Delia's Crossing

  I said nothing. I kept my head turned away.

  “No one was loved here more than Anabela. Come to us when you are ready and if you need anything,” Margarita said.

  “Thank you. I mean gracias,” I said quickly. Speaking in English seemed like a betrayal to me now.

  I didn’t turn around until I heard them leave.

  My sorrow and despair turned to anger. Why couldn’t God wait for me to get home before taking Abuela Anabela? Why was she permitted to die before learning the truth about my new life? I was just as angry as I was the day my parents were taken. When I sat up and looked around, my anger subsided, and my sorrow returned. How empty the house now seemed. Without Abuela Anabela here, I did not care if it was sold.

  I went to the sink and washed away my tears. Then I went to the bedroom Abuela Anabela and I had shared and looked for my clothes. Everything was still here, and in fact, Abuela Anabela had washed and folded my things as if she knew I would return. I quickly changed into clean things and then left to go to the cemetery.

  I walked through the village like someone walking in her sleep. I saw nothing, heard nothing, smelled nothing. Despite moving in a daze, I made the correct turns and headed up the small hill toward the cemetery, where my grandmother now lay near my parents. As soon as I reached it, I stopped on the pathway. A cat was lying on my grandmother’s freshly dug gravesite. It saw me and sauntered off as if it had been guarding the plot and waiting for my arrival. Although it wasn’t a margay, it looked a little like one, and for a moment I smiled, remembering Ignacio’s grandmother and her belief in sharing your destiny with an animal. Perhaps my margay had sent this cat to stand in until I arrived.

  It really wasn’t until I saw her name engraved on the stone that I truly realized Abuela Anabela was gone. I fell to my knees, embraced myself, cried and rocked and cried until I could cry no more. After that, I remained there, picturing her face, her smile, hearing her voice as she sang me a lullaby or said her prayers.

  “You will never die the third death, Abuela Anabela, never, as long as I live,” I swore. Then I prayed at my parents’ graves and pressed my hands to the ground, hoping to draw strength up from their sleeping souls. I stayed at the cemetery until it was almost twilight.

  On my way home, I stopped at the square and sat for a while. Señor Hernandez came hobbling along with his painted hand-carved walking stick. For as long as I could remember, he was a regular citizen of the square. It was a rare night without him sitting and smoking his pipe or talking softly with anyone who would stop to pass the time. He was a great storyteller, having once been an actor who played in theaters all over Mexico. Although he didn’t look terribly old, I knew he was just as old as Abuela Anabela. She had told me he was getting more and more confused, mixing events from the past with the present, but somehow he still managed to care for himself. He never had a wife, and he never had any children to look after him, so I assumed he was used to being alone. How do you get used to that? I wondered, now that I was alone.

  “Ah, Delia,” he said, approaching. “Are you on your way home from school?”

  “No, Señor Hernandez. School won’t be over for at least another hour or so.”

  “Ah, sí,” he said, standing and gazing about. “I don’t even look at my watch anymore. When I’m hungry, I eat. When I’m tired, I sleep. What difference does time make for an old man, anyway?” He smiled.

  Even now, I thought, looking at his aged face, it was possible to see how good-looking a man he was once.

  His question told me he either didn’t know or had forgotten that I had left. A realization came to him, however.

  “Your grandmother has passed on.”

  “Sí, Señor Hernandez.”

  “When she was your age, she was the most beautiful young woman here. I would have asked her to marry me first, but her father was not happy to think of an actor as a son-in-law. I can’t say that I blamed him. But, alas, I could not give up the stage. It was in my blood. My father was not happy about it, either. Fathers, unless they are actors themselves, are not happy about their sons and daughters becoming actors.

  “But you know why I became an actor, Delia? I became an actor because on the stage, you have control of happiness and sadness, life and death. In this hard world, it’s better to live in your imagination,” he said. “On the stage, you cry only when you play sorrow, and if you don’t want to cry, you don’t play sorrow.”

