Tarnished Beauty (27 page)

“I understand,” I said, not understanding at all.

Her voice was slightly shrill, like that of a young girl confessing a minor sin. “I have told no other pilgrim until now that the reason I wanted to go to Santiago was to confirm my conviction for the church. My mother was never happy with my plans to become a nun. My family is poor and her desire has always been that I marry the richest man she can find—and I had many suitors,” she said, not bragging, but lamenting the fact. “They came at all hours of the day and night, laden with presents and bursting with proposals, but I turned them all down. My hope and prayer was that the pilgrimage would convince her of my true dedication.”

I'd been listening to her with my heart in my throat, as I couldn't believe that her quest was so similar to mine. I wanted to tell her that we harbored the same secret, but I remained silent and listened, as she had asked.

She gazed at me fully, her eyes pleading for sympathy. “I know that to speak as I am speaking to you now violates all rules of propriety. If my mother were here she would surely cut out my tongue, but I'm praying for a miracle, and I have great faith.” She folded her trembling hands in her lap as tears welled in her eyes. “For you see, rather than strengthen my original intention, my journey has led me to a new one. I am in love with you, Antonio. Since the first day I heard you singing in the square, I have loved you.”

Try to picture a young man after hearing such a confession from the most beautiful and perfect creature he's ever been blessed to know. Had I been standing, I would have fallen to my knees. As it was, it took effort for me to breathe and blink and make sure that this wasn't some kind of bizarre and fantastic hallucination.

We didn't speak for some time and she shifted her gaze to admire the fire while I stared at her, fearing that she might vanish into thin air if I dared to move.

Finally she broke the silence. “You've been doing a fine job of listening, Antonio. If you wish to speak now, I…suppose…what I mean is, don't worry about hurting me. I've been preparing myself, as it doesn't take a brilliant mind to discern your feelings for Jenny.”

“My feelings for Jenny?” Her insinuation was like a bucket of ice water poured over my head.

Rosa became uncomfortable, as she was now betraying not her own secret, but another's. “I didn't mean to say it, it's just that I've seen how the two of you get on together, and under the circumstances I can't help but be interested.” She managed a small guilty smile.

“I assure you, dear lady, that I have no special feelings for Jenny, none of the sort you intimate.” Slowly, as though approaching a rare butterfly that might flutter off into the fields, I took her hands into mine and allowed the soft warmth of her touch to fill me. It was almost too much to look at her and touch her at the same time, but I remained composed while inhaling the sweet breath escaping her lungs. To think that she had no idea of my feelings for her caused me to falter for words, but I found them eventually, as any man would who must find his bearings to survive. “Imagine what you feel for me multiplied by a thousand, and you may come close to understanding my feelings for you. Not even I comprehend this love, but I am willing to submit to it completely, as I should have from the beginning.”

“Don't tease me, Antonio.” And she held her gaze upon me as though to discern my true heart, which I would gladly have ripped out of my chest to appease her. But she saw what she needed in my eyes, and graced me with a miraculous smile.

I brought her hands to my lips and from that moment our love was forever sealed.

 

Jamilet opened her eyes to find Señor Peregrino with his eyes closed, and a distant smile hovering about his lips. Behind his eyelids she saw the rolling movement, and she had the distinct impression that he was continuing with his story without bothering to tell it out loud.

“Excuse me, Señor,” she said. “You stopped talking.”

His eyelids fluttered. “I'm aware of that,” he replied abruptly, but his smile still lingered. Then his eyes flew open, and blinked through the mist of his recollection. “I'm simply reflecting on the most precious moment of my life.” He sharpened his gaze. “It's a curious thing—you weren't particularly interested in listening when we began, and now you don't want me to stop. That shouldn't surprise me considering your state of mind this morning.”

“I'm always interested in listening to your story, Señor.”

“Oh, Jamilet,” he said, folding his arms and cocking his head to one side. “I'm not so easy to fool as you think.” He nodded slowly while watching her, as though he could know everything about her by following the contour of her brow line, the curve of her cheek. Jamilet was prepared to complain, but he held up a hand to silence her and continued, “Your complete preoccupation today leaves no doubt in my mind that you're either in love or obsessed.”

