Conquistadora - Esmeralda Santiago [77]
Ana let Flora tend to her bruises, unable to curb her tears. Until last night she’d never hit anyone, until this morning she’d never been hit, not by her anxious mother or strict father, not even by the rigid, vengeful nuns of the Convento de las Buenas Madres. In her experience, the only men who hit their wives were from the lower classes, their actions fueled by alcohol. Ramón was an educated man who didn’t drink much.
“You are the bitch,” he spat as he’d hit her. “You are the whore. You.”
“It was your idea,” she cried back. “It was your idea that I wife you both.”
Sunshine broke through the chinks in the walls, and the morning bell clanged the beginning of the workday. There was another knock and Flora returned with a pot of steaming coffee.
“Inés made this for you,” Flora said. “Don Severo took Marta away.”
She dozed and woke to Miguel’s gurgling laughter. Ana closed her eyes and listened. What was Inés doing? Was she tickling him, making funny faces? Ana didn’t make her son laugh. Even when she spoke endearments, Miguel’s mouth remained set in the angelic pout of all handsome children, his eyes solemn and watchful, as if he didn’t trust her. Ana knew it was ridiculous to believe that a baby could have such feelings, but she couldn’t help it. The boy, she was certain, didn’t love her. The thought made her desolate.
To her left, Flora was wrapped within the folds of her hamaca as if inside a shroud.
Ana tried to get up, but she ached with every move. Her left knee throbbed. A sharp pain around her ribs made her groan when she lifted an arm. Her left elbow bent only with effort and heavy breathing to ward off the pain. Her lips were swollen.
Ana’s moans brought Flora to her side.
“Let me help you, mi niña.”
At the sound of Flora’s voice, Inés’s and Miguel’s giggles were replaced by Ramón’s hurried footsteps toward her room. Flora turned her back to the opening door; over her shoulder Ana saw Ramón standing on the threshold, waiting to be invited inside. His eyes met hers and immediately turned to focus on Flora’s back.
“Déjanos, Flora,” he said. The maid held on to Ana with such force that Ana’s ribs hurt. Ramón took one step into the room, leaving the door open. “Flora, you can go,” he said again.
The maid didn’t budge, but Ana felt her trembling. Ana loosened her grip on her. “Wait outside,” she said, and Flora reluctantly let her go and backed out of the room, her arms wrapped around her middle. Ramón watched Flora leave as if she were some newly discovered creature. When she further shrank from him as she passed him, he blushed crimson.
Had she not seen that change, Ana might have cringed against her pillows. Instead she felt satisfaction at his insecure step, at the way he held on to the bedpost and couldn’t bring himself to come nearer. The left side of his face had long, red scratches from her fingernails.
“Ana. Ana. I’m so sorry,” he said with so much emotion that she thought he’d burst into tears.
“You’re sorry,” she shot back, looking at her hands, now fists. She released and flattened them against her belly. “You’re sorry,” she repeated, taking small breaths, each punctuated by sharp pain in her ribs.
“Sí,” he said, in a broken voice. “Sí, lo siento. Perdóname, mi amor.”
He stood at the foot of the bed, his hand around the bedpost, begging forgiveness, waiting for her to grant it before he stepped closer. Ana turned her face away to avoid his sheepish expression, his hesitancy, the way his lips moved but the only sound that came from them was the intention.
“Get away from me!” she said quietly, and Ramón jumped in place as if she’d screamed. “Canalla. ¡Sinvergüenza!”
Flora peeked around the half-open door and quickly moved back to the hall. Ramón seemed to be pinned to the floorboards, and his body was as rigid as the carved bedpost.
“Don’t talk to me like that,” he said, lips barely moving, but his voice resonated with the same steely edge from earlier