Gringa Read Free

discretion, still belonged in the dowry.
    Constanzia sat at the table reading a magazine she had brought with her. The fancy lamp gave off a poor light. “I’ll need things to read,” Abilene said. Constanzia, without looking up, said, “Oh yes.”
    â€œWhere will you go?” Abilene asked.
    â€œTo Sanborn’s, for magazines and the little American books. I’ll go tomorrow.”
    â€œIn English,” Abilene said.
    The girl smiled a quirky smile. “I said I’d get American books,” she said. Abilene saw that her makeup was smeared. The dark shadows under her eyes looked like the pouches of an old woman. A Halloween face. A Day of the Dead face.
    â€œGo away,” Abilene said. “There’s no reason for you to stay here.” She wanted to be alone. Reyles said it would take three weeks to heal. She would stay inside, except when she went to see him.
    She felt a wave of panic.
    â€œGo on!” she said. “Go back to work!”
    â€œThe señor says to stay.” Constanzia turned a page.
    Abilene took her handbag into the bathroom and put her things away noisily. She carried a little paper sack of grass into the bedroom and put it under the mattress. There should have been another bag already here, brought over from Tonio’s, with her nightclothes, robe, cardigan, a raincoat and rain hat. Her summer city clothes. And a bottle of brandy.
    Without the bag, she had only her jeans and shirt. In the bedroom she found a shirt she supposed belonged to Felix. It was salmon-colored, with shiny silver threads running up and down it. She could sleep in it for the night. She called out to Constanzia, “I want my bag brought from Tonio’s!” She wished she had called him el señor, or patrón. She detested the sense of familiarity she felt with the girl. She wondered if Tonio sometimes took her into his inner office. He would have her on her knees; there was no couch.
    She had never considered, not for an instant, having a baby. She had not even thought of being pregnant in that way. It was like a toothache; you went to the dentist. She only minded that other people knew, and that she had been a problem for Tonio. She had lived for so long now in such a delicate state, asking for nothing, being there when he wanted her, staying an American girl, a Texan, but not being silly, not asking stupid questions or getting in the way.
    She sat on the bed and ran her hand over the silky Chinese cotton and wondered how much she would bleed.
    At seven the girl went out for food. She returned in an hour trailed by a waiter in a formal coat carrying a tray laden with platters. The girl had paid. The waiter, a handsome boy with limp hair and the puffed-out chest of a vain bird, acknowledged Abilene with exaggerated deference. He was Indian, but a light, yellowish color. His hair fell low on his forehead. He bulged against his shiny tight black pants. She wished for a moment she could send Constanzia away, that she could find a night’s comfort with this boy whose name she didn’t want to know. She knew he could see it: his black eyes gleamed. She had never been with an Indian boy. But he was a waiter in a good restaurant. He risked nothing. He laid out the food and heavy white napkins on the table. There was barely enough room. Once he was satisfied that the platters were settled, he made a sweeping gesture with the tray and tucked it under his arm. At the door he smiled and said to Constanzia, “Till tomorrow, then,” playing with the soft /n/’s of mañana, his tongue in his teeth, his freshly licked lips shimmering as he spoke. “He will come for the dishes,” Constanzia explained casually as she bolted the door. “I will have things to do here. He might as well come then.” Abilene would be in the hospital. They would do the abortion in the afternoon, and if there were no complications, the dermabrasion the following morning.