Delia's Heart Page 8

  The belief was that her aged bones could predict the weather better than any weatherman on radio or television. She put her right hand under her left elbow, closed her eyes, and foretold rain, clouds and sunshine, warmth and cold. The story was that she was right far more than she was wrong.

  But this fortune-teller’s power to read the wind and the clouds could be applied to reading the future of people’s lives as well. This was more subtle and happened very quickly. When she looked into your face, her face would instantly react with a smile or a look of pain. Woe to those who saw pain in her face. They waited every day for some disaster to occur, and when one did, it reinforced the legend of Señora Baca. It was said that she predicted the hour and minute of her own death and simply told her grandchildren it was time for her to pass on.

  My grandmother, who remembered Señora Baca well, told me that being old, living longer, simply meant you were walking side by side with Death longer. He was always there, patiently waiting, sometimes annoyed, especially with Señora Baca, because he had to tag along so long and began to feel more like a servant than a master. Señora Baca especially teased and tormented him with her longevity.

  I don’t remember the incident all that well, but my mother told me that one day, Señora Baca put her hand on my head and predicted my life would be like a river, sometimes low, sometimes high, but never discouraged by any turn or twist. As water finds its way, I would find mine.

  Of course, it was years before I understood what that meant, and even today, I wasn’t completely sure about it, but its meaning clearly made my mother happy. She thanked Señora Baca and from that day on told me never to pass her without greeting her. Although her face was thin and wrinkled like dried peaches, her eyes refused to age. I was nine when she died. It was a big funeral, because she belonged as much to the village as she did to her own family, and there was never a Día de los Muertos, a Day of the Dead, when everyone didn’t celebrate her.

  I thought of her this morning as I walked into the school, wishing that she was sitting just inside so I could greet her and ask her what the weather would be for me, where my river would flow now. I tried to conjure her and hold on to the image of her tiny body planted in that big chair which was really the seat taken out of a truck, with the umbrella opened over her and her jug of cucumber water and a glass beside her.

  It was said that she was one hundred and eight when she died, and Death was so tired from waiting that he gladly carried her off on his shoulders and played the donkey.

  These rich memories from my village gave me strength to overcome any fear. I was sure that anyone looking at me entering the school would be taken aback by the smile on my face and the firmness in my body and in my gait. Almost immediately, however, I felt the tension. Apparently, the phones had been ringing in the homes of other students all weekend. Sophia’s disgusting accusations had gained firm footing in minds and conversations, not only among her friends but among mine, because of Katelynn and what she had seen at the restaurant.

  Now it was known that I had clearly turned down a date with the school’s heartthrob, Christian Taylor, to go out with my gay cousin, Edward, and his companion, Jesse. Something untoward and unhealthy was obviously going on. What else could it be? Why else would I avoid a date with Christian Taylor? Now the truth was known.

  I saw the whispering going on behind my back, the hesitation in the greetings the other students gave me, and felt the chill in the air between myself and the girls who had befriended me. Perhaps to avoid sitting with me at lunchtime, my three closest friends had spread themselves out to sit with other students. For the first time since I had walked into the private school, I found myself alone at a table.

  I saw that Christian had found allies now in Sophia and her two friends. They sat together, talking and laughing loudly for my benefit. I tried to look as indifferent as I could. However, I was twisting and turning into knots inside. I attempted to read, but my gaze kept floating off the page, and I found myself reading the same lines repeatedly.

  And then, perhaps to show that she could do whatever she wanted or perhaps to be the first to know everything, Fani suddenly appeared at my table. She usually had only a yogurt and some fruit for lunch and took it out of her cloth bag after she sat. I stared at her and closed my book.

  “I warned you about your cousin Edward and what could be made of it,” she began.

  “I’m not going to insult and be unfriendly to my cousin Edward because my cousin Sophia is jealous of me,” I told her. “Edward and his friend Jesse worry about me. They are my best friends. If the others believe Sophia’s lies, they do because it pleases them to believe nasty things about…about Mexicans,” I said. I could feel the heat in my own eyes, and I could see that my outburst and determination startled her.

