Page 95 of The Hacienda
The darkness released. I gasped, lungs aching as they expanded; I fell forward onto my knees. Glass dug into my kneecaps through my skirt, but I didn’t care. I breathed, I breathed.
The darkness’s attention had lifted to the rafters. I frowned. Footsteps tracked across the roof. Mortal footsteps. Familiar footsteps. They settled overhead; clay struck clay as terra-cotta tiles were ripped from the roof and stacked on top of one another. Metal struck wood. Once, twice; the ceiling began to splinter.
Someone was breaking through the roof with a machete.
“Andrés?” I tried to call the name, but it came out a whisper. Had he come to rescue me? Was my torment at its end?
A boot kicked in through the ceiling, widening the hole cut by the machete.
Liquid poured into the room through the roof in a swift, short torrent, as if from a well bucket. Droplets splashed my dress and my face, and where they touched my lips and eyes, it burned.
That smell. It was alcohol. Pure, distilled alcohol. Like the rug. Like mezcal, but even stronger.
From overhead, the sound of a match being struck; a torch blazed to life.
Its light illuminated a woman’s face. Bronze hair, a thin-lipped visage, the shadows carving distinctive cheekbones, skull-like in their sharpness.
Juana’s mouth was set in a grim line, her gaze dispassionate as she took in my desperate appearance.
In an instant, I was back in the capital, watching Papá led away at bayonet point. Watching the remaining soldiers throw oil on the house and set it alight with torches. Smashing windows; waves of rippling heat. The acrid taste of smoke, my weeping, stinging eyes.
Fear enveloped me. I forgot all my pain. Every sinew of me was focused on that torch, on how it leaped and danced and cast wicked shadows across Juana’s face.
Oh, no.Not like this.
“No. Get me out of here,” I begged Juana. My throat was shredded; the words came out half a sob. “I’ll lie. I’ll cover for you. I’ll leave and never come back. I swear I’ll never come back.”
Something flickered in her face. Perhaps it was a trick of the light. Perhaps it was my own desperation, tricking me into thinking she would actually consider my plea.
She did not.
Without a word, Juana dropped the torch into the center of the room.
29
ANDRÉS
THAT AFTERNOON, RODOLFO SOLÓRZANOwas buried, hastily and with little fanfare, in the plot behind the chapel next to the empty grave of Doña María Catalina. After conducting the brief ceremony, attended by no one but myself, José Mendoza, and a smattering of other villagers—Juana had vanished without a trace—I retreated to the capilla.
I dipped inside and knelt in the pew closest to the door. I clasped my hands and thought of Mariana, the victim of my and Paloma’s attempts to help her. I prayed for her forgiveness. I prayed she found peace in the embrace of our Creator. I forced myself to search deep in my heart and find what little mercy I could summon for the man I had buried today, a man I had never loved, who represented everything I loathed.
And I prayed for his wife.
I reached for the house as I prayed, sending Beatriz comfort, sending her strength. I promised she would be safe. I had promised myself I wouldheal the house and free my home from its blight. These aims were now one and the same, and there was only one way to achieve them.
I prayed to the Lord for forgiveness for what I was about to do.
A roll of thunder drew me from deep in my mind. I stepped from the pew, genuflected before the altar, and let my eyes rest on the crucifix.
Deliver us from evil, the Lord’s Prayer pleaded. At the end of days, Jesus Christ would indeed deliver us from evil. In that I had faith and fear. Whatever end descended on Creation in the apocalypse was God’s to command, and it was His hand that would divide the faithful from the sinners for eternity.
But mankind had already seen much evil and not been delivered. It would continue to see so much pain between now and the end.
I made the sign of the cross. Yes, the Lord was my Savior. But I had spent years in the silence of unanswered prayer, years that taught me that I must also learn to save. The question that plagued me washow.
Prayers are empty talk. She needs help.
It was not enough to be a priest. But my hubristic insistence on trying to replicate Titi’s path had only harmed Mariana and Paloma.
