Delia’s Crossing (10 page)

“I wanted you to wait,” he said. “You don’t listen well. You’re going to be here a lot longer than necessary, because you don’t listen,” he warned me, waving his forefinger in my face. He paused and looked at me. His eyes were glassy, his mouth twisted like someone who had just had a stroke. “Clean up after yourself in here, and get to the bedroom,” he said. Then he left, mumbling to himself.

I let out a breath that was locked in my chest and began to wipe off the tub. I brushed my teeth, folded the wet towel, and left the bathroom. I could hear the television still going. He didn’t come out of the living room. Perhaps he was going to sleep in there after all, I thought, and went to the bedroom. I got down on my knees and said my prayers. My heart was still thumping. I was eager to get to sleep and end this strange and difficult day, but moments after I had gotten into the bed, he came to the doorway and flipped on the lights.

“No, no, no,” he said. “We have work to do yet, Delia. You don’t go to sleep so fast.”

“What work?”

“Work. Get up!” he commanded. “Now!”

I lowered the blanket, sat up, got my feet into my slippers, and stood up. What work was left to do? He entered the bedroom and stood before me.

“All right. At the end of every day, we test you on what you’ve learned that day. Let’s begin with the parts of the car I taught you before we left your aunt’s home. In English. What did I describe? Go on.”

I recited every word he had told me, visualizing it all and amazing even myself. Perhaps the fear made my memory stronger and keener. I saw the surprise in his face.

“Very good,” he said, and then began a very fast list of Spanish words, requiring me to translate. If I hesitated, he screamed the word in my face. I started to cry, and he demanded I stop.

“You made five mistakes in the last minute,” he said. “You must be penalized.”

“Penalized?”

“Remember? You must pay. Turn around,” he ordered. “Go on. Turn around, bend over, and put your hands on the bed. Do it, or I’ll add to the punishment.”

I felt blood drain down to my feet.

His breath was all whiskey now, too, and I had seen what whiskey could do to a man.

I wasn’t forgetting that my parents were killed by an
hombre borracho,
either. I turned and did what he said. As soon as I did, I felt him lifting my nightgown to my waist. For a moment, he did nothing else. I thought that would be it, and then he slapped me on my rear so hard and sharply that I fell forward, and tears immediately came into my eyes. Before I could cry out, he slapped me again and again. He did it five times.

“Five for five mistakes,” he said, his hand on my lower back, his weight on me holding me down. I was crying openly now, sobbing and moaning. “You should say thank you. Thank you, not
gracias
. Go on.”

“Thank you,” I muttered between sobs.

“Right, good.”

He lifted his hand off my lower back, but I was afraid to turn around. I heard him walk around the bed. He sat and began to undress, mumbling to himself. He had drunk too much, I thought. He was actually wobbling.

Slowly, I slid back and off the bed.

“Go to sleep,” I heard him order. “I’m better in the morning. In the morning, Señora Baker.” He laughed.

I raised myself and peered over the bed at him. He was on his back, stark naked. Cautiously, so as not to wake him, I edged toward the bedroom doorway. I was actually crawling on all fours toward the door, praying and crawling. I couldn’t keep my sobbing and gasping subdued. The stinging pain wasn’t as terrible as the terror raging through my body. I was nearly to the door and about to stand up, when I saw him walk to it and slam it closed. He looked down at me.

“That’s not a very ladylike way to behave, Señora Baker,” he said, smiling. He reached down and grasped my hair, pulling me up. “Get back into bed,” he told me, and shoved me toward it.

Then he went to his pants, took off his belt, and brought it to the bed.

“Lie down,” he ordered. “On your back.”

I gazed at the belt in his hand and at his face. Was he going to beat me? I started to shake my head when he raised his hand, and I cowered.

“In the bed!” he screamed.

I did what he said, and then he got into the bed, wrapped the belt around his thigh and around mine, and buckled it. He ran his hand down my shoulder, over my arm, and around and over my breasts. He lingered there, and then he went down to my stomach before lying back himself.

“Good night, Señora Baker,” he said. “Well? What do you say? Say it!”

“Good night,” I said through my gasps.

He closed his eyes and mumbled to himself. I stared into the darkness. The tight belt made it impossible for me to turn away or even think about getting up again. I didn’t want him to wake up. I tried even not to breathe too loudly, but what would happen to me in the morning?

M
y eyelids grew heavier and heavier, but I was too frightened to let myself fall asleep. Soon, I heard Señor Baker snoring. I was happy he had passed out, but all I could think about was what would happen to me the moment he woke. Gathering my courage, I moved in tiny increments until I was just about sitting up. Then I felt for the belt buckle. Twice he stopped snoring, and I froze, but he didn’t open his eyes.

Our sheer curtained windows did little to keep out the moonlight that streamed through like a giant flashlight. It helped me see what I was doing, but if he opened his eyes, he would see what I was doing, too, I thought.
Please keep him asleep,
I prayed.