Jamilet blushed and fumbled with her hands, but said nothing. Then she began to gather the coffee cups and spoons together, but stopped. “How do you know if it's love or obsession?” she asked.

“At first you can't tell the difference,” he answered. “It takes time to know what you're dealing with. But everything of true value will stand the test of time. It's no different with love.”

“How can I love someone I hardly know?”

“It happens all the time,” he said, leaning forward in his chair. “But be careful, Jamilet. When you're in this state of mind, things are not always as they appear.”

A
S LUCK WOULD HAVE IT
, Carmen and Louis had made plans to go out to dinner and a movie, ensuring that they'd be gone for several hours. After they left, Jamilet slipped into her aunt's bedroom and studied the collection of perfumes she kept on her dresser. She selected the one in the twisted bottle that looked as if passion itself had made the glass writhe with the heat and deliberation of love. She dabbed a dot behind her ears and on each wrist as she'd seen her aunt do, but decided to forgo the extra pat on her cleavage. She was confident that the purple long-sleeved shirt Louis had given her would cover her sufficiently, and with a sweatshirt over that, there was no chance that Eddie would see anything she didn't want him to see.

She waited beneath the branches of the tree, beyond the light that shone from the streetlamp, breathing in her own scent and feeling a bit light-headed because of it. The perfume was stronger than she had expected. She plucked a moist leaf from overhead and started to rub at her wrists and behind her ears with it. What a fool she was to be dreaming of seduction at a time like this. Eddie wanted to talk about his mother's death, everything else he could get from Pearly. At this very moment they were probably groping each other on the porch, as they always were, and this image helped Jamilet relax a little. She sniffed at the leaf to determine if she'd succeeded in rubbing off any of her foolishness, but her senses didn't seem to be working properly. She was surrounded on all sides by an alien buzz that blurred her vision and confounded her hearing. She took a deep breath to calm herself. Eddie would be there any minute. Or maybe he'd forgotten because Pearly was helping him manage his sadness in the best way girls can.

She heard a soft rustling, and Eddie appeared. “Let's go,” he whispered, turning around and leading the way down the street, but he wasn't rushed as he'd been on the night they'd walked to Braewood Asylum. Jamilet had no difficulty keeping up with him, and a few well-timed glances revealed that he was more composed and rested than he'd been that morning. He was lost in his own thoughts, yet seemed to know exactly where he was going. There was purpose in his stride as he turned the corner after they'd walked a few blocks in silence.

Finally, he asked, “Do you like ducks?”

“Do you mean…the birds?”

He chuckled. “Yeah, you know. They have flat beaks, and they say ‘quack, quack.'”

“I guess,” Jamilet said, and she noticed that he carried a plastic bag that swung at his side.

Jamilet hadn't known the park existed, although she'd walked through that part of the city on several occasions when going to the market. It was set back from the street, behind a sickly looking grove of trees choked by the fumes of the constant traffic they were forced to inhale. Once behind the trees, the traffic noise softened into a mild whir, and Jamilet focused on the steady sound of Eddie's breathing as he made his way along the path that bordered a good-size pond. He was heading toward a bench perched on a slight knoll on the farthest side of the pond. He hopped up and sat on the table, with his feet on the bench seat, leaving plenty of room for Jamilet to do the same. She left two feet or so of space between them, so that when he opened the bag for her, she had to lean in a bit for a handful of bread crumbs.

He tossed out the first fistful, and they heard the splash of water and the muttering, throaty call of the ducks as they began to stir. In an instant it seemed the entire flock was waddling at their feet. Jamilet threw out another fistful, and the calls grew into little trumpet blasts, for they were not accustomed to such human generosity at this hour. Jamilet threw out another fistful of bread, and felt the urge to tell the ducks to quiet down. The last thing she wanted was for them to be found, because sitting on the park bench and feeding the ducks with Eddie was the closest thing to paradise she'd ever known.

