Conquistadora - Esmeralda Santiago [158]
“It’s natural that Miguel would want to see his mother,” Elena was saying.
“She’s made no effort to come to see him.”
“You know that she will not leave the hacienda, Tía Leonor.”
“That’s her choice, isn’t it?”
“I used to think so but don’t believe that anymore. For whatever reasons, she can’t leave. I don’t think she knows why.”
“It’s because she’s mad. I’m glad she’s there with that … that man she’s married. He’s another one—”
“Please forgive me, Tía, if I speak harshly to you, whom I respect and love, but it’s cruel to keep Miguel from his mother if he wants to see her.”
There was a moment of silence and Miguel was about to tiptoe back to his room, but he froze in place with his grandmother’s next words.
“You admire her so, but you don’t know her. She doesn’t care about Miguel. She traded him for Hacienda los Gemelos. Traded him, Elena, the way she trades for slaves. That’s why she’s there and Miguel is here. I will never allow him to go there, never.”
“Please, say no more, Tía Leonor.”
“That place is cursed and that woman is a witch. My two sons died because of her, and if Miguel sets foot there, he will not come out alive.”
“Tía Leonor, please!”
Miguel didn’t hear the rest. He ran to his room, closed the door, and pressed his pillow around his head, wishing he could erase those words from his ears.
———
The cholera epidemic did not spare San Juan. Civilians were ordered to stay home, close their shutters to the street, and avoid contact with others. Communication practically ceased. What few letters managed to get through had black stripes along one edge, indicating that an acquaintance had died. Confined indoors, Leonor practiced the harp for hours. Her melodies resounded to the street, where the few passersby stopped to listen to the sweet music and to wonder whether there were angels trapped behind the carved doors.
Elena felt the change in the city most at night, when she prayed on the roof. The evening chatter and novenas rolled in, muffled by closed windows and doors. Even the church bells tolling the hours were hushed. As soon as it was dusk, patrols increased throughout the city. El sereno—the night watchman established eighteen years earlier, during a slave unrest—continued his rounds. His mournful chant, “Todo bien, gracias a Dios, salve la Reina,” echoed through the cobblestone streets. Added to his call was the jingle of soldiers’ spurs as they walked up and down the streets enforcing the curfew. Elena missed don Simón’s walking down Calle Paloma to stare at her window until she blew out her candle.
In late July, no one could ignore the cries from the Urbina Castañeda house across the street. Leonor and Elena prayed constantly, but on the fourth afternoon they heard a cart pull up to the door. Through chinks in the shutters, Leonor, Elena, and Miguel watched as a priest went into the house and emerged praying and blessing doña Patricia as she carried the small body of her youngest daughter, Ednita.
“Que Dios les bendiga,” Leonor and Elena called as they crossed themselves, but doña Patricia didn’t respond. She went in and out of her house three more times carrying a small body while the priest’s invocations lulled the afternoon. The last, the heaviest body she carried from the house, was wrapped in a blanket. Before Leonor or Elena could stop him, Miguel opened the shutter and leaned over the sill.
“Doña Pati,” he cried, “¿dónde está Luis José?”
Her eyes were blank and her lips a solid line, as if she’d decided never to smile again. “All my children are dead,” she said in a monotone. “Mi Querubín está con Papá Dios.…”
Miguel didn’t care that boys, like men, should never cry, especially before women. Elena pressed the sobbing Miguel into her chest.
“Is there anything we can do