My fingers trembled around the buckle, but I worked as carefully as I could until I managed to loosen the belt. I paused to see if he had felt it, if it had woken him. He grunted and moved, but he continued to snore. His lips were puffed out with the air he exhaled. I could still smell the whiskey on his breath, now combining with the sweat from his body. The odor nauseated me, and I had to keep swallowing to stop myself from gagging. Even a subdued gasp might wake him.

With as much care as
mi abuela
Anabela would take bandaging my small scrapes and cuts, I peeled the belt off my leg and carefully and slowly moved my leg away from his. He snorted again, and I paused and waited until his breathing was regular. Continuing to inch myself away, I finally slipped softly off the bed. I stood and waited to be sure he hadn’t heard or woken, and then I moved with the silent grace of a ghost, scooping up my clothing and my shoes and tiptoeing out of the bedroom.

I dressed in the dark in the living room as quickly as I could, all the while listening keenly for any sounds of his awakening. In this deep silence, even the creaking in the floor seemed loud enough to alert him. I had no idea where I would go or what I would do. I knew only that I had to get away.

When I opened the side door, it creaked so loudly I was sure it would wake him. I hesitated, listened, heard nothing, and then stepped out and closed the door behind me softly. The moonlight was now my friend. It lit the road and showed me the way. No longer tiptoeing or trying to be quiet, I shot out of the carport and started to run down the road. I had no idea whether I should go left or right. I just ran to my left, crying and praying as I charged forward. I ran and ran until my side felt as if a giant hand had grabbed me and was squeezing. The pain reached my chest, and I stopped, gasping.

When I gathered enough breath and strength to continue, I walked on. I saw houses now on both sides of the road. Their windows were lit. It wasn’t terribly late yet. I was sure people in their homes were still watching television or just talking together. I thought about stopping at one and asking for help, but what if they didn’t speak or understand enough Spanish? Did I know enough English to get them to understand? Would the sight of me frighten them so they would slam the door in my face? What would I ask them to do for me, anyway? Send me back to Mexico? Maybe they would call the police, and the police would do that. I was not a citizen here. From what I understood, that could mean I would be deported unless my aunt stepped in to stop it, and why would she now?

I wanted to return home, of course, but I was also concerned about how
mi abuela
Anabela would react if I was sent back by police. She might blame herself for my being in this situation. The rosy future I was supposed to begin would be gone and with it her hopes for me. She was happy she was doing what my parents had wanted, providing a better life for me. This was far from being a better life.

What should I do? What should I want?

For a few moments, I stood there submerged in so much indecision, confusion, and fear, I felt as if I had gone close to the edge of the world. One more step forward, and I would fall off and sink forever into the darkness below.

Suddenly, I was awash in light. I turned and saw a car approaching very quickly. The driver slowed down as he drew closer to me.

It’s surely Señor Baker, I thought. He woke up, saw I had left the house, and has come after me. It will even be worse for me now.

I started to run. The driver sounded his horn, and I ran harder and faster until my legs weakened and I fell forward, catching myself with the palms of my hands but tumbling over twice and actually falling into a ditch. The car stopped. I moaned with the stinging pain in my palms and knees. As I struggled to stand, I saw the silhouette of the driver approaching. When he loomed over me, I screamed.

“Easy, easy,” Edward said, reaching toward me. “It’s okay.
Bueno, bueno.
”

He took my hand, but I didn’t move. I stared at him in the moonlight. He seemed to have come out of nowhere. Had Señor Baker called my aunt, and had she sent Edward to get me and bring me back to him? Could he have gotten here so quickly? Whom could I trust?

“C’mon.” He beckoned. “Come into my car. C’mon. I’ve come to help you. You’ll be all right.”

I stepped out of the ditch and slowly followed him to the car. He opened the door for me. I looked at him, still very confused and afraid.

“
No quiero volver a Señor Baker,
” I told him. I’d rather die than return.

“No Señor Baker,” he said. “No.” He smiled and nodded. “It’s okay,” he said again. “
Bueno, bueno.
”

I got into the car. He closed the door and hurried around to the driver’s side. After he got in, he put on the lights inside the car and turned my hands to look at my palms. He shook his head, looked at my knees, and said, “We’ll get you cleaned up.” He made gestures with his hands to explain. I said nothing. I was still feeling too numb and frightened.

He reached down between us on the seat and picked up a sheet of paper.

“Casto wrote this
en español,
” he told me, moving his hand over the paper, and then he began reading. His pronunciation was good enough for me to understand every word.

“I found out my mother had sent you off to live with Mr. Baker for a few weeks in one of our rented houses,” he began. “I was very upset to learn this, and she and I had a bad argument. I told her I was upset with her for not telling me and my sister the truth about you, too. She claimed she was preparing to do that but first wanted to make you presentable.

“I told her it was a terrible way to treat you, and she shouldn’t have sent you off with Mr. Baker. I know Mr. Baker. It was a very bad idea.”

He paused and in English said, “I’m not surprised to see you running away.” He saw I wasn’t sure what he meant, so he pointed to me and said, “You.” He made his fingers look like someone running and nodded. “
Bueno,
” he said.

