Conquistadora - Esmeralda Santiago [97]
So that Ana wouldn’t know about La Lavandera, Severo moved her from the cuarteles to her own bohío. Ramón was sure that Ana knew he went to her, but no longer cared. She hadn’t let him touch her since the day he struck her.
Whenever Ramón remembered that day, he felt ashamed. He’d seen Inocente slap women in brothels. He’d slapped Marta and Nena but, as far as Ramón knew, had never struck Ana. He contained his violent impulses around her out of respect because she was Ramón’s wife, but Ramón had dreaded the day Inocente would forget himself.
Ana had never complained about Inocente’s temper, which made it even worse for Ramón, because if Inocente had hit her at least once, he wouldn’t have seen that look of terror when he dragged her by her braids. She might have defended herself instead of rolling into the infuriating, whimpering ball of fear that taunted him. Had Inocente hit Ana, she might have fought back and stopped him before he lost all sense of self and entered the strange trance that made him slap and push, kick and punch. Had Severo Fuentes not intervened, Ramón feared that he might have killed Ana, his wife, the mother of his child. His child? Or Inocente’s?
Ramón reached the highest point of a knoll with an ancient ceiba tree whose roots loomed over him in the darkness. The borinqueños believed that the ceiba connected the underworld to the living and to the spirit world in the sky. He now leaned against one of the curved roots, at least a foot taller than him, to listen. Nights in Puerto Rico were a cacophony of insect, frog, and bird song, wind, the endless sighing of the cañaveral. “It’s not fair.” A horned moon appeared from behind a cloud, painting the world silver. Below him, the cane undulated like a tide, soughing, “It’s not fair.” In the distance he could barely distinguish the windmill, the bell tower, and between them, the solid shapes of the barracks, the house where his wife and his parents slept.
He couldn’t bear to picture his mother’s face when she first stepped from the coach in her finery. His mother hadn’t mastered the art of dissimulation. One look at her and he knew that the slaves were right: he was a ghost, somewhat more substantial than his brother’s shadow pursuing him day and night, whispering that it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair that only one twin, the weak twin, the sentimental twin, the twin who never stood up for himself, should be walking upon the earth.
WOMEN’S WORK
In the week they’d been together, Leonor noticed how much Ana and Elena had changed over the last four and a half years. In the tropical sun, Elena’s skin had acquired a gleam that added to her beauty, while Ana’s had become tan and dry on her face, and darker still, and leathery, on her forearms and hands. Ana habitually pushed her sleeves to her elbows, preparing for manual labor. She seldom wore a hat and gloves outdoors, unlike Elena, whose broad brims, long sleeves, and white gloves left very little skin exposed. There was a roughness about Ana’s movements and gestures that contrasted unfavorably with Elena’s measured gentleness and femininity. It was as if Ana was battered by the elements while Elena lived in a hatbox.
Ana wasn’t as graceful as Elena, or as pretty, but this is where the two women differed the most. Elena was a beauty, no doubt about it. Ana’s features had lost their youthful freshness, but she was handsome in the way much older women are after years of childbearing and suffering. She looked now the way she’d look when she was fifty. Their voices had changed, too. Ana’s had gained volume and depth, now that she was accustomed to giving orders. The effect was of a very small woman with a big voice, a woman who must be obeyed. The two girls Leonor remembered