  She dipped her spoon into her yogurt and ate quietly for a moment.

  “Sophia doesn’t deny being half Mexican when she speaks to me.”

  “That’s because she wants you to like her, invite her to your parties, whatever. She’ll tell you whatever she thinks will make you happy, but she treats the Mexican servants and workers like dirt.”

  Fani kept eating and then paused to look at me. “Well, you obviously don’t care what she says about you.”

  “I refuse to let her bully me. My father always told me, si usted actúa como una oveja, ellos actuarán como lobos. If you act like a sheep, they will act like wolves. It’s as true here as it was back in Mexico.”

  She finished eating and nodded. She didn’t look at me when she spoke next. “My parents are having a dinner Friday night for one of the candidates running for United States senator, Ray Bovio. His son, Adan, will be coming, too. I will send a car for you at six-thirty,” she said.

  “You are inviting me?”

  She pretended to look around the table. “Is there someone else here? Six-thirty,” she repeated. She put her empty yogurt container in the bag and stood up when the bell rang. “It’s formal, so dress appropriately,” she added. She looked toward Sophia and her friends and then flashed me a smile before walking off.

  I sat amazed.

  I truly am a river, I thought, meandering through places I have never been.

  Fani’s joining me at my table stirred up even more chatter. By the end of the day, the news about my invitation to a dinner at her home had spread with electric speed, shocking Sophia. Apparently, Fani had deliberately told the girls she knew would do just that. Incredulous, Sophia had to approach me before the beginning of the last class to ask if it were really true.

  “Fani invited you to dinner at her home?”

  “Por supuesto.”

  “What?”

  “Oh, sorry. I just thought since you’ve been taking Spanish, you would understand. That means of course,” I said, and took my seat.

  When the school day ended, she told me she wasn’t going home with me.

  “If Garman asks, tell him I’ve gone over to one of my friends’ homes.”

  “Por supuesto,” I said, and she smirked.

  “I’m only taking Spanish to get the language requirement off my back. I don’t intend to speak it, so I don’t need to practice with you.”

  Before I could reply, she walked off. When I came out of the school at the end of the day alone, Señor Garman didn’t really care where she was. He just asked me if he should wait for her and I told him no, she had gone to a friend’s home. As soon as I got home and up to my room, I called Edward to tell him of my invitation to dinner, a dinner for a United States Senate candidate.

  “That’s terrific, Delia. I’m happy for you. We’ll wait until Saturday to come down, then. I hate the traffic on Friday night, anyway. Take notes. We’re going to want to hear all about it. Oh, does Sophia know?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I’m sure she’s having a nervous breakdown. Let me know the mental clinic she gets checked into,” he said. I had to laugh. “Maybe I should drive back to help you get another dress.”

&nbs
p; “No, no, I have other dresses,” I said, laughing again.

  “Actually, I’m more interested in my mother’s reaction to the news,” Edward said.

  So was I. In fact, my curiosity about it was so great I looked for an opportunity to tell her as soon as she was home. I went to her office and knocked on the door.

  “What is it now?” she asked, looking up from her desk.

  “I came to tell you I have two nights out this weekend.”

  “I know. My son and his Tonto are returning.”

  “No. I was asked to a dinner being given by Estefani Cordova’s parents for a senatorial candidate named Bovio. It’s Friday night.”

  She stared at me. “Who invited you?”

  “Estefani. We call her Fani,” I said.

  “Well,” she said, sitting back, clearly impressed. “I do think we’ve underestimated you, Delia. In this case, I’m happy to be wrong. I have taught you formal etiquette at the dinner table, so I imagine you will not embarrass me. However, I would like to see what you decide to wear.”

  “Very well,” I said. “Gracias.”