  He sighed and sat beside me, leaning forward a little on his cane.

  “I have played an old man on the stage many times, but when I walked off, I was a young man again. I’m stuck in this part now. Until I walk off,” he added, his voice drifting.

  He stared ahead, and I could see from the way his eyes moved and his lips softened and then hardened that he was reliving some of his roles, perhaps seeing himself on the stage. I did not speak. I stared ahead with him, reliving my life here in this small Mexican village, the two of us, young and old, caught for a few moments in the same theater.

  We were interrupted by Señora Paz and her sister hurrying toward me, shuffling over the cobblestones in synchronization like two parade soldiers, their skirts flapping around their legs.

  “There you are,” Señora Paz said. “We were worried about you, Delia. You must come to our home to eat and stay. We discussed it and decided you must not be alone. There is to be no argument about it.”

  I started to shake my head.

  “You don’t want to be alone in that house now, anyway,” she added.

  She was right about that.

  “Come, dear,” Margarita said, reaching for me.

  Despite their hunger for gossip, they were kindhearted, I thought. Abuela Anabela didn’t dislike them. They were amusing to her. She would want me to accept their generosity, to find comfort in their company. I stood up.

  “Buenas noches, Señor Hernandez,” I said.

  He looked up at me as if he just realized I was there, his eyes dull and quiet and then brightening with his smile.

  “Ah, Delia, sí. You remind me of a young actress I knew. We were working in a small theater just outside of Mexico City, and…”

  “She has no time for your silly stories,” Margarita snapped. “Don’t you know she just lost her grandmother?”

  “Ah,” he said. “Yes, I heard. I am sorry.” He smiled at me. “Nevertheless, you remind me of her.”

  “Old fool,” Señora Paz said, turning away.

  “He means no harm,” I said, following them.

  I looked back at him and remembered how much Abuela Anabela enjoyed talking with him. He was staring ahead again, surely seeing the wonderful people he had known and worked with for so many years, reliving his memories. Soon, I thought, he would step off the stage and be a young man again.

  “How that man manages is truly a mystery,” Margarita said.

  How any of us manages is a mystery, I thought. I knew it was far too bitter and cynical a thought for someone as young as I was, but I had seen too many terrible things.

  The sisters made a very good dinner for me, although not as good as Abuela Anabela’s dinners. I ate everything they put on my plate. I could see they were surprised at the size of my appetite, but it had been so long since I had eaten a real meal sitting at a dinner table. Their house was much smaller than ours. It had only one bedroom, but it was clean and nicely furnished.

  After dinner, I let them prepare a place for me to sleep in the living room. I was very tired, and once they had blown out the candles and I closed my eyes, I drifted off quickly and slept right through the night. Without waking me up, they worked around me in the morning, preparing breakfast.

  As soon as I did wake up, I rose, washed, and joined them at the table, anticipating their questions. That was the payment they expected, I thought, and I was ready to give it to them, but they surprised me by talking about my future instead.

  “While you were at the cemetery, we met Señora Rubio. You know she runs her menudo shop wit
h her son. It makes them a small living, but they have a nice little casa. You know her son, Pascual?”

  “I know him only to say hello,” I said. “We have never had much to say to each other. He is at least ten years older than I am.”

  “Sí, but he doesn’t look it,” Margarita said.

  “His mother would like him to settle with a wife, and we thought maybe with the money you will get for the casa, you will have a nice dowry.”

  “You mean to marry Pascual Rubio?”

  “It would be an easier life than a life with a farmer,” Señora Paz said.

  Pascual Rubio was already balding in his midtwenties. He was short and heavy and shy to the point of being nearly mute. I was not the only one who rarely had any sort of conversation with him. The very idea of marrying him was shocking. I started to shake my head vigorously.

