Page 69 of The Hacienda
I heard his wife died of typhus. I heard she was kidnapped by insurgents.
What had truly happened to her? I fought the urge to turn around and stare at the house, fought to keep away the image of Rodolfo’s name in blood dripping from the stucco. Who would bury a body that way?
The hairs on the back of my neck lifted as a cool breeze brushed over my shoulders, coming from the direction of the house.
If I died in this house, would I, too, be bricked into a wall?
If I were killed in this house, would I, too, linger in an unholy way, and watch the perverted fairy tale repeat itself as the gleaming prince brought a new wife home? Watch her emerge from the carriage, all shining silks and a face open with trust, only to be brought to my waiting jaws like a sacrifice?
A girlish giggle lilted behind me, toward me, carried by the breeze over my shoulder and into the courtyard before me.
You’ll die here.
Curling my hands into fists, I banished the voice from my thoughts as forcefully as if I were slamming a door shut: with both arms, all my heart, and all my anger.
I whirled on the house and met its gaze head-on.
If I died in San Isidro, so be it. Perhaps Paloma’s bleak, oracular words had a power that bound me to this land. To this house. Perhaps one day I would stop fighting the voices and give myself over to madness at last.
But it would not be today.
I was the daughter of a general, and I was not done fighting yet.
“Behave yourself,” I snapped, the words loaded with a threat.
The house did not reply.
I turned my back on it and walked down the easy slope of the path. Rodolfo stepped from the carriage and began to greet the villagers.
His hair was bright bronze in the sunlight, gleaming like a cathedral retablo. He was perfect. Of course he was. He was Rodolfo, and he was full of promise and light.
RODOLFO RODOLFO RODOLFO RODOL—
Or was he?
His face was smooth and calm; if he noticed Ana Luisa’s absence, he gave no sign of it. But how could he not, when she had lived and worked on this hacienda all of her life? All ofhislife?
He and his treat their dogs better than us.
Did they mean so little to him?
“Querida!” he cried, and strode toward me, arms outstretched. I took his hands and offered my cheek to kiss, keeping my face still and angelic to hide the revulsion that bubbled beneath my skin at the brush of his beard, at his dry lips.
“Welcome home.” I smiled my brightest as I looked up at him, blinking and shielding my eyes from the midmorning sun. “How was the road?”
“It felt longer than ever,” he said, taking me by the shoulders.
“As was the wait for you,” I said. “Were you able to deliver my letters to my mother?”
His smile faded.
“I’m sorry,” he said, putting a hand on my cheek. My spine stiffened, but I focused on the disappointment I felt to keep myself from flinching awayfrom his touch. It was not hard. It pulled me down, its weight like wet wool. “She would not see me,” Rodolfo added. “I sent the letters through a messenger instead, and though I sent him back daily for a reply, none came.”
Mamá would not listen to my pleas to come to San Isidro. And what if she had? San Isidro was in no state for her to arrive.
Not yet.
“Don’t worry,” Rodolfo said softly. His voice crawled under my skin. “She will come around. Perhaps all she needs is time.”
