Delia's Gift (Delia 3)

He started away. I looked back at the hacienda, still surprised that Señor Bovio hadn’t been there to greet me or watch me drive away. I did see that Stevens had an earpiece and was speaking softly to someone on a cell phone and imagined it might be Señor Bovio.

There wasn’t much traffic, and less than thirty minutes later, I had Stevens turn on the street where Ignacio’s family resided. I pointed out the house and driveway, and he turned into it.

“I won’t be long,” I said, and went to the front door.

Ignacio’s brother answered the buzzer and stood there looking at me with such disgust on his face I thought he might attack me. He was as big as Ignacio now.

“Quién es, Santos?” I heard his father ask. The sound of his voice made me tighten up. I hadn’t expected either of them to be home. I was hoping to speak only with Ignacio’s mother.

“Her,” Santos said, practically spitting at me. He left the door open and turned away.

I entered slowly.

Ignacio’s father had his foot on a stool. It was bandaged. He looked up with surprise. Ignacio’s sister wasn’t there. I was sure she was in school. His mother came in from the kitchen and stopped when she saw me.

“Why did you come here? What do you want?” Ignacio’s father asked.

“Just to talk, señor. What happened to your foot?”

“A broken ankle,” he replied quickly. “Talk about what? Why have you come here?”

I looked at Ignacio’s mother. She seemed ready to cry. Her lips trembled. Santos kept himself slightly turned away, his head down.

“I never had an opportunity to speak with you, to explain what had happened, to—”

“We know what happened. We don’t need you to come here to give us any explanations. Please. Go. You bring only bad luck to my family.”

Now I was the one near tears, but I wouldn’t turn and run out.

“You don’t know what happened, señor. I have tried to explain it to Ignacio as well. I wrote letters, but he does not respond.”

“He’s finally smarted up,” his father said. “Too late to help himself, I’m afraid. You know what life is like where he is, what he will become?”

“I know, señor.”

“Then what is it you can say that would make any difference now?”

“I can say I’m sorry, but it wasn’t my fault, señor. I did nothing to cause this to happen.”

He smiled and looked at his wife. “Did you hear? She did nothing,” he said. Ignacio’s mother looked at me, the utter helplessness in her face so clear and tragic.

“Señor Davila, I have tried many times to explain. I had no idea that my cousin had found Ignacio’s note to me and had told the police. She didn’t even warn her own brother so he wouldn’t get into trouble. She was always trying to hurt me. That was more important.”

“So, if you knew that, why were you so foolish as to leave that note where she could find it? Didn’t I tear up every letter Ignacio sent you after you had read it? Wasn’t I afraid that something like that would happen?”

“It was—”

“What?” he nearly shouted.

“Important to me. I didn’t want to tear it up.”

“So, instead, you left it where she could find it and do this terrible thing to us?” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter what you intended or didn’t intend, Delia. The result is my son is in a terrible place, and there is nothing I can do for him. Nada.”

“All I ask, Señor Davila, is that you please, please, tell him I didn’t mean for this to happen. When you see him again, will you ask him to write to me?”

“Why?”

“Why? I’d like…to…”