“Señor Baker
no es bueno,
” he added, and I nodded. He pointed to the road in front of us. “
A mi casa,
” he said, put the paper down, and drove on.

He was taking me back. What would my aunt say? What would she do? She would be furious. Would she stop helping my grandmother?

“Don’t worry,” he said. He pointed to himself. “I
inglés
to you, and you
espanõl
to me.
Comprende
?”

“
Sí,
” I said. “Yes. You make me speak English, and me make you speak Spanish.”

“Right, right. Perfect.
Perfecto.
”

Soon after we drove onto a busy highway, he pulled into a shopping center and told me to wait in the car while he went into the big drugstore. Minutes later, he returned with a bottle of disinfectant and some Band-Aids. He had tissues in his car. He poured the disinfectant on the tissues and started on the scrapes on my knees. Through gesture and facial expressions, he warned me it would hurt, sting, but he made such an exaggerated grimace I laughed, even though it did hurt. He carefully put on the bandages, too, and then he cleaned off my palms and put bandages on those scrapes as well.

“Okay?”

“
Gracias,
” I said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“
De nada.
”

“Right,
de nada.
See? We are good teachers.
Bueno
teachers.”

“
Profesores,
” I told him.

“Great. I’m a professor already.”

He laughed and drove on. He tried to get me to relax and feel better, but all I could think of was what would happen now, what terrible new fate awaited at my aunt’s home. He surprised me again by pulling into a restaurant parking lot and telling me to wait in the car. I started to explain that I wasn’t hungry, but he waved me off and went into the restaurant. A good five minutes later, he came out with a young girl at his side. She was in a waitress uniform.

“This is Elena Jimenez,” he told me. “You talk with her.
Habla
with Elena, okay?”

The girl got into the car on his side, and he got into the rear. She had short black hair and was very pretty. She must be his girlfriend, I thought.

“
Hola,
” she said.

“
Hola.
”

She explained that she was a good friend of Edward’s from school, and he had asked her to speak with me and learn exactly what had just happened to me. She said Edward had gone to look for me when he found out where I was.

“When he got to the house, he found you were gone. When he saw Señor Baker, he was very, very worried about you and went looking for you. He knows something terrible happened.” She looked back at him. “He won’t tell me why he thinks that, but he thinks it. What happened?”

I looked back at him, too, and he nodded, pointing to Elena.

“Tell her.”

“He doesn’t understand Spanish that well,” she continued. “So you don’t have to worry if there is something you would rather a boy not hear.”

I didn’t say anything.

She leaned over and looked at my hands and my knees all bandaged.

“Damn, girl,” she said. “You’ve been through a little hell, I see.”

I nodded.

“Did Mr. Baker do this to you?”

“No. I fell, running.”

“Why were you running? Tell me what happened,” she said. I was still hesitant. It was embarrassing to tell it.

“Edward’s a great guy. I like him as a friend. I’m not his girlfriend,” she continued. “I know a lot of girls who would like to be his girlfriend, but he doesn’t have one. He likes you or cares about you. That’s pretty obvious, although he hasn’t told me why yet,” she said, and looked back at him again. She said something to him quickly, and he laughed.

“He has to know exactly what happened to you, otherwise he won’t be able to help you, Delia. So,” she said, “as I understand it, you went off to study speaking English with Mr. Baker. You were in some house with him? Just with him?”

I nodded.

“And you were supposed to live with him?”

“
Sí.
”

“I’d have run away, too,” she said. “I know something about him. He’s not a regular teacher anymore. He had to resign two years ago under a cloud of suspicion. I’m surprised Edward’s mother hired him to tutor Edward’s sister, in fact.”

I asked her what she meant by a cloud of suspicion.

“
Nube de la sospecha
? Some young girls said he had done things, touched them in places he shouldn’t. The school didn’t make a big deal of it. They tried to keep it quiet. He supposedly resigned for health reasons, but most people knew the truth.”

She turned around and said something to Edward, who leaned forward to say, “Baker
no bueno.
He’s a sicko.”

“So?” Elena asked again. “What just happened to you? It’s better that you tell everything.”

I looked back at Edward, and then I began. When I told her he was calling me Señora Baker as soon as we entered the rental house, her eyes widened.

“He said we would be newlyweds.”

“He said that?”

“He made me watch a bad movie.”

She wanted to know what I meant, and I told her about some of it.

Edward kept asking her what I was saying, now impatient with waiting.

“Wait,” she told him. “And then what?” she asked, I quickly got to how Señor Baker had spanked me for making mistakes in English.

“On your bare ass?”

“
Sí,
yes.”

“What?” Edward cried. “C’mon, Elena, what is she saying?”

“Go on,” she said, ignoring him and looking even more interested.

It really embarrassed me to continue, but I did. I told her about his nudity and about his drinking and then fastening me to him with his belt. As I spoke in Spanish, she translated for Edward in English, and he kept mumbling, “The son of a bitch. The bastard.”

“So, he fell asleep before he could do anything more to you?” Elena asked pointedly. “If he did anything more, you should tell us, Delia.”