  I left her quickly, smiling to myself. I could almost hear mi abuela Anabela warning me, “You’re enjoying all this too much, Delia.”

  “Just a little longer, Grandmother,” I whispered. “Just a little longer.”

  Although Sophia seemed to shrink and avoided me for the remainder of the week, even when we were home, I didn’t for one second believe she was in any sort of retreat. For the moment, her efforts to hurt me with rumors and accusations were frustrated. Gradually, my friends returned to my side, if I could call them my friends. Real friends would have given me the benefit of the doubt, I thought, but I had learned how to wear a mask, too, so I smiled and accepted their friendship again.

  Fani was friendly in school but didn’t go far out of her way to be at my side. I thought she was standing on the sidelines, enjoying the way other girls behaved toward me, some still quite tentative, others, more curious than anything now, drawing closer. I caught Fani’s small smile when girls I rarely spoke to began speaking to me, and especially when Sophia sat off to the side, glaring, fuming, muttering under her breath.

  On Friday morning, Fani reminded me to be ready at six-thirty. Tía Isabela had offered to have Señor Garman take me, but when she heard the Cordovas were sending their car and driver, she thought that was far more impressive. Although she had a date herself, she made certain to take the time to stop into my room and check out my choice of clothes, my hair, and even my makeup. Her excuse for this unusual attention was, “I don’t want the Cordovas thinking I don’t take an interest in your appearance. After all, you do represent me when you go anywhere in this community.”

  She spoke as if I were some sort of an ambassador. It made me wonder how she went about explaining Sophia, with her rings in her nose and belly button, her sloppy appearance, torn jeans, and often ridiculous overdoing of makeup, especially her blackened eyes. I didn’t say anything contrary, however, thanking her for her suggestions and her offer of a pair of her diamond-studded earrings and matching necklace and bracelet, all of which she insisted enhanced my appearance. She even took a brush to my hair to correct some loose strands.

  Sophia kept her bedroom door shut, but she had to hear her mother attending to me. In my heart, I knew that this was not going to change anything. If it did anything, in fact, it only would make Sophia’s resentment of me deeper, but I was not going to suffer anymore in the hope that she would somehow have a miraculous change of heart. She had snapped every olive branch I had held out to her, and I had no doubt she would continue to do so.

  Tía Isabela was at the door waiting with me at six-thirty. The Cordovas had a newer-model Rolls-Royce. When she saw it coming up our drive, she patted me on the shoulder and said, “Enjoy yourself, but never forget who you are,” which I knew meant “who I am.”

  I thanked her and hurried out to the car. The driver was waiting with the door open. When I looked back at the house, I was sure I saw Sophia peeking out a window. Was I more excited and happier because of the invitation or because of the pain it had brought to my cousin? At the moment, the answer didn’t matter. I was truly curious about the Cordovas and Fani, especially after what Edward had told me about them. It was difficult to think of anyone wealthier than Tía Isabela or an estate and hacienda more beautiful, but I was about to see it. Ironically, it would make the simplicity and the poverty from which I had come seem like some dream.

  I was really feeling like some Latina Cinderella, hoping that this golden chariot would not turn into a pumpkin and leave me questioning my own sanity.

  It was a long ride to the Cordovas’ estate, and when we turned toward the entrance, the shiny brass gate, at least twice the size of mi tía Isabela’s gate, opened as I imagined the gates of heaven to open. The driveway was seemingly endless, winding up a hill and around. The hacienda, all lit up with lights like huge candles on the walls and a large courtyard, was truly the size of a palace.

  Fani must have to get up in the morning twenty minutes earlier than Sophia and me just to get out of the house and down the endless driveway to the road.

  I saw many more cars than I had anticipated parked in front, some with drivers who had gathered to pass the time. As soon as I stepped out of the limousine, I heard the music of the mariachis. When I walked through the arched front door, I entered a very large courtyard, with stone benches, a huge fountain, and a carpet of grass for a floor. I immediately saw that this was no small family gathering. There were at least forty people attending, all formally dressed, the men in tuxedos and the women in beautiful gowns bedecked with jewels. Tía Isabela was right on target when she had offered me her diamonds.

