The Memories of Ana Calderón (23 page)

By now Ana was screaming. She had not noticed that several customers had come in, and she didn't see Amy rush out from the back office. Octavio, however, suddenly became aware of the presence of those people and he appeared to be intimidated by them. He backed away from Ana, but not before muttering so low that only she could hear, “He's mine, and I'm getting him back. You just watch and see.”

Octavio left the store and Ana ran to the back office, sat down at the desk, and buried her face in her hands. As soon as the place emptied, Amy closed the front entrance and went to Ana. She saw that she wasn't crying, but that her body was shaking.

“Don't worry, Ana. There's nothing he can do. Ismael is ours and there is no way on earth that man can pretend that he's the father. There's nothing—not a certificate, not a witness—that will prove it. You've got us who remember how you were thrown out of your house while he watched. If he was so concerned about his baby, why didn't he speak up there and then? No, Ana, I don't want you to be scared.”

Amy's voice was calm and her words were spoken carefully, but her eyes betrayed her alarm. She had been able to catch a glimpse of Octavio's face, and she was just as frightened as Ana, who continued with her face clutched in trembling hands.

“Let's close up the place and go home. Franklin should know about this mess.”

Ana wasn't able to speak, so she followed Amy's instructions in silence. When they arrived at the ranch, the pick-up
had not yet come to a stop before Ana leaped out of it and, without shutting the door of the truck, rushed into the house where she found Ismael at the table eating a cookie. He was so startled by Ana's sudden appearance that he dropped the piece that was in his hand. She knelt down beside him to help pick up the crumbs, but when he came near her she took the boy in her arms. It was only then that she began to cry.

Franklin had been in the parlor, but rushed into the kitchen to see what the fuss was about. Amy took him by the arm, and together they disappeared into their bedroom. A while passed until Ismael moved slightly away from his mother. When he saw that she was crying, he wiped her face without speaking. The touch of his hands flooded Ana with serenity, and as she held her son at arms length, she told him, “I'm just a little tired, m'ijo. Come on, I'll get you another cookie.”

That evening after Ismael had been put to bed, Ana, Franklin, and Amy talked until midnight. They pondered on the likelihood of Octavio's threat to take the boy from them. Would he dare do such a thing, and if he did, how could he get away with it? They thought of calling the police to ask for help, but decided that it wouldn't be of any use.

At the end of several hours, they came to the conclusion that the only thing they could do would be to take extra precautions with Ismael. They agreed that at no time would he be allowed out of the company of at least one of them. Ana figured out a plan to alert Ismael's teachers against Octavio coming close to the boy when he was in school.

Once in her bedroom, when Ana put out the lights, she went over to her son's bed, made sure the covers were right, and kissed his cheek. She went to bed, but she passed the night without sleeping.

Octavio stole Ismael. A thief, he intruded into our house, and he robbed me of my treasure. He let months pass so that I would be fooled into believing that I had been mistaken about him. In my stupidity, the man I had once loved now carried away the only thing that had given me happiness. Nothing
could have transformed me, deformed me, as did the loss of Ismael: not my father's hatred and rejection, not even Octavio's cowardice and betrayal. With Ismael, Octavio Arce ran away with my soul. And in its place he left bitterness and hatred.

The door slid sideways on the track as its bars cast flickering shadows on the interior of the cell. A sturdy nudge by the female guard finally shut the door with a loud bang. Ana stared vacantly beyond the bars; her eyes were fixed on the opposite cell. She reached out, clutching a bar in each hand. Its steel felt cold and frozen. When she looked down at her body, she took in the drab, oversized prison dress that emphasized her thinness.

“Scuttlebutt says you plugged your old man, honey.”

Ana heard the voice of her cellmate, but she ignored it because her tongue refused to speak. Instead, she remained rigidly clinging to the bars, her back to the woman. Ana's eyes closed hoping to dispel the nightmare.

“Oh, believe me, I understand. They can be bastards, can't they?”

The woman's voice was graveled by the effects of cigarettes and alcohol, but it had a soft lilt as she spoke, obviously attempting to convey her sentiments of compassion. Ana did not answer; she was lost in a world of hatred and confusion. Her ears began to pick up sounds that came to her from what had happened only a few weeks earlier. A vision of Franklin flashed in her mind, his pupils dilated with horror. She heard the awful words he stuttered, “He's taken Ismael!”

Ana leaned her throbbing forehead against the cold bars. She felt a sob tearing at her insides as it made its way up, but the cry never made it to her throat and out of her mouth. It clung to her ribs and pounded at her back. She gasped for air to relieve the pain. It sounded like a sigh to her cellmate.

“No use wasting sighs on a son of a bitch, honey. Believe me, I know.”

