Joaquin shrugged. “I don’t think she’ll care.”
“What?”
“We’ve been separated for three months now.”
Amanda flung her arms around Joaquin’s neck and kissed his mouth, his cheeks, his eyelids. He could reject her all he wanted now, push her away if he felt like it, humiliate her in revenge, but she didn’t care anymore. He was not going to get rid of her so easily this time.
Chapter 45
Alejandra braced herself as the knocking started again. She wished she could disappear forever. Anywhere would do. As long as Ana and Amanda couldn’t reach her and couldn’t continue knocking at her door every five minutes demanding explanations.
She lifted the fabric from the canvas and stared at her self-portrait. She was much younger there, barely a woman. She wrinkled the letter in her hand, the one she’d written to Enrique’s mother so many years ago and Claudia had found among Malena’s things. Her fingers ran over the paper, rubbing each one of its creases, as if she could heal her daughter’s heart, as if she could magically erase the guilt she had felt when everyone surrounded Malena in the living room like sharks around their prey.
“Niña Alejandra, it’s me.”
She rushed to the door and unlocked it. Trinidad walked into the room, shutting the door behind her. Alejandra hugged the maid’s thin frame and the tears she’d been holding back for so long released with a choke.
She cried for a long time as quietly as she could. The maid caressed her head, the way she’d done when she was a child and she’d hurt herself, the way she did when Alejandra came back from the convent, empty-handed.
“You’re not going to talk to her?” Trinidad asked after Alejandra’s sobbing subdued.
“I’m too embarrassed.”
“But she came here looking for you. You owe it to her. You owe her an explanation.”
Alejandra sat on her bed and dried her cheeks with her sleeve. “You knew it was her all along?”
“No, but I suspected it. She reminded me so much of mi niña Abigail.”
“You should have said something.”
Alejandra returned her attention to her painting and focused on the baby she was holding in her arms. Malena had turned out so different than she imagined her to be.
“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
“Si, Niña.”
“Is she in her room?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since last night.”
Alejandra stood up, fearing the worst. Malena couldn’t have left. Not now. As if waking up from a long dream, her body felt energized, strong, the way it had been before. She opened her bedroom door.
Amanda stood outside her room, arms across her chest.
“Where’s Malena?” Alejandra said.
“Rafael sent her away last night,” Amanda said. “We don’t know where she went.”
“What? Why didn’t you tell me? How dare he?”
“Don’t worry about him anymore. He’s gone. For good. Ana is getting a divorce.”
“I have to find Malena.”
Alejandra attempted to walk past Amanda, toward the stairs, but her sister held her arm.
“We’ll help you find her. But it’s time we have a talk,” Amanda said. “Mamá Blanca is waiting for you.”
Alejandra knew she couldn’t stall this conversation any longer. Twenty years ought to be enough. She followed her older sister to her mother’s room, where Ana, Javier, and Mamá Blanca waited.
Chapter 46
Alejandra, 1941
Alejandra could barely control the tremor in her hands, the excitement that urged her legs to get up and skip around the workshop, the need to look at her watch one more time. This was going to be the best birthday of her life. She tried to focus on the pendant she was making—the first one without her father’s help—but she couldn’t concentrate. She glanced at the clock hanging over the kiln. It was almost ten. In only a few minutes, he would be here, in this workshop, in their secret meeting place. He’d told her he had something for her—a birthday present—but his love was present enough for her.
Uneven footfalls came from the shop. Normally, she wouldn’t have heard a thing, but in the still of the night, in her anticipation, her hearing became so acute she could even hear the buzz of a fly in the hallway. She set her pliers aside and stood up, listening. Yes, there was definitely noise coming from the store.
He was here.
She opened the bottom drawer of her father’s desk, which he had assigned to her, and removed the small bottle of perfume Amanda had given her that morning. Her first perfume. Finally a grown-up gift! She inhaled the gardenia scent before spraying it on her neck and the inside of her wrists. As a last touch, she sprinkled a few drops of almond oil onto her hands to soften them.
