Conquistadora - Esmeralda Santiago [65]
She moved away from him. “Don’t touch me.”
“I said we’re sorry.”
“Don’t touch me,” she repeated.
The room was so dark that she couldn’t see him, but she felt him struggle with what to say, what to do. She wanted to hurt him, to humiliate him, to see him suffer, but she didn’t know how. For a moment, she considered lying, telling him that Miguel was Inocente’s son. The rest of his life he’d believe that the boy was his brother’s son, and wouldn’t ever forget what he and Inocente had done to her.
Before she spoke, Ramón sat up and lifted the mosquito netting. “You’re too upset now,” he said, and crept from the bed. “Please know that both Inocente and I are truly sorry—”
She wrapped her pillow around her head. “I can’t bear your apologies.”
“But, Ana—”
She squeezed her eyes shut to push back the tears forming in the corners of her lids. “Go away.”
She was alone with her rage at Ramón and Inocente for using her, rage at herself for letting them do it. She needed air. “I’ve been a fool,” she said as she unlatched the shutters to the night. “I was so grateful for the opportunity Ramón and Inocente provided that I’ve let them do as they pleased while I worked and worried in the background.” Above, clouds had swallowed the moon. “Basta,” she whispered to the rustle of cane beyond her window. Enough.
August was oppressively hot and humid. Ana woke up almost every night to thunder and lightning flashes, the trees whistling, the canebrakes alive, like a thousand hands clapping at once. The next morning the air was still and heavy. As the sun climbed, shimmering rivulets rose from the sodden ground, as if the earth were boiling underfoot. The constant activity to, from, and through the batey took on a dreamy quality, and moisture clung to every living and nonliving thing.
One overcast morning, the hounds announced visitors long before three soldiers rode into the batey. Other than new slaves, Luis, Faustina, and occasional visits by Padre Xavier, no outsider had entered the plantation in nineteen months. From the porch of the casona, Ana saw Ramón and Severo riding in from opposite ends of the fields. They talked with the soldiers under the shade of the breadfruit tree. She couldn’t distinguish rank, but one of the soldiers with more insignias than the others seemed to be the leader. He removed his plumed hat and spoke to Ramón. Ramón covered his face, and groaned.
From the living room threshold, Ana crossed herself, pressed a hand to her chest, and prayed silently. Dame fuerza, Señor. The soldiers looked everywhere but at Ramón, who would have collapsed had Severo not put Ramón’s arm around his shoulders to keep him upright. Severo looked up at Ana and led Ramón across the batey and up the stairs.
Ana helped guide Ramón to a bench inside. She questioned Severo with a look, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes. She touched Ramón’s cheek, tried to turn his face toward her, but he resisted.
“¿Qué pasó? ¿Qué ha pasado?”
Ramón couldn’t speak. He was like a sleepwalker, his eyes open but unfocused, as if whatever he was seeing was within.
Teo and Flora were against the wall, waiting for instructions. In the back room, Miguel cried, and Inés shushed him, murmuring sweet words. At a nod from Severo, Teo and Flora approached, helped Ramón up, and walked him to the bedroom. He allowed them to lead him, one unsteady step at a time, like a child just learning to walk.
Ana’s heart was racing, anticipating the name, dreading the moment she’d hear it. Nothing but a death in his family would leave Ramón speechless with grief. Please, Lord, let it not be Inocente, Ana prayed as she followed Severo out to the gallery. Please, Lord. Severo’s face was hard, fixed into a frown, his eyes slits beneath his brows.
“I beg your pardon, señora,” he started, “and sorry to be the one to deliver this news.”
“Tell me.”
“Don Inocente and Pepe were ambushed. Lo siento, señora.”
“Is he dead, Severo?”
He nodded. “Both are dead.”
The heavy air couldn’t, somehow, fill her lungs. “No puede ser,” she said, dropping