Ana heard the woman, but couldn't answer because she was breathing through her mouth as her chest heaved. Her mind flashed back, reliving what had happened. She saw
herself as she grabbed the keys off the hook in the kitchen and dashed into Amy's and Franklin's bedroom. In the closet was kept the .22 calibre rifle used to kill rats and gophers. The weapon was in her hands before she knew it. Next, she was crashing through the front door and leaping onto the running board of the pick-up. The key went deep into the ignition and the motor cranked on. As the vehicle careened into a U-turn, Ana's last glimpse of Franklin and Amy was through a cloud of dust that shimmered in the light of the declining sun.

Now, in the cell, there was hardly anything Ana could remember of the trip between the ranch and the house on Humphrys Street. All she recalled was the prick of the wire gate on one hand and the weight of the rifle in the other one as she crashed into the yard. She remembered herself running up the stairs and pounding on the wooden screen door with the butt of the weapon.

“Octavio-o-o-o!”

In her memory, her voice sounded like the wail of a mad woman as she banged on the door over and again. Looking back, she remembered that she had turned and leapt from the porch and, facing the house, she again screeched out his name.

“Octavio-o-o-o! Alejandra-a-a! Give me back my son!”

She recalled that somewhere in the recesses of her mind she was aware of curious, frightened neighbors who peered through kitchen windows and from behind window shades. Her screaming went on, rising in pitch.

“Octavio-o-o-o! Come out and face me if you're a man!”

Ana tapped her forehead against the bars as she envisioned Octavio's image coming from behind the screen door; she heard its hinges squeak. He was dressed in an Army undershirt and rough khaki pants, and his face was gaunt, drained of color; its expression was menacing. She could see that his nerves were breaking.

“Shut up and get out of here!” That was all he said to Ana before turning his back.

“
¡Cobarde!
”

Ana's voice rang out just before the rifle blast. Octavio was hurled against the screen door by the force of a bullet that penetrated his back. He crumpled onto the wooden floor of the porch, unconscious.

There was silence for a few moments, but then the quiet
was ripped apart by shrill police sirens. Scanning spot lights gave an eerie glow to the night. There was commotion in the barrio. There was screaming, running, banging of doors, and finally there was Franklin, who had come in one of the patrol cars and who was taking the weapon from Ana's inert hands. She felt his arms gripping her, holding her body steady, sensing that she was at the point of collapse.

The voice of Ana's cellmate yanked her back to the present.

“Aw, come on, lady. Quit the moping and sit over here with me. You're making me nervous! Remember that you're in here for just a couple of years. Put yourself in my place, for cryin' out loud! I'm here for a nickel and a dime.”

Ana's hands unclenched and fell limply from the bars. She turned to look at the woman who was speaking to her and saw that she was sitting on the bottom bunk bed. She was visible only from the neck down, her head enshrouded in the shadow cast by the upper bed. A cigarette ember glowed in the darkness. Without responding, Ana climbed up to her bed and laid on its uncovered mattress. Its rough material smelled of disinfectant. Reclining her head on the thin pillow, she closed her eyes as she listened to the words of the judge that rang with a hollow, painful echo.

“Because this court has heeded your defense, and because it, too, finds that your past comportment warrants leniency, you are hereby sentenced to only two years imprisonment for the crime you have committed. Bodily assault with the intent to kill is a serious crime, indeed. Nevertheless, the court will show you clemency.”

Ana stood in front of the judge. Looming far above her was his white, rigid face, glowering at her. His voice boomed out the sentence. “Furthermore, insofar as the child is concerned, the court is convinced that you have, by your violent and irrational behavior, proven yourself to be an unfit mother. On the other hand, the plaintiff has survived your attack and has asked the court to withhold full punishment on the condition that he be granted custody of the child.

“It seems obvious to me, therefore, that Mr. Arce, a man who has only recently proven his valor defending his country, a man married and settled, is the rightful party to bring up the child whose paternity he has now acknowledged. I, therefore, remand the boy to his care.

“It is the judgement of this court that you serve your term
at the women's correctional facility on Terminal Island. After the completion of the two years, be aware that this court will have also placed a five-year injunction on you. That is, if within that period of time you are ever found within two square miles of the Arce family, you will be liable to further incarceration.”

Ana's body flinched at the bang of the judge's gavel signaling the end of the hearing. Then, her body became numb as if paralyzed. When she became aware of the hand of the female marshal nudging her toward the door to the holding cells, Ana turned to look behind her. To the right of the large room she saw Amy and Franklin. They sat rigidly, with their heads hanging low. There were tears running down Franklin's cheeks.

When Ana turned to the left, she made out Octavio, who had been recently released from the hospital. He was sitting behind a large wooden table. Her eyes focused on Alejandra, who stared at her unabashedly showing her hatred. Octavio avoided Ana's glaring eyes; he fidgeted with the tip of his tie.

My mind returned to the cell and to the bunk bed where I lay staring at the ceiling. My thoughts had cleared and I realized that Octavio was not the only one to blame; my sisters had also taken part in the kidnapping of Ismael. They had been in the house, and none had tried to intervene or to help me. Rancor for them gagged me, and I vowed never to forget what they had done.