The Memories of Ana Calderón (14 page)

“
Buenas tardes, hija
. I'm expecting you and…I'm afraid I've forgotten the name of your husband-to-be.”

“Octavio Arce, padre.”

“Yes. I see that he's not here yet. Well, while he comes, I'll be in the sacristy vesting. When he comes, please tell him to wait. I'll be out as soon as I can. I have confessions at five o'clock, so we have to be finished by then.”

Ana smiled at the priest as she noticed his medium build, his bald head and the long black cassock which had evidently belonged to a taller priest. She saw that it was badly frayed at the hemline. A flush of relief at what he had said flooded her because it confirmed that Octavio was expected. She told herself that all would be well. She had been wrong to even listen to the doubts and questions that had hounded her during the previous days.

Nearly fifteen minutes passed before Father Gutiérrez emerged from the room at the side of the altar. He was garbed in a white robe cinctured at the waist by a cord. He also wore a colorful stole draped over his shoulders and a three-cornered beret on his head. He looked surprised when he realized that Octavio was still not there, but with a shrug of the shoulders he sat on a bench by the altar. At his side was a prayer book which he opened and began to read.

Ana was again aware of the ticking of the clock. She twisted her head to look back at the time: four twenty five. She returned to her position facing the altar and tried to concentrate on her hands. She felt that it was her imagination when she thought that the ticking of the clock was growing louder, telling her that minutes were passing and that there was no sign of Octavio.

Father Gutiérrez suddenly looked up from his book as if he had just been struck by a thought, and he jerked up his left hand to look at his watch. He glanced toward the choir loft to confirm the time with the large clock. He frowned inquisitively and wagged his head. Then he sighed and pulled out a handkerchief from somewhere under his white gown and blew his nose heartily; the sound bounced off the statues of Saint Joseph and the Virgin Mary. After a few seconds, Ana again turned in her seat to look at the clock: twenty minutes to five.

She sat back in the pew because she felt her body tighten
with tension. Her mouth was growing dry, the palms of her hands were wet with perspiration, and her head hung so low over her chest that her chin was grazing the top button of her dress. She felt that each second was interminable, each minute intolerable. She winced when she heard the chimes of the clock uncoiling. One strike; two, three, four, five.

Her eyes were shut, but she sensed Father Gutiérrez approaching her. Ana looked up when she felt his hand on her shoulder. “
Hija
, I've got to begin hearing confessions. People are already lining up. I'm afraid I can't wait any longer.” When the priest saw the agony that was tormenting Ana, he tried to comfort her. “I'm sure your young man is coming. When he does, come and call me. I'll be over there in the confessional.”

Ana was riveted to the pew, although she was unaware of what power was keeping her there. Her mind told her that Octavio was not coming, and that no matter how long she waited he would never come. But her legs were unable to lift her body up and out of the church. She was ashamed. She knew that the people lined up for confession were looking at her, and she felt their eyes boring holes into the back of her head, making her heart fill with pain and humiliation. She knew, she understood. She now realized without a doubt that Octavio had never intended to keep his promise to marry her.

When the clock struck eight, Father Gutiérrez left the confessional and walked over to Ana, who was still seated in the pew; she was hunched over inertly. Without speaking, he patted her on the shoulder. Then, as he bent over to whisper something to her, she leaped to her feet, pushing the priest aside as she bolted down the aisle out to the dark street. Father Gutiérrez called out to her, but she didn't hear because of the loud, painful ringing in her ears.

When she reached Doña Hiroko's home, Ana dashed up to the second floor and knocked. The door opened onto a festively decorated front room. There were flowers in large porcelain vases placed on the low middle table as well as in different spots around the room. Red, blue, yellow and lavender candles lighted the room, their flames dancing gaily, casting shadows that leaped on the walls.

Doña Hiroko's face was joyful for a few seconds, but it sagged with confusion when she saw that Ana was alone. She and her sons became more embarrassed as each second
passed; no one knew what to say. When Ana moved toward the bedroom, all four members of the Ogawa family lowered their heads.

I felt cold and numb as I lay trying to sleep. My body was racked by pain caused by the battle raging in me. My arms and legs were wrenching away from their sockets; my heart pounded against my chest and my guts twisted painfully inside my stomach. I felt explosions going off in my head, blinding my eyes with sparks of shame. In my mouth I tasted the bitter poison of betrayal.

As I glared aimlessly into the darkness that surrounded me, I began to see first one, then three, then dozens of jeering faces. Some were of people I knew and others were those of strangers. There, to my close right, was the back of Doña Hiroko's head. Suddenly, it turned around with a snapping sound; her mouth was twisted with hideous mirth. On the other side, not far from me, was César's face, his mouth agape, his teeth exaggerated and pointy, and I could see that his laughter was so intense that his tongue bulged and vibrated. The blotched, puffy face of the weeping woman at the Shrine joined the others, nodding her head, reminding me that I was just like her.

Then from the center of the room, clinging to the ceiling, I saw 'Apá's face. His eyes were slits filled with rage and shame at what I had done; his mouth was a terrible grimace filled with scorn. Then the apparition lunged toward me, coming so close that I began to whimper with fear. The mask did not speak, but I knew that it was repeating the curse my father had placed on me and on my child.

