The Sisters of Alameda Street

by Lorena Hughes

  “How did you find me?” she asked.

  “Trinidad told me where you were.”

  “You went back to San Isidro?” she whispered.

  “I told you I would come back for you.”

  Alejandra ran her palm over her forehead. “Did she tell you about …?” She glanced at her stomach, involuntarily, for she wanted to pretend she’d dreamt the entire thing.

  “No. But I suspected as much.” He reached for her hand, but she pulled back. She was too disgusting to be touched.

  He removed a long flat box from the pocket inside his jacket. “I never gave you your birthday gift.”

  She held it in her hands, rubbing the soft wood with the tips of her fingers. She slid it open and found half a dozen brushes of different widths.

  “The clerk said they are the best kind,” he said. “Made out of weasel hair.”

  Of course, pelo de marta was what they called it. She’d never had brushes like this. They were expensive. She touched the bristles.

  “Maybe painting will help you—”

  “Yes. Thank you. They’re very nice.”

  He studied her for a moment that seemed to last forever. “You’re a nurse now.”

  “Not really. They just taught me the basics. There aren’t enough hands here.”

  He watched her for an unnerving moment. “You cut your hair,” he said, pulling a short strand behind her ear. “It used to be so beautiful.”

  Alejandra visualized her long tresses on the tile floor of her bathroom, right after she cut them. She brought a hand to her short hair, as short as Enrique’s, and an intense anger crept through her veins. “Why were you late?”

  He tensed his jaw. Maybe he thought, like she often did, that things could have been different had he arrived on time on that ghastly night.

  “You’re right to blame me,” he said. “This was my fault. I should have been there at ten, like we’d agreed.” He tried to touch her hand again, but stopped himself, perhaps recalling her earlier reaction.

  “I don’t blame you,” she said. “It wasn’t your fault. I just couldn’t help but wonder what had been so important that you arrived to see me thirty minutes late.”

  Enrique stared at his hands as he interwove them incessantly. “I was playing cards. Fausto left early. I should have known better. But I waited on purpose. I wanted to make sure he got home and went to bed before I went to see you.”

  Her cousin’s name brought an ache to her throat.

  “What are you going to do now?” he asked. “With the baby.”

  “Give it up for adoption, I suppose.”

  He leaned closer to her, and she could smell his cologne. She had missed it. “Marry me. We’ll raise the baby together.”

  She shook her head. She never wanted to be with a man again, and she certainly didn’t want to raise the child of a monster.

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “Every time I see the baby, I’ll remember that awful night.” She shut the box. “Besides, you’re a fugitive. What kind of life would we have?”

  “At least we’ll be together.”

  “It would kill my mother. She despises you.”

  “If you give your child up, you might regret it one day,” he said. “Many women do.”

  She shrugged.

  “Then let me raise the baby.” He lowered his voice. “My mother will help me.”

  Hesitantly, he stretched out his hand and touched her stomach. She flinched, but didn’t remove his hand. Their eyes met for a moment, and Alejandra knew then that her child would not be better off with anyone else.

  Chapter 47

  Sebastian could feel everyone’s eyes on him, and he suspected that as he walked by, people pointed at him. Claudia had turned him into the laughingstock of the town, a joke for years to come. But he had to go on with his life, unlike his mother, who’d spent the last two days self-sedated, too abashed to step outside.

  He lit another cigarette—he hadn’t stopped smoking since he left his house—and crossed the street toward El Heraldo. The guard greeted him without looking at him, as if he wanted to spare him the shame of being seen, or maybe he was trying to hide the amusement in his eyes.

  Sebastian walked by the elevator. He didn’t stop, but was acutely aware of it—more so than ever.

  He climbed up the stairs and sighed before entering his office.

  Behind her desk, Pamela greeted him while burying her nose behind the typewriter, her cheeks bright red, as if she’d been the one stood up at the altar. Sebastian didn’t know which was worse: this attempt at normalcy or people mocking him in the street.

  “Pamela,” he said. “Tell Cesar to come to my office.”

  He shut his office door and sat behind his desk, pressing his forehead with his fingers. He didn’t feel like talking to Cesar today, but the sooner he took care of that problem, the better. All the drinking from the past two days wasn’t making matters any easier.

  After a couple of minutes, there was a soft knock at the door.

  “Come in,” he said.

  “Hello, Sebastian.”

  He raised his head.

  “Here’s the cover.” Cesar set a paper on the desk. “For tomorrow.”

  Sebastian held his stare. Cesar broke eye contact first.

  “Is that all you have to tell me?” Sebastian asked.

  “I’m sorry about your wedding?”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  Cesar picked up a stapler from the desk.

  “You want to explain to me your situation with Hugo Sevilla?”

  Cesar’s brow furrowed. “I’ve never met that man. I don’t know why that crazy woman is making up stories about me.”

  Sebastian banged the surface of his desk. “Don’t call her crazy!”

  Cesar took a step back. “All I’m saying is she must have me confused with someone else. I’ve never been friends with Manuel Paz.”

  “I know. Manuel Paz is not her father. Hugo Sevilla is.”