The steps grew louder. He was coming.
She returned the perfume and oil to her drawer and waited by the desk. Five minutes passed, but she couldn’t hear his steps approaching. The noises continued in the shop: the fumbling of objects, the squeak of a door. What was he doing there? She left the room quietly, smiling to herself. Today her fate would change. She’d already decided what her birthday gift would be and it had nothing to do with material things. Today, she would become a woman. It was only befitting, after all; today she was turning eighteen years old.
She opened the office door and immediately recognized a male shape kneeling in front of the open safety vault.
“Fausto?” she asked. “What are you doing?”
He turned to her, red-eyed, and a strong smell of alcohol emanating from his pores. In his hands he held a stack of bills.
“You’re stealing from my father?”
“Of course not.” His speech was slurred. “I’m just borrowing some money.”
“At this hour?”
He stood up with an effort and leaned over the vault door. “Who are you to judge me? You’ve robbed from your father before.”
“It’s not the same thing. I was a child then.”
“Of course it’s the same!” He stood up straight. “You took money from your old man to go to the circus. If it hadn’t been for that we would have never met that damn Enrique!”
Damn Enrique?
“All right, all right. Calm down,” Alejandra said.
“Don’t tell me to calm down.” He gripped her wrist. “You can be so condescending some times.”
“Let me go. You’re drunk.”
“What are you doing here anyway? Why are you so dressed up?”
She glanced at her fitted beige blouse and pencil skirt.
“You were going to meet him, weren’t you?” His grasp was so tight she couldn’t recover her arm. She’d seen her cousin angry before, but today there was something else, something intimidating in his glare.
“And what’s that smell?” He took a step closer to her. “You’re wearing perfume for him?”
“I’m going to bed.” She pulled her arm, but couldn’t break free.
“What are you doing, Alejandra? He’s engaged to your sister. Can’t you see he’s playing with you?”
Where was Enrique anyway? He was supposed to be here already.
“Abigail doesn’t love him,” she said lamely. “He’s going to break up with her.” Her voice sounded desperate, as if she were trying to convince herself more than Fausto.
“That’s what he says.” He took a step closer to her. “Men will say anything to take a woman to bed.” He examined her face. “You haven’t gone to bed with him, have you?”
“No,” she said, uneasy by his interrogation, by his nearness.
“I don’t believe you. You’ve already slept with him. I’m not an idiot. I know you better than everyone else and I know you want him. That’s why you’re wearing this outfit, this perfume, to tempt him.”
She slapped him as hard as she could, but it didn’t faze him. He clenched her wrists.
“You’re hurting me!” she said.
He let go of her. She took
a step back. She didn’t like the wicked gleam in his eyes. It made her feel dirty. She turned to the door, but he slammed his palm against it, shutting it. She ducked under his arm, heading for the desk for there was nowhere else to go. Maybe she should scream, but there was no way her father would hear her from the house.
Fausto followed her slowly, still menacing, still angry, and cornered her between the vault and a wall. She backed up until she felt the concrete wall behind her. He took another step and grabbed her face with both hands, his mouth a breath away from hers.
“You smell so good,” he whispered.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?” He caressed her cheek softly. “You’re meant to be mine. You always have.”
She made a futile attempt to push him, but his chest felt like a brick wall against her palm.
“Fausto, what’s wrong with you? You’re my cousin. My brother, almost.”
“No. I’m not your brother.” His arm trapped her waist. “And I’m tired of people saying that. There’s nothing brotherly about the way I feel about you.”
She glanced behind his head, toward the door, praying Enrique would walk in.
He hit the wall, right next to her ear. “You’re still thinking about him? I’m going to kill him.”
“Fausto, please.” She pushed the words out. “You need a strong coffee and a shower. Come on. Let’s forget this ever happened.”
