I stood looking up at her, confused.
“But you told him to take me to school.”
“Yes, but not to take you home. Never mind. Follow me to my office,” she said. “We have a lot to discuss, you and I.”
She turned away, leaving the door open for me.
I looked back toward the gates and thought, Just run, Delia, run.
Cross back over.
Go home.
Just as Señora Rosario suggested.
Surprisingly, however, a part of me rose along my spine, as if the sleeping pride of my Latino ancestors had woken and stood now in full parade dress.
With my head high, I entered my aunt’s home and followed the sound of her footsteps down the long marble corridor to what I knew would be a different sort of battlefield.
Edward’s words echoed in my mind: “My mother respects only strength. She pushes until someone pushes back. You understand?”
I understood.
But was that enough?
13
In Confidence
I hadn’t yet been in Tía Isabela’s office. It was, I imagined, originally her husband’s office. The walls were paneled in dark wood, and there was a slate floor with a rich-looking ruby oval rug under and around the desk. Covering the wall on one side of the office was a bookcase from floor to ceiling, each shelf filled with volumes of reference books and novels. On the wall behind the desk was a large portrait of Tía Isabela and her husband, dressed formally and standing in front of the fireplace in the living room. It looked like a portrait of royalty. All they needed were crowns and scepters.
In the picture, Tía Isabela looked much younger and resembled my mother much more. I felt sure now that she had had a plastic surgeon work on her face, changing her nose, especially, not that she wasn’t very attractive before that was done.
She stood behind the large dark cherry-wood desk, folded her arms under her breasts, and nodded at the dark brown leather chair in front of the desk.
“Sit,” she said, and I hurried to the chair.
She glanced up at the portrait as if she needed guidance from her husband. It made me wonder how she had managed to conduct business affairs all these years after his death. As far as I knew, she never had formal higher education. She married when she was a waitress in a hotel and hadn’t even finished high school. I was sure she had known nothing about business. My mother said money went through her fingers like sand.
Had her husband taught her all she needed to know, or did she have very good people working for her? Despite the manner in which she had treated me when I arrived, and still treated me, I couldn’t help but be interested in her. It was difficult to imagine her coming from the same small village, learning her basics in the same small school, walking the streets I walked, and being part of the simple fiestas and activities in our small village to get where she was now. From where or what had she gotten her ambition? Was it merely rooted in hatred for all that she was and had, or did someone inspire her?
Once again, she turned a scrutinizing, suspicious face at me, her eyes small. Her look made me terribly self-conscious. I was afraid to move a finger or take too deep a breath. Her gaze was like a hot, glaring light in a police station turned on a suspected criminal.
I think because she was so upset about Edward and so impatient with my understanding of English, she again spoke in español.
“Why didn’t you tell me what Bradley Whitfield had done to you? Why did you let me believe he had only brought you home? I have to hear about this from a friend whose daughter brought the story home from school? Thanks to Sophia, of course. My big-mouth daughter. How dare you keep this from me? Well?” she snapped before I could utter a sound.
“I was ashamed,” I said.
“Ashamed?” She laughed and pulled the desk chair out abruptly. After she sat, she shook her head. “If he forced himself on you, why should you be the one who is ashamed?”
“I was too innocent to realize what he had intended. I did not…”
“Resist enough?” she asked, that wry smile still on her lips.
“Yes.”
“Maybe you didn’t want to resist,” she said.