In less than five minutes the bread crumbs were consumed, and the ducks, complaining and exasperated with such a swift conclusion to their good fortune, waddled back to their watery homes in the tall grasses near the pond's edge. The silence grew into the darkness again, and Eddie asked, “When did your mother die?”

Jamilet's lips trembled as she answered. “About a year ago.”

“How long was she sick?”

Jamilet sighed. Although the night was warm, she was shivering from head to toe. “She had to stay in bed and rest her heart for a long time.” Jamilet tucked her hands in under her armpits and told him about her mother's illness, leaving out that she was certain it had been caused by misery over her mark. Eddie listened closely, and Jamilet feared that he'd sense the gap in her story, the omission as obvious as a giant hole. But after she'd finished he merely said, “My mother wasn't sick for too long. Everyone says that's good 'cause she didn't suffer.”

Jamilet wasn't sure how to respond. Eddie yearned to experience the comfort of their shared grief, but when her mother died she felt a freedom that wasn't seemly for a daughter to feel, as if for the first time in her life she could breathe full and deep. No longer did she have to look into those beautiful dark eyes that held her prisoner to unknown fears. When Lorena scrubbed the floors at the Miller house while Jamilet played with Mary, she'd look up from her work, a thick lock of her hair partially covering her eyes, but the pain in them was not obscured. As she sat in her rocker by the window watching Jamilet tend the chili patch, her mouth would turn in a lost smile, as though she were not looking at her daughter, but at the unspeakable future she could never change.

Eddie's foot moved an inch closer to Jamilet's, and she realized she hadn't been listening to him, as he had to her. “Has anyone told you that…” He stopped himself, and stuffed his hands back in his pockets. “…that you're different…kind of.”

Jamilet felt her insides melt and turn a little. “Yes,” she said.

“I don't mean that it's bad,” Eddie said.

“That's okay.” Jamilet turned away slightly and watched the headlights of passing cars beyond the trees seek them out, trying to penetrate the soft cushion of peace that surrounded them. The light didn't reach far enough to touch them, and found instead patches of green and dirt and trees, snapshots of normalcy within which their quiet adventure unraveled. She heard the scrape of his jeans across the splintered wood as he moved nearer, and felt his gaze trace the line of her profile. But she couldn't move, she couldn't even blink. She was paralyzed by her yearning to be found, and it wrestled fitfully with her fear of being truly discovered.

She felt the fabric covering her arm shift over her skin. Eddie was touching her sleeve, and still she couldn't move. “Aren't you hot with those long sleeves?” he asked.

“No, not really,” Jamilet said and squeezed her armpits, which were moist with perspiration.

Eddie breathed deep and turned to look through the trees, as Jamilet was. He said, “I'm not gonna jump you or anything, so you can relax. I just wanted some company. I used to come here with my mom…that's all.”

“When you were little?”

“Yeah. She used to walk me home from school every afternoon. She brought bread from the house 'cause she knew I liked to feed the ducks.”

“She must've been a nice lady,” Jamilet said.

Eddie leaned back on his elbows, so he was almost lying down, as she'd seen him do on Pearly's porch countless times. “Yeah, but she had a temper.” He whistled softly. “She was nice most of the time, I guess.”

Jamilet loosened her fists. She found the courage to turn and look down on him, and became momentarily lost in the broad line between his shoulders. A beam of headlights swept over them to reveal that he was studying Jamilet too, as though trying to understand his loss in the delicate bridge of her nose, and her soft wide eyes. He looked away again. “Do you think,” he said, his voice almost a whisper, “that maybe she's here right now. I mean…you know, how some people believe that after you die, the ghost kind of hangs around to make sure things are going okay. You know, not like they're haunting or anything, just watching.”