“No! I don’t want to forget.” He tilted his head down, holding her face with both hands. “I’ve waited long enough. I’ve wanted to do this for years.”
She shook her head, trying to escape his grasp, but he had a tight hold of her. She felt like throwing up the minute his wet lips pressed against hers.
“No!”
She brought her hands to his chest and pushed him, but he took a step closer, pressing his body against hers. He held both of her wrists again, and his mouth absorbed hers, making her unable to breathe, much less yell. He held both of her wrists with one hand, and with the other, he fumbled with the buttons on her blouse. Bile rose up her throat. Enrique, my love, please come, please save me.
Finally he set her mouth free, and kissed her neck.
“Maldito! Let me go! My mother will never forgive you!”
He ignored her and continued opening her blouse.
“Enrique!” she yelled, as loud as she could.
Fausto slapped her cheek so hard she nearly lost her balance. “Shut up!”
He covered her mouth with his palm and pushed her against the desk. She fought him with all she had, legs, arms, hands, but he was much stronger than her. His entire weight rested on her as he lifted her skirt. She pulled his hair, but again, it had no effect on him. He pinned her hands over her head and held her wrists with one hand. Never had she imagined Fausto to be this strong. She stared at the dangling light bulb in the ceiling as his free hand traveled eagerly up her thigh. An uncontrollable tremor took over her body. She shut her eyes; she never wanted to remember her once beloved cousin attacking her like a hungry animal, the heaviness of his sweaty forehead against her chest, his silent groaning, the searing pain tearing through her, the unbearable shame of her father, or worse yet, her mother finding out. If only she could escape her body, detach herself from this nightmare. But the pain was too real, the betrayal too heartbreaking.
Minutes later or maybe hours, she couldn’t tell, a ruckus at the door forced her to open her eyes. Fausto jumped back, pulling his pants up. Enrique walked into the room.
“What’s going on here?” He turned to her. “Alejandra?”
She sat up and noticed, horrified, that her underwear rested around her calves. She quickly pulled it up.
Enrique glared at Fausto. “What did you do to her, hijo de puta?”
He advanced toward him, fists clenched. Fausto took a revolver from the safe and pointed it at Enrique.
“Don’t move!”
Enrique stopped. “Of course. Such would be the response of a coward like you.”
“Shut up or I’ll blow your brains out.”
“Fausto,” Alejandra said. “Please put the gun down. Don’t make this any worse.”
Her cousin faced her. “Quiet! I don’t want to hear a word from you.”
Enrique tackled Fausto, sending both of them to the floor. They fought for the gun, rolling on the floor back and forth until an explosive noise, louder than any other noise she’d ever heard, vibrated through the entire room, making her jump. Enrique lifted his body from Fausto’s, wide-mouthed as a red stain grew on the center of Fausto’s white shirt. Enrique dropped the gun and stood up. He was pale.
Alejandra gripped his arm. “You have to leave. My father can’t find you here!”
“I killed him. I killed Fausto.”
“Come on, get out.” Alejandra led him to the door. “They’ll take you to jail.”
“No. I’ll stay. I’ll tell them what happened.”
“No, I don’t want anyone to know.” She lowered her head and the sight of her exposed brassiere was so demeaning she didn’t want to look at Enrique in the eye. She covered her chest with her blouse. “Please.”
Enrique seemed to wake from his trance. “That bastard. I can’t believe he did this to you, my beautiful girl.” He caressed her wet cheek. “He deserved this.”
The tears blurred her vision for a moment. “Please go. I’ll take care of this.”
He hugged her and kissed her forehead. “I’ll be back for you.”
She watched him go and something told her this would be the end for them, the end of her dreams. Fausto was lying on the ground. His hand rested on his chest now, getting soaked in blood, and he was watching her. She didn’t feel pity for him; he’d had this coming. But the pain of his betrayal was so intense she could barely breathe.