Those visages began to blur and swirl around me, multiplying endlessly until they became distorted and fractured pictures in a cracked mirror. They danced around the bed, bouncing from floor to ceiling, and the sound of their derision and mockery resonated without stopping until I thought my eardrums would burst. I tried to scream, to command those torturing faces to stop, but my tongue was nailed to the roof of my mouth, so I lay gaping helplessly at the sneering that
surrounded me.

When I could no longer resist the pain of their contempt, the grinning masks suddenly vanished, and in their place was a nothing, an emptiness that began to well up within me. I closed my eyes hoping to lose consciousness, to evaporate into the stale air of the room. Instead, I felt my mind separating from my body. I became aware of something inside of my brain beginning to grope, as if feeling around with soft, exploring fingers. It carefully touched first one side of my being and then another. I relaxed my body, abandoning myself to the probing tentacles of my spirit until, as if an invisible button had been pressed, a vile liquid secretly stored somewhere inside of me was released. The fluid seeped through my veins and arteries. I felt its ugliness wash over me, saturating my flesh, soaking my organs and my brain, until it inundated my mouth, forcing me to vomit.

My body convulsed painfully and I hung my head over the edge of the bed until my stomach had emptied. Now, after so many years, I know that the stench that rose from the floor was that of my own worthlessness, and the overpowering desire to die.

Octavio had intended to keep his promise to marry Ana. During the Saturday half-day shift, as he did his work, he repeated over and again, “Yes, I will marry her. Yes, I'm in love with her. Yes, I want to spend the rest of my life with her.” He noticed, however, that his stomach ached all day long and that his tongue was dry and bitter tasting. He told himself that it meant nothing because he had felt this way since he had spoken with Father Gutiérrez earlier that week.

As the hours passed, however, Octavio's resolve to keep his promise began to dwindle, to shake. The idea that perhaps he was too young to get married persisted, repeating itself even though he tried to dispel it from his thoughts. Alejandra's image also surfaced in his mind, and Octavio remembered how much he liked her pouting ways and the innocent manner in which she looked at him. On the other hand, he remembered Ana's constant attraction for him, a
pull he had felt ever since they were children. He reminded himself how this feeling had become stronger, especially during the weeks and months before their intimacy up there on the hill.

When the buzzer sounded telling the workers that their day had ended, Octavio went to his locker where he folded his work apron. He withdrew a small hand mirror, and propping it against one of the shelves, he gazed at himself. He saw his hair, then his forehead, nose and eyes shadowed by thick eyebrows. He tilted his head back so as to see his mouth. He was young, Octavio thought, maybe too young.

He turned to look at the large clock attached to the wall above him. Two o'clock. He had two hours before meeting Ana at the church. He pulled out a sweater that hung on a hook in the locker, and then closed the door with a loud bang. He had to make the two-fifteen streetcar in order to reach the other side of town on time.

Octavio felt his feet becoming heavier with each step, but he made it to the bench where others were waiting for the trolley. He didn't realize that he was biting his nails and that his brow was furrowed by three lines that creased his forehead from one temple to the other. As he waited, Octavio shifted from one foot to the other, and as each second passed, his heart pounded louder, faster.

He had not intended to go home before making his way to the church, but Octavio found himself walking up the shaky steps and into the front room of the Calderón house. Everyone was in the kitchen, even Rodolfo, who motioned to Octavio to join them.

“Have something to eat, Tavo. You look pale.”

“
Gracias
, but I have to leave in just a few…”

Alejandra broke in, not allowing Octavio to finish. “Come on, Tavo. I made some meatballs. You'll love them. Here.” She didn't wait for his answer before she served him a plate of the meat with steaming broth. Octavio did not resist; he couldn't because he wanted with all his heart to stay there with those people who he knew were his family. He desired above all things to forget everything and to laugh and joke with the girls, with Alejandra especially. Octavio dreaded facing Father Gutiérrez and his kind but probing eyes. He was revolted by the thought of standing next to Ana, her abdomen visibly swollen. He admitted that he was ashamed of how she
looked, and he knew that by marrying her everyone would know that he was the father of that child growing inside of her.

Octavio smiled sheepishly and, taking off his sweater, he picked up a spoon and began eating. Then everyone began to chatter almost at once. Alejandra sat staring at him, a wry smile on her lips. Each time he looked up from the plate, his eyes irresistibly turned to look at her. He returned her smiles because he felt his body relaxing as he did it. The jumpiness in his stomach began to go away, and the tightness in his neck was loosening.

When Octavio finished eating, Rodolfo signaled him with his head to follow him into the next room. They left the table and walked over to a couch in the front room where Rodolfo sat on a separate chair with his hands folded over his stomach. He was silent as he gazed at the floor.

He had been more silent than usual since he had beaten and thrown Ana out of the house. He seemed almost always lost in thought as if turning ideas over in his mind. Or maybe they were words that he never communicated to anyone. He had forbidden everyone to ever mention Ana's name, and it seemed to even the youngest of the children that their father spent most of his days erasing their sister's name from his mind.

Octavio sat in front of Rodolfo remembering that every second meant that four o'clock was approaching. Without even looking at the clock, he was sure that it was almost time. He knew that even now, if he jumped to his feet and sprinted to the church, he could still make it. But the older man's grim face kept Octavio riveted to the seat.