Page 59 of In a Far-Off Land
Señora took my plate away with a sour face, then left through the back door. I knew the routine by now. She’d go with the neighbor woman to the hotel, bring back a mountain of laundry, and spend the day washing. I wished I could help—just to keep busy—but I couldn’t show my face.
I paced through the house, making a circuit of the front window, the tiny sitting room, the kitchen, half expecting the door to burst open any minute and police to swarm the place. But nobody came. Not the police and not Max. If this were a film, it would be the part where the heroine almost gives up. The part where it seems like all is lost. But then she comes up with a brilliant plan and everything works out for the happy ending.
Problem was, I was coming up with zilch.
Just when I thought I’d truly go mad, Señora Dominguez came back and behind her, Lupita, carrying a stack of bright-colored fabrics. Together, they began to sort through the pile, making small tutting noises and fingering pieces of lace.
“What is it?” I asked Lupita.
“It is a dress. I wear it for thefestejosnext week and maybe be crowned queen.” She looked at me shyly.
“May I?” I asked.
She passed me the fabric. “It is not fashionable like the clothing you wear,” Lupita said like she had to apologize.
I spread the pieces on the table. The skirt, half sewn in crisp apple-red poplin, was layered with ruffles and exquisite white lace. The bodice was in pieces, in the same fabric, and a wide strip of heavy red satin—embroidered with yellow blossoms—would be a sash to show off her tiny waist. From what I could see, the neckline was to be gathered, with puff sleeves trimmed in more lace.
“It is beautiful,” I told her. “Or it will be when—”
“I thought I could finish,” she cut in, “but I start today at the cannery.”
Of course. If Oscar lost his job, so did Lupita. And her brother and mother. It might not be my fault, but it felt like it.
“Sanchia, she says she finish it for me, but—” Lupita’s voice dropped even though Señora couldn’t understand her—“her eyes, they are not good for the small stitches. And she must do the washing.”
“Let me,” I burst out. I could do this. At least until Max came to get me. I was no great seamstress, but this wasn’t brain surgery. “The sleeves—” I took up a cut piece and laid it along the bodice. “They go like this, right? And the lace over here?” It would be beautiful, perfect with Lupita’s bronze skin and curvy figure.
“Sí. But I can’t ask—”
“Please, Lupita. Let me do this for you. I can’t stand—” I looked at Señora and bit my tongue.
Lupita got my meaning but hesitated, stroking the red satin sash. “If... you are sure?”
I understood. This fabric and the lace had cost her more than she could afford. There was nothing left for mistakes. But I wanted to do something for her, and really, I could sew a straight seam, even if Penny could do it better. “Don’t worry. It will be beautiful.”
Lupita sat down beside me and unpacked a small cigar box. Thread, scissors, and a few bright needles. She didn’t look at Sanchia. “She has not been so good to you, no?”
I didn’t know how to answer. She fed me. That had to count for something.
“Do not let it upset you,” Lupita went on as I threaded a needle. “She is afraid.”
“Afraid of what?” Sanchia didn’t seem like the frightened type.
Lupita looked sad. “Our parents, the ones who come from Mexico, they all afraid. That we will change. We will become likeamericanas—American girls—and leave them.” Her eyes clouded. “Many girls have done so—they cut their hair, go out with boys without their mothers to, how you say? Watch over them?”
“Chaperone.”
“Sí. Or they dress like...” She paused as if she didn’t want to go on.
Like me.
“And some, they run away with the boy they love.”
Like Maria Carmen. I kept my eyes on the needle and began making neat, even stitches. “And then what happens to them?” What would have happened to Maria Carmen, if she’d lived?
“They are disgraced.” She smoothed the fabric of the skirt.
I looked up, the needle poised in midair. “Forever?” The answer was suddenly important.