Voices approached the office and she recognized one of them as Papá Pancho’s. She buttoned her shirt and tucked it inside her skirt. She stood still as someone opened the door.
“What happened?” her father asked behind her. “I heard a gunshot.”
Alejandra faced her father, speechless. Her body was numb. She hadn’t thought of what to say yet.
Fausto spoke with the last energy he had left. “It was Enrique. He tried to rob us.”
Her father glanced at the opened safety vault. “Ese maldito,” he muttered. It was the first time Alejandra had heard her father curse.
“You stay with him,” he told her. “I’m going to get a doctor.”
Alejandra nodded. It was all she could do. She had no control over her trembling body. She watched her father dart through the door, bypassing Mamá Blanca, who had somehow made it to the jewelry store and was holding on to the door frame.
“Mamá, don’t look!” she warned her. But it was too late. Her mother’s gaze was locked on the blood coming out of Fausto’s mouth.
Mamá Blanca knelt beside her nephew and took his hand in hers.
“I tried to stop him.” He swallowed with difficulty. “But he shot me.”
Alejandra was too shocked to speak. She knew she had to say something, but if she did, would she have to confess the horrible thing Fausto had just done to her? Did she have to explain she was no longer fit to be anyone’s wife? A remnant of what she’d once been?
Mamá Blanca spoke with a hollow voice. “Don’t talk, dear, save your strength.”
Fausto stared at Alejandra with terror, and she suddenly remembered the cousin she had loved so dearly, her playing partner, and all the times they had kept each other’s secrets. What had happened to him? Where had that child gone? He had been so angry and resentful in the last few years. Her throat burned. Her mother took in quick breaths. Fausto coughed blood. Mamá Blanca helped him move his head up and his blood stained her beige nightgown.
“Hold on, mi amor, don’t die,” Mamá Blanca pleaded, tears standing in her eyes. “The doctor will be here in just a moment.”
Alejandra watched one of her mother’s tears tr
avel from the corner of her eye, down her cheek to her chin, and land on Fausto’s arm.
Fausto looked at Alejandra. “I’m sorry. Please don’t …” he said, but didn’t finish the sentence before his head fell back.
Mamá Blanca sobbed quietly. Her beloved nephew, the son she’d always wanted, had just died. And the truth would kill her, no doubt. Alejandra stared at her cousin’s lifeless brown eyes fixated on her and she knew then they would haunt her forever.
Alejandra waited until the syringe filled with blood before removing the needle from the old man’s vein. He groaned and stiffened as she rubbed his arm with a moist cotton ball, but she barely noticed. She’d become desensitized to pain, especially hers. She was almost grateful for the pain in her lower back. It was her punishment. She deserved it.
Sister Mariana, dressed entirely in white and hiding her hair underneath a white veil, entered the hospice room.
“Alejandra, there’s a man waiting for you downstairs.”
She instinctively brought her hand to her enlarged stomach. “Did he say his name?”
“Hugo Sevilla.”
Alejandra had never heard the name before. “Are you sure he asked for me?”
“Yes. He said it’s very important. He said he met you in San Isidro.”
Alejandra set the syringe on the night table beside the sick man. Had something happened to Mamá Blanca? She wiped her sweaty hands on her apron and walked out of the room. The hardwood floor squeaked with every one of her steps. She walked slowly, in no hurry to hear whatever bad news waited for her down the stairs.
In the small receiving area, standing by the enlarged portrait of the Virgen de la Dolorosa, stood Enrique. She slowed her pace and uselessly attempted to hide her stomach with her hand. Her gesture directed his gaze to that precise spot. His eyes didn’t reveal surprise, only an intense sadness.
She stood in front of him, unable to look him in the eye. She focused, instead, on the full beard covering his face and adding ten years to his appearance. She pointed at the old couch underneath the portrait of the Virgin. They sat side by side, careful that their legs wouldn’t touch.
The Sisters of Alameda Street Page 29