  Cesar’s eyes widened. “I told you. I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re making a big mistake.”

  Sebastian removed a manila envelope from one of his drawers and tossed it on top of the desk. “Maybe this will refresh your memory.”

  Cesar eyed the envelope.

  “My mistake,” Sebastian said, standing up. “You must remember him by his real name—Enrique Hidalgo, correct?”

  Cesar stared at the name written on the envelope.

  “Or are you going to deny that the envelope is yours?” Sebastian said. “I found it in your office.”

  Sebastian removed its contents: the newspaper article with Hugo’s picture, the man’s address in Guayaquil.

  Cesar’s hand clung to the stapler. “That damn woman must have put it in my drawer.”

  Sebastian clenched his fists. “I told you not to call her names.” He took a deep breath. “I just want to know exactly what happened. Were you blackmailing him?”

  Cesar seemed to age in front of Sebastian. “I told you. I’ve never met that man. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “A man is dead, Cesar.” He picked up the phone. “But maybe you’d like to talk to the police about what really happened?”

  Before Sebastian could dial the first number, a cold, hard object hit his forehead before it landed on the floor. He dropped the receiver, bringing his hand to the fresh cut above his eye. The tips of his fingers stained with blood. He glanced at the object on the floor, the stapler, and then looked up. Cesar ran for the door, fumbling with the doorknob. Sebastian darted toward him and seized his shirt, turning him around. Holding his collar with both hands, he slammed him against the door.

  “You killed him, didn’t you?”

  “No!”

  “I want the truth.”

  “I swear I didn’t kill him.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “Because it’s the truth. Enrique was a coward. I didn’t have to do anything. H
e jumped all by himself. He would have done anything not to go to jail.”

  “You piece of shit.”

  Cesar pushed Sebastian off of him. “Why do you even care?” He adjusted his collar. “Oh, I know. You’re sweet on his daughter, aren’t you? That’s why your bride stood you up yesterday.” He laughed bitterly. “Too bad I didn’t see that coward’s daughter earlier, or else I would have made other arrangements with him. She’s a doll, isn’t she? And I’m sure old Enrique would have given anything for my silence. Money is not everything, you see.”

  The match inside Sebastian’s gut turned into a full flame expanding all over his chest. He clenched his fist and swung, but before launching a punch on Cesar’s jaw, he stopped his arm in midair.

  “I can’t believe my father trusted a low-life like you.” Sebastian dropped his arm. “I used to admire you. What a fool I was.”

  Cesar tucked his shirt back into his trousers.

  “You’re fired, Cesar. I never want to see you again.”

  Cesar glared at him, fixing his tie, before he left the office.

  Sebastian removed a handkerchief from his back pocket and brought it to his tender wound. It throbbed, but he was most concerned with his twisted life. In a matter of two days, he’d lost his bride, his respectability, and now his editor and right-hand man.

  Chapter 48

  Malena! Where’s the letter?”

  Malena felt like screaming. Between her new boss’s demands and the elusive typewriter keys, she would not survive another day in this office.

  “It’s almost ready, Señor!”

  She pulled the paper out of the platen and studied it. The writing was crooked and there were several strokes throughout. She couldn’t hand him this. What had possessed her to tell Mr. Ramirez that although she’d never been a secretary, she would nail this job in a couple of days?

  Despair, really.

  She needed money for food and rent, but she also needed to get away from her apartment, away from her thoughts, and especially away from that monster called loneliness. Just like she’d suspected, she’d been expelled from nursing school and this secretarial job was the only thing she could find with her limited skill set.

  It had been two weeks since she left San Isidro, and the memories of that place—of her family—still haunted her. Although she’d been relieved that the truth was finally out—the fall had not been as bad as she’d anticipated—the pain of their rejection was a tough burden to carry. It would have been preferable not to meet them at all than to lose them after she’d found them. Especially in such a disgraceful way.

  She inserted another piece of paper in the typewriter. Mr. Ramirez had trusted her enough to give her the position (although she suspected his decision had more to do with her legs than her promises). But regardless of his reasons, she couldn’t let him down.

  It took her ten more minutes to finish the letter, but this time, there were only two mistakes. Mr. Ramirez’s nod signaled that it was good enough, for now, and she could go home. In a way, she was glad to leave late. The later she arrived to her apartment, the faster the night would end. She was sick of those long hours staring at the ceiling fan with no more company than her father’s records. Her only diversion was Julia with one of her antidepressant teas or a plate of humitas. But even her best friend couldn’t fill the empty spot in her chest.

  Once home, Malena removed her shoes and dumped her purse on the couch, too tired to explore the kitchen and see if there was anything to nibble on. She sat down and rested her feet on the coffee table. She pictured the distraught faces of her aunts, her grandmother, and her mother the evening they found out about her deceit. She pressed her forehead. When would those images leave her mind?

  She had to find a way to forget.

  There was a soft knock on the door. Thank God for Julia to save her from her misery!

  Malena opened the door, but instead of Julia’s gigantic hair and a plate of warm food, she encountered Alejandra. She looked older today—maybe it was the makeup—and she was wearing a skirt.