Jamilet pondered this question for some time. If ever she wanted to be spiritual and more like her grandmother, it was now, but being so near Eddie, it was nearly impossible to transcend the physical realm. Overwhelming sensations were coursing through her body. There was a pleasant tingling running up her thighs, and through her hips, and a delicious warmth was emanating from her abdomen and coloring her cheeks. She looked down at him again, his glistening eyes, his smooth mouth set tight against the relentless tide of grief surging within him, as it had that morning. All at once, she felt the tenderness a mother feels for her sleeping child. The next moment, she sensed his strength, as solid and real as his grief, and the allure of his complexity. All of this, and the wonder that they were sharing this moment alone together on a park bench in the semidarkness of a spring night. The whole of her trembled with a feeling she'd never known before, and it moved her to speak to his desires, and to find the words he needed to hear, even as she looked directly into his eyes.

“She's here right now, Eddie,” she said. “She still loves you. That never changes.”

The muscles of his face softened and relaxed into a smile. He lay back on the bench completely and put his hands under his head as he contemplated the night sky through the trees. “A lot of stars out tonight,” he said. “Lie down and take a look.” He scooted over to make sure she had plenty of room to lie down next to him.

Jamilet stretched out and beheld a smattering of dimly lit stars through a haze of city lights and smog. Still, there were enough stars to lose count if one were of a mind to do it.

“Hey, did you see that?” he asked with boyish enthusiasm. “It was a shooting star.”

Jamilet strained her eyes hard, and shook her head. “I missed it.”

They lay quietly for a while longer and then he said, “You know what they say about shooting stars, don't you?”

Jamilet said, “It's a soul going up to heaven.”

“Do you believe that stuff?”

Jamilet had never thought about it before, but she answered, “Yeah. Don't you?”

Eddie's breathing quickened and then the silence around them grew heavy with grief. Although he didn't want to, he wept, his pain sputtering out between the tight fist in his heart. He brought one hand down to his side, and Jamilet thought he was searching for a handkerchief when she felt his fingers on her wrist. They lingered there for a moment, then slipped down to her palm, where they found the spaces between her fingers and folded into them, soft and warm.

They remained this way for a very long time, but neither of them spoke until Jamilet said, “My aunt will worry if I'm not there when she gets home.”

They sat up and were preparing to leave, but Jamilet felt momentarily disoriented, and unsure of herself. It was as though she'd glimpsed the wonders of heaven, and the mysteries of the universe had been hers for a few precious moments. Now she was expected to resume a normal life back on earth as if nothing had happened.

They walked back the way they'd come, a proper and friendly distance between them. They were almost to Jamilet's house when Eddie stopped a couple of yards from the tree, and announced blandly, “Pearly and me…we aren't together anymore. But it's still better for you if she doesn't see us.”

Jamilet's eyes flew open. “You broke up?”

Eddie shrugged. “I'll tell you about it later,” he said and his eyes flickered over her shoulder. “Isn't that the old man's car?”

Jamilet turned to see Louis's Pinto parked out front, with Louis and Carmen still sitting inside, enjoying a long and amorous good-bye. With barely another word, she quietly ran back to the house and managed to appear as if she'd just walked out of the front door when she heard the car drive up. She turned to look back, but Eddie was gone.

 

Señor Peregrino was glowing with pride as he taped Jamilet's latest writing exercise on the wall. “This,” he said, with a ceremonious flair, “is your best work so far. Do you realize that you didn't make even one mistake?”

Jamilet blushed. “Are you sure, Señor? I usually make at least two or three.”

“Not a one,” he said. “And I can no longer teach you with blank paper and pen as I've been doing. We'll have to get you some real books from the library.”

Jamilet clasped her hands together at the thought. “We can go together, Señor. I'm sure that if I speak to Nurse B….”

“The truth is that with your current literacy skills, you really don't need me anymore.” He sighed. “At any rate, you've earned yourself a nice rest—a little vacation. How about if you take a week or so away from your studies?”

“That sounds fine, Señor. And then you can spend more time telling me the rest of your story.”

He said nothing, but eased himself back in his chair and began to tidy up his desk. “Well, I think you'll be glad to know that I've decided not to continue with my story, Jamilet. I can't help but notice how preoccupied you've been lately, and well…it only stands to reason that what interests an old man wouldn't necessarily be of interest to a young woman. I'll be returning your documents forthwith and you can choose your course.”