  The waiters and waitresses walked about with trays of champagne and all sorts of hors d’oeuvres, and the mariachis circulated, playing and singing. I immediately recognized the father of a girl who had been in my ESL class at the public school I had attended. Her name was Amata, but we called her Mata. He saw me and nodded slightly, his eyes clearly revealing his surprise at seeing me. For a few moments, I stood gaping at everything, unsure what I was supposed to do. Then Fani left a group of women and headed in my direction.

  “You look very nice,” she said. “I knew you would.”

  “Gracias. This is so beautiful.”

  “Come, have a treat, a mimosa. You know what that is?”

  I shook my head.

  “It’s champagne with orange juice. Don’t worry. I won’t let you get drunk. This is not one of your cousin’s parties,” she added, and I smiled.

  “I’m glad of that.”

  She laughed, handed me a glass of mimosa, took my hand, and began to introduce me to people, simply calling me a girlfriend from school. I met presidents of banks, mayors and councilmen, very rich businessmen, builders and owners of chain stores, before she introduced me to her parents. Her father was a tall, slim, elegant man with a closely cropped goatee. It was from him that Fani inherited her dazzling ebony eyes, but it was clear that her mother, a strikingly beautiful woman with light brown hair and dainty features, had passed on the aristocratic demeanor and royal beauty that enabled Fani to stand out no matter where she was or how she was dressed.

  Finally, I was introduced to Señor Bovio, the candidate, and his son, Adan, a young man about Edward’s age. I had taken only three sips of my mimosa, but the moment Adan looked at me and I at him, I felt my head spin. His father looked senatorial, firm, wise, and wittily charming, but Adan was one of the most handsome young men I had ever seen. Unlike Christian Taylor, however, he didn’t radiate any arrogance. Maybe because he was standing in his father’s shadow, he was quiet, polite, and even a bit shy.

  If a group of girls my age were told to conjure a rock star or a movie star, they would create a duplicate of Adan Bovio, I thought. He had very sexy dark green eyes, which glittered like rich jade in the light cast by one of the electric simulated torches nearby. The lines of his face weren’t as mal
e-model perfect as Christian Taylor’s, but Adan’s face, perhaps because of its small imperfections, was more manly, stronger. He was at least six foot one or two, with firm-looking shoulders under his tailored tuxedo jacket. I thought he had the sort of complexion that was just dark enough to look as if he had a permanent suntan.

  I learned later that his mother had been an Italian movie star who was killed in a tragic car accident just outside Amalfi, Italy, only four years ago. She had been on location. Fani would tell me that the rag entertainment magazines made it seem like she had been having an affair with the director, who was seriously injured in the accident but not killed.

  Adan was an only child, now working with his father in their oil and gas company, which had customers throughout the state.

  “So, you are the famous Latina Cinderella,” he said when Fani introduced us. He held on to my hand as he spoke to me.

  I looked immediately at Fani. I had never told anyone that I often felt like Cinderella, but she obviously had come up with it, too.

  “Yes, I do feel that way sometimes,” I said, smiling. “Especially now.”

  He stared at me, holding my hand. “Fani has told me how you have moved like a comet through the school, mastering English, becoming an honor student.”

  Before I could reply, he leaned toward me and in a lower voice added, “Despite living with a cruel cousin.”

  “I have had some help,” I said.

  “I have been only to the fanciest places in Mexico, resorts in Acapulco, Ixtapa, Puerta Vallarta, but I have seen some of the poverty and hardship. I understand why Fani might think you a Cinderella. You must tell me about your life in Mexico. My father,” he said, eyeing him, “is always telling me to appreciate my heritage, especially now, since we’re trying to get the Latino vote,” he said a little louder.