  “You’re not going back to your rich aunt, Delia. You’ve told us so yourself. We don’t know why, but our not knowing why is not important right now. What will you do here? Go work in the soybean fields?” Magarita asked. “Or do you want to end up like me, a spinster living with her widowed sister?”

  “There has to be another choice,” I said. “But thank you for thinking of me.”

  They both looked very disapproving of how quickly I had rejected what they obviously thought was a wonderful, quick solution to my situation.

  “You should go see Señor Diaz this morning. We sent word to him and to Señor Avalos to tell them you were back,” Señora Paz said.

  “Gracias,” I said.

  “Please, Delia, think of what we suggested,” Margarita said. “Pascual thinks very highly of you. You should think yourself lucky. A girl your age with no family to help her has little future.”

  I didn’t disagree about that. Perhaps I had been too bold to chase a bigger dream. Perhaps my destiny was set, and I did belong here married to someone like Pascual.

  “It will be a wonderful wedding,” Señora Paz said. “And you will have a home and a business.”

  “I don’t know…to be married so soon after my grandmother’s passing seems very wrong,” I said, shaking my head.

  “She would be the first to tell you, ‘No hay dolor de que el alma no puede levantarse en tres días.’ There is no sorrow the soul can’t rise from in three days.”

  “Yes,” I said, smiling and remembering how she would pronounce her sayings with the authority of a priest. “She would.”

  “Then you will think seriously about this offer from Señor Rubio?” Margarita asked.

  “I’ll consider it,” I said.

  “That’s a smart girl,” Señora Paz said, patting my hand.

  “I’m going to change my clothes and then go see Señor Diaz,” I said.

  “We’ll wait for you to return, and then we’ll all go together to see Señora Rubio,” Margarita told me. “And we’ll let Pascual speak for himself.”

  I couldn’t imagine Pascual saying such things to me in front of an audience of women. If he wanted me so much that he could overcome his great shyness, maybe it was meant to be.

  I thanked them for all they had done and went to my house for what could be the next-to-last time. The next time, I would be going to get my things and whatever family possessions remained. After I changed my clothes, I went to see Señor Diaz. He was one of the most highly respected men in the village, having been a judge as well as a lawyer. Few decisions in the village were made without his input, even now. He had an office with a secretary and the most modern communications of anyone, even better than what Señor Lopez had on his large estate and soybean farm.

  I had been to Señor Diaz’s office only once before, with my father when he went to get some important papers. Señor Diaz’s secretary was his sister-in-law. My mother always thought she was an arrogant woman who behaved as if she were the one, not Señor Diaz, who was giving advice. She wasn’t a gossip like Señora Paz and her sister, but she had her ways of letting people know she knew important things about them or their families. She held that knowledge like a sword over their heads.

  Tall, with a long face that convinced my grandmother she had a horse in her ancestry, Señor Diaz’s sister-in-law had a way of pursing her lips and raising her eyebrows instead of saying hola. She spoke to people as if her words were jewels. Few people could make me feel as uncomfortable in their presence as she could.

  She knew who I was, but she pretended she didn’t when I walked into the office.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “I’m Delia Yebarra. Señor Diaz knows I am coming to see him.”

  She stared at me as though I should be telling her much more. Then she got up without saying another thing to me and went to the inner office door. She knocked but did not wait to hear Señor Diaz say to come in. She went in and closed the door behind her.

  Not ten seconds later, she stepped out and returned to her desk as if I weren’t standing there. She shifted some papers and then looked at me.

  “Well, go on in,” she said, as if I should have known to do so on my own. I thanked her, but she no longer looked at me or heard me.

  “Hola, Delia,” Señor Diaz said, coming around his desk to greet me. He was a distinguished-looking man with a thin black mustache and a narrow face. He had dark brown eyes and black hair and was no more than five-feet-ten, but because of the proud and confident way he held himself, he looked to be taller. “I am sorry about your grandmother’s passing. The deaths of your parents are not yet distant enough of a memory.”

  “Gracias, señor.”

