The End of Servitude: Infideledad, Violencia, y Tortillas

A true story about the last night of my marriage.

 

I took a mouthful of a freshly made tortilla, and grinned broadly, thinking of my Ricardo. He was about fifteen minutes behind schedule, as he often was; so I was hardly concerned. In the next room, our little girl, not quite snoring in rhythm with the old refrigerator’s hum, lay dreaming. My entire day had been spent preparing the house, the meal, and myself for my husband’s return. Walking in the front door of our three-room shack fresh from the grape fields, he would be dusty, sweaty, sour smelling, and exhausted. Still, I let this have no effect on the way I kept myself for him. I was a young wife eager to please.

 

 

 

 

From Ricardo’s mother, I had learned how to make fresh tortillas from masa, precisely as he was accustomed to, growing up on that rancho just east of Puerto Vallarta. His meal had been prepared with exceptional care this evening. The tortillas were soft, delicate, flavorful, and moist; they were my best work. They would melt in one's mouth, almost sensuously, like a lover’s skin. Daydreaming about my husband’s caress, I envisioned myself leaning down from behind his chair to stroke him on the chest, playing with the sparse dark hair, as he devoured my tortillas, arroz con cilantro, and carne asada. I anticipated meeting his gaze across the room, letting my eyes betray my desires, hopeful that after he showered he would want to go to bed early with me.

 

My sweet reverie was interrupted by the ringing telephone, and baby Anya’s resulting wail. Blushing for a moment, as though the person on the other end could see the thoughts I had been having, I ran to the bedroom to catch the phone. “Hola, Constanza.” I recognized the coarse, blubbery voice of Ricardo’s four hundred pound cousin, Lupe. I nearly giggled at the thought of her face as she spoke, recalling the bursts of fine spittle that constantly accompanied her speech. I stopped smiling as Lupe told me, in Spanish, that my husband was not at work. They had gotten off early that day. Lupe had happened to see his car at the home of Elena, an ex-girlfriend of his. I was not able to speak, only to replace the phone and turn off the hot griddle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Knowing that there was no longer any point in continuing my work, I discarded the remaining masa dough and walked out into the little dirt pile that was our front yard. Dizzy and shaking uncontrollably, I heaved up the tortilla I had recently consumed. My mind was quaking. A couple of times the sadness came washing over me, a bitter wave, and I would cringe. I didn’t cry. The tears welled up, hot and eager to burst; but I held them back. I had things to take care of. After wasting a few moments attempting to regain my composure, I went back inside and called my commadre (best friend). “ Maria, I need a ride somewhere; es una emergencia! Ricardo needs me to come to meet him. Please hurry.” Ricardo had our only car. I am not certain why I didn’t tell her about what was happening to me. Perhaps I simply lacked the ability.

 

 

 

 

 

Maria arrived in less than ten minutes, which meant that she must have been speeding. As baby Anya and I got into her car, my distress transformed quickly to seething anger. My mind roiled at the thought that I had, only moments ago, