Delia's Crossing (Delia 1)

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?

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