You won’t find what you’re looking for here. The tension in the air was so thick you could cut it with a knife. The other three men dismounted, their hands on their weapons.
My heart was pounding so hard it hurt. “You’re going to tell me where that money came from,” Jacinto said, looking at me now. “And you’re going to tell me now.” I took a deep breath and for the first time in my life faced my son.
I won’t. He took a step forward. What did you say? I said I won’t. I repeated louder. This land is mine. You gave it to me yourself. You said it was for me to die here, but I didn’t die.
And what I do with what’s mine is none of your business. His face turned purple with hatred. He took two more steps. Don Lorenzo stepped between us.
“That’s enough,” he said firmly. “Get back on your horse and leave. Get out of my way, old man.” Jacinto growled. “No.” The silence that followed was the longest of my life. I could hear my own heartbeat, the wind in the trees, the heavy breathing of the men.
Then Jacinto stepped back, but before mounting his horse he looked at me with such hatred that I felt my blood run cold. “This isn’t going to end like this,” he said in a low, dangerous voice.
“You’re going to pay. You’re both going to pay.” And they left. When the sound of the horses faded, my legs gave way. Don Lorenzo caught me before I fell.
“It’s over,” he said. It was over, but I knew it wasn’t over; it had barely begun. Two weeks passed without news of Jacinto, two weeks of silence that weighed more than any threat.
Don Lorenzo and I lived in constant alert. He never returned home. He stayed there on the porch, sleeping in the hammock, watching the road. I could barely eat.
Fear had become a permanent lump in his throat. It was a Sunday morning when the priest appeared. He came alone, riding an old mule, wearing his dusty black cassock.
Father Anselmo was a well-known man, old, with white hair and a soft voice, but his eyes were hard that day. “Doña Teresa,” he said, getting off the mule without waiting for an invitation. “I need to talk to you.” Don Lorenzo stood up from his chair, tense.
I left the house, wiping my hands on my apron. “Good morning, Father.” “Good morning,” he replied, but there was nothing good in his voice. “I came here because a situation has come to my attention that needs to be resolved.”
They’re saying around town that you’re living with this man. My blood rushed to my face. It’s not true, Father. No. He looked at Don Lorenzo, then at me.
So explain to me why he spends his nights here. Why doesn’t he go back home? Why are a widowed woman and a widowed man living under the same roof without being married?
“He’s protecting me,” I replied, my voice trembling with rage and shame. “Protecting me from what?” I couldn’t answer, because telling the truth was worse. “From her son,” Don Lorenzo said, stepping forward, “who threw his own mother out of the house, dumped her in this hovel to die, and now wants to take away what little she’s managed to build.”
The priest remained silent. His eyes softened slightly. “Is this true, Doña Teresa?” “Yes,” I replied softly. He sighed deeply, removed his hat, and ran his hand through his thinning hair.
Even so, the situation is not right in the eyes of the Church and in the eyes of God. God knows what is in our hearts, Don Lorenzo said firmly.
And he knows there’s nothing wrong here. That may be, the Father agreed. But the people don’t know, and the people judge. And that judgment could destroy you, Doña Teresa.
He can destroy them both. So what do you want me to do? I asked, my voice breaking. Run him away, stay here alone waiting for my son to come back and kill me.
“No,” the priest said, looking me in the eye. “I want her to marry him.” The world stopped. I looked at Don Lorenzo. He was staring at the priest, his mouth slightly open, as surprised as I was.
“Get married.” I managed to stammer. “Yes,” said the priest, putting his hat back on. “It’s the only solution that will resolve everything. If you get married, no one can say anything. Don Lorenzo can stay here protecting her without causing a scandal, and you two will no longer be living in this irregular situation.”
But, Father, my voice started to fail me. We barely know each other. It’s not love, he finished with a half-smile. Doña Teresa, you’re 53, he’s 56. I’m not talking about youthful marriage, compassion, and romance.
Leave a Comment