  “I’m afraid the money for your family’s house is not such a great amount, Delia. It’s not going to be enough to live on for long.”

  “I understand, señor.”

  “It’s more than most houses in the village would get. I’m proud to say I negotiated a fair sum.”

  “Gracias, señor.”

  He stared at me a moment, and I knew he had something more to say.

  “I knew you would be back here soon, Delia. I was not surprised to hear from Señora Paz that you had returned and were at their casa.”

  “Oh? Por qué, Señor Diaz?”

  He stared a moment and then returned to his desk and picked up a manila envelope.

  “When your grandmother died, I contacted your aunt in Palm Springs, California. She did not respond, but this morning, this came by special delivery for you,” he said, handing it to me.

  I looked at the return address. It was Palm Springs, but the name above it was Edward Dallas, not Isabela.

  “Gracias, Señor Diaz,” I said, not hiding the amazement in my voice.

  “I have spoken with Señor Avalos since I heard of your return, and he has agreed to permit you to remain at the house two more days, but I’m afraid you will have to take your things and find other arrangements after that, Delia.”

  “Sí, I understand,” I said.

  “Here,” he said, handing me another envelope, “are the proceeds of the house sale. It needs to go to the bank.”

  “Gracias.”

  “Do you have a place to go, someone to be with?”

  “I will, señor.”

  “Once again, I am sorry for all your troubles and sorrow, Delia. You had a good family. You must remember them and do only what will make them proud of you.”

  “Sí, señor. Gracias,” I said, and left, clinging to the two envelopes but, for all sorts of reasons, terrified of opening the one from Edward. I didn’t even glance at Señor Diaz’s sister-in-law, but I felt her beady eyes following me out the door.

  I decided to walk back to my house first and to open Edward’s mail there. On my way, I saw the children hurrying to get to school on time. I stepped back into the shadows and watched as some of the girls and boys from my class passed in front of the square, talking and laughing. My heart ached with the envy I felt. How I wished I could simply return to that innocent world again, wipe away all the horror of the past with a sweep of my hand, and magically become Delia Yebarra, the fifteen
-year-old who had just celebrated a wonderful quinceañera. The sight of them and the sound of their voices died away, leaving me alone in the shade.

  Not noticing my tears until I was well under way again, I hurried past people who I knew wanted to offer me their condolences. I practically ran up the street to our house and the sanctity that remained inside. As soon as I did, I threw myself onto Abuela Anabela’s bed and cried until my throat ached. Then, remembering the letter from Edward, I sat up, ground the tears out of my eyes, took a deep breath, and tore the envelope open.

  A money order for five hundred dollars fell into my lap. I looked at it and then read the letter.

  Dear Delia,

  I hope and pray this letter finds you.

  Yesterday, my mother received the notice of your grandmother’s passing. If you’re reading this letter, you now know, of course, but there is a lot that’s happened that you do not know.

  First, we are assuming you ran off with Ignacio Davila. I only hope and pray that you did not suffer the same fate as he did. We learned that his body was found in the desert. Once I heard about it, Jesse and I went to see his father. His family was in mourning. His father told me how he had found out about his son. It seems the man who guided him and probably you through the desert discovered his body when he was returning with a group of what are called pollos, illegal aliens. He was not able to bring Ignacio’s body back, and as horrible as this sounds, he told his father that Ignacio’s body was already attacked by coyotes and buzzards, and it was better that he not be brought back. His father has accepted it. The man gave him Ignacio’s wallet with his identification.

  Since we heard nothing about you, we have been hoping you somehow got through and reached your village. Of course, my first need was to know why you would run off. I was hoping things would clear up and you could start again. I was upset with my mother when I learned she was not doing enough to protect you. I wanted to protect you even more this time, despite my new handicap. By the way, I’m doing fine. In fact, I’m something of a romantic hero to the girls in my school because I’m wearing this eye patch. Who can explain the mind of a teenage girl?