  “Good evening,” Alejandra said. “Sorry for coming this late, but I just arrived into town.”

  Malena never imagined having her mother here, in her humble apartment.

  Her mother—she still couldn’t get used to the idea of Alejandra being her mother.

  “May I come in?”

  Malena took a step back, still holding on to the doorknob. As Alejandra entered, she scanned the room. Malena stumbled on her shoes and picked up her purse. The one day her mother visited, she had a mess in the living room!

  “Would you like a cup of té de tilo?” It was Julia’s new thing to fight insomnia—though Malena spent every night awake as an owl.

  “Yes, please.”

  Malena followed Alejandra’s gaze around the room: to the cracked paint in the spot where wall and ceiling met, to the faded beige curtains that Julia had promised to replace soon, to the red couch where Malena’s father used to read the newspaper, to the fan on top of the dining room table making a steady hum in a desperate attempt to beat the heat. Alejandra picked up a hideous black-and-white photograph of Malena as a teenager—the one she’d never brought herself to throw away for her father had loved it—and touched the glass with the tips of her fingers.

  “You have a lovely place,” Alejandra said.

  Lovely? Surely she was just trying to make her feel better. Compared to the Platas home, this place was a rat’s hole.

  “Thanks.”

  Malena went into the kitchen and fumbled with the herbs and the teapot, unable to control her movements and her breathing. She dropped the herbs on the floor and spilled the water, but somehow she managed to prepare a decent cup of tea.

  In the living room, Alejandra was still holding Malena’s portrait. They sat next to each other, cups in hand, and an excruciating silence settled between them. There were wrinkles surrounding Alejandra’s eyes, and gray hairs scattered throughout her short hair.

  Malena spoke first. “How did you know where to find me?”

  “Sebastian had your address. He found it among Cesar Villamizar’s things.” Alejandra’s voice hardened when she mentioned the man’s name.

  Sebastian was another person Malena had been trying—uselessly—to forget. So he knew where to find her but hadn’t bothered to come see her?

  “So Sebastian told you about my father? About what that man did to him?”

  Alejandra nodded. “I wish things hadn’t turned out the way they did for you and your father. I’m so sorry.”

  “Did you know who I was all along?”

  Alejandra stirred her spoon in circles, as if debating whether to take a sip or not. “No. I only figured it out the day of Claudia’s wedding, after I saw your pendant.”

  Malena brought her hand to her pendant and felt it through her cotton blouse. It was there, as always.

  “It’s the first piece of jewelry I ever made,” Alejandra said. “I mailed it to Eva after you were born. I wanted you to have something from me.”

  “She never told me it was yours.” Malena’s voice faltered. There was so much she wanted to ask, but she was afraid she’d start crying if she talked more. Now that she could cry again, she seemed to do it for the most idiotic reasons.

  “I wish I had recognized you when you arrived in San Isidro. I should have known who you were. You have my sister’s hair.” Alejandra gazed at the lime Telefunken radio on the console table. “And then, you were constantly asking questions, wanting to know everything about us.”

  Malena took a sip of her tea.

  “The day of Claudia’s wedding,” Alejandra said, “after you left the room, she and I had a talk. She told me who you were, she showed me the letters she’d found in your suitcase, and asked me if I knew who your mother was.” She looked up for a second. “I told her it was me. I wanted to talk to you about it right away, but with the wedding and then the cancellation, I didn’t have time. And then, that damn Rafael had to send you awa
y. Ana was so upset she threw him out of the house.”

  “Ana did that?”

  Alejandra smiled for an instant.

  “But there’s something I don’t understand,” Malena said. “Javier told me Abigail was pregnant. He saw her stomach.”

  “Yes. She was pregnant, too.” Alejandra finally took a sip. “And she had a daughter of her own, except that she had the fortune to watch her grow.”

  A daughter of her own? Of course, how could she not see it?

  “Claudia,” Malena said.

  Alejandra nodded.

  “That’s why Abigail asked you to burn her diary, to protect Victor.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you? Who did you want to protect?”

  Alejandra set her cup on the coffee table.

  “Why didn’t you marry my father? Didn’t you love him?”

  “I loved him with all my heart, but I was a coward. I should have fought for our love. Things would have been so different for all of us if I had.”

  Malena was quiet for a moment. For days, she’d been pondering what she would say to Alejandra if she ever saw her again—planning every word, every question. Mostly, she needed to know if her suspicions about her father were true. But now that she had her mother within touching distance, the words were stuck in her throat. She ingested a generous drink of her tea to moisten her palate.

  The words finally came out. “Why did my father kill your cousin?”

  “Your father was …” A tear slipped down Alejandra’s cheek. “Enrique was a wonderful man. You should never doubt his honesty, his integrity, or that he adored you. My cousin …” She clutched one of the flower-print cushions on the couch. “He was what you would call a bad seed. I always considered him a brother, but he didn’t love me the same way. As I came to find out, he saw me as something other than a cousin.” Alejandra struggled to get the next words out. “That night, when I was waiting for Enrique at the workshop, Fausto came to the store.” Her voice broke. “He was drunk. He …”