How? Why? Who had buried that there? How long ago? And why hadn’t anyone come back to look for it? Then the real fear set in. If someone found out, I would die. If Jacinto found out, he would take everything.
He was going to say the land was his, that I had no rights to it. He was going to throw me out again, or worse, and what if it was stolen property, and what if the police came?
I could be arrested, I could be killed. I began to pray softly, quickly, asking God to show me what to do. But God didn’t answer. Only the wind blew hard, making the candle flicker.
That’s when I heard footsteps outside, slow and heavy, snapping dry branches. My blood ran cold. I blew out the candle. Darkness swallowed everything. I stayed there.
On my knees, motionless, breathless, listening. The footsteps stopped, the silence grew heavy. I waited, I waited so long I thought I would faint, but nothing happened. No screams, no voices, nothing, only the wind and the mountain.
After what felt like a lifetime, I relit the candle, my hand trembling so much I could barely manage it. The house was empty. I went to the rag that served as a door and peered outside.
Just mountains, just shadows, just night. But I knew I had heard something. It hadn’t been an animal. Animals don’t walk around like that. It was people; someone had passed by or had just stood there listening.
I ran back, pushed the sacks back into the hole, covered the board, threw straw and dust on top, and sat there sweating cold, praying softly. I didn’t sleep that night. I lay awake with my eye on the door, listening to every sound from the woods, every rustle of the wind.
When the sun rose, I made a decision. I would take only what was necessary, one coin, two at most, enough to live with dignity. The rest would remain buried, like I almost was, like I still could have been.
The next day I walked to the village. It was two leagues of dirt road, up and down, the hot sun burning the back of my neck. I carried a coin hidden in my bosom, tied to an old rag inside my dress.
My heart was racing the whole time. Every time I saw someone on the road, I thought, “What if they don’t trust me?” What if they do know? The town was small, about 20 adobe and wood houses, a little white church with a crooked bell, a grocery store that sold…
A little bit of everything, and Don Malaquías’s store, where the men gathered to play cards and drink mezcal. I went into the store. The smell of tobacco, kerosene, and dried meat hit me hard.
There were three men sitting at the back table. They stopped talking and looked at me. Don Malaquías was a fat man with a gray mustache and a suspicious eye. I knew him by name, but we’d never had a proper conversation.
“Doña Teodora,” he said, recognizing me. “I heard you’re living up in the hills now.” Shame flushed my face. Everyone knew. Of course they knew.
Small town, that’s how it is. One person’s misfortune becomes everyone’s talk. Yes, I replied, keeping my voice steady. I’ve come to buy a few things. He waited. I asked for soap, salt, corn masa, a piece of bacon, nails, and thread.
He slowly separated everything, adding it up in his head. When he finished, he told me the price. I took the coin out from inside the dress, still wrapped in the cloth, and put it on the counter.
Don Malaquías unwrapped it. When he saw the gold, his face changed. His eyes narrowed. He took the coin, turned it over, and bit it lightly. “Where did you get it, ma’am?”
“Kept,” I replied curtly. “Kept.” “Since when?” “Long ago.” He stared at me. I held his gaze without blinking. The men at the table stopped playing and were listening. “Now this coin is old,” Malachi said.
It’s worth much more than the groceries. Then give me the change. He hesitated. Then he gave a yellow smile and went to get the money. He gave me the bills, tied the groceries into a bundle, and I left there feeling everyone’s eyes burning my back.
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