the children and leave her? She would be utterly disgraced, and she could lose everything dear to her. If she got pregnant, there would be no explaining it.

  She looked down at herself, touching her stomach. Perhaps there was a way to keep from getting pregnant, or to abort what had just been done to her. Even after washing Hugo’s filth from her, she still felt dirty. She must wash more. Perhaps if she took a very hot bath, she could somehow keep Hugo’s life from taking hold. A hot bath and wine…yes, lots of wine. Maybe getting drunk would terminate a pregnancy. She had to try something, anything to ensure that what had just happened would not lead to a baby that would destroy her reputation and her marriage.

  Someone knocked at the door. She just stared at it a moment, feeling removed from the world around her, as though she had fallen into a black hole.

  “Santana? Are you all right?”

  It was Hernando. He was supposed to have watched Hugo and made sure he stayed away from her. But then, her brother had probably been too involved talking with others. And after all, Hugo’s wife was there with him. Hernando probably would never have considered that Hugo would try anything with his wife right there. And Hugo had been so clever, doing his dirty deed quickly so he would not be missed. “I—I do not feel so well,” she answered. She forced her feet to move, still feeling weak and shaky from whatever drug Hugo had given her. She managed to reach the door and open it.

  “Santana! You look terrible!” Hernando exclaimed. “You are so pale.” He slid an arm around her. “I know Father’s death was harder on you because Will is gone. I just did not realize it was quite so bad for you. Are you sick?”

  She put a hand to her face. Did it show? She felt as though she had a big sign hanging around her neck that said she had been raped by Hugo Bolivar. “I…a little. I would like to take a hot bath. Do you think it would be a terrible thing if I did not come back out and talk to the others? I cannot face them right now. I am so tired, Hernando, and so—so depressed.” She began crying again and collapsed against him.

  “My poor Santana. I will get Dr. Enders.”

  “No! I do not need him.” In spite of his usual drunken state, Enders was a very discerning man. She feared he would be able to tell just by looking into her eyes what had happened. Still, she might need him later…might have to bribe him into helping her abort a child. She would have to swear him to secrecy, and he would not want to do it, but maybe she could find a way to convince him.

  “Santana, you’re ill.”

  She pulled away from Hernando, loving her brother for his goodness. He was another reason she must keep this secret forever. She could not risk ruining the Chavez name. It had always held such honor.

  “I will be all right, truly. Just tell Louisa to please begin bringing hot water. I will take down the tub. I just need to sit and soak for a while. It will relax me. Perhaps you could bring me some wine, some from Father’s own vineyards.”

  “Are you sure that’s all you need?”

  “I am sure. Please apologize to the others for me.” Already the pain of having to live with her terrible secret was tearing at her. If only she could kill Hugo! Her hatred for him was so powerful, she wondered if she would ever again be the Santana she had been only an hour ago. That hatred was made even more intense by the fact that part of her could not help blaming Will for what had happened to her. If he had not gone off to that war in the first place, abandoned her…

  Oh, she must not blame him. It was wrong, yet she could not help an already-growing feeling of resentment. She needed him more than ever, but he was not there; and if he had never left, she would not have suffered this horror. She wondered if she could even keep her sanity now. It had been delicate enough with the loss of her father and her worry over Will. Now this ugly deed overshadowed all of that.

  “Well, at least Hugo has left,” Hernando said. “He and his wife just drove away, so you will not have to talk to him. He seemed sincere when he expressed his condolences to me, but I am still glad he is gone.”

  He raped me! Hernando, do you hear me? Hugo Bolivar was here, in my room! He gave me something so I could not move and he raped me! Right here in our father’s house, on the day of his funeral!

  The need to scream the words, to tell someone, sent shots of pain through her entire body, pain that seemed to gather in strength and culminate in her stomach, so that she pulled away from her brother and folded her arms around her middle. Oh, what a master at revenge Hugo was! He had gotten his revenge not only on her, but also on Dominic and Will.

  “I am glad he is gone,” she said, not looking at Hernando. “Please tell Louisa to help me prepare a bath. I need to sit and relax for a while in the hot water. And bring me that wine.”

  “Si, I will do what you ask.” Hernando put a hand on her shoulder. “I am sure Will will come home soon, Santana. You will feel better then. In the meantime, you have me and Teresa, and the children. And Agatha has become a good friend. We are all here for you.”

  Santana nodded, and Hernando left. She heard the door close, and she walked
to the bed, sitting down on the edge of it and bending over, breaking into bitter sobbing. She could not stop, not even when Louisa came into the room with hot water. The woman became so alarmed, she went to get Hernando and Teresa. Agatha also came, all of them fussing over her, all of them thinking that her tears were for Will and her father. At least she had that excuse, so that she did not have to explain her state of mind. She told herself she must somehow get over this. If she let it eat at her, they would begin to wonder about the real cause. She finally managed to calm herself, and Louisa prepared the bath. Once she was alone again, she gladly ripped off her clothes, clothes she decided she would burn. She could never wear them again. She had one other black dress that she could wear for going out in public.

  She sank into the bath, groaning with the comfort of it, enfolded in the hot water that would perhaps wash up inside of her and keep Hugo’s filth from taking hold. She poured herself some wine and drank it down quickly, then another glass, another. She washed herself over and over, wondering if it would also help to go to the chapel and pray. Should she pray for forgiveness? Had she done something wrong? Did being raped make her guilty of adultery?

  More wine. More washing. She must flush Hugo Bolivar out of her body, get him off her skin, drink the wine to forget. Finally she put her head back and let her thoughts float into nothingness. She was not even aware that Louisa came back into the room to find her passed out in the tub, that she had to call for Agatha and Teresa to help get her out of the tub and dry her off. They managed to dress her in a nightgown and put her to bed, but when she awoke there, she got up and stumbled into her father’s room. She could not bear to sleep in the bed where Hugo had done that ugly thing to her. She crawled into her father’s bed, and she stayed for three days straight, eating little, giving no explanation as to why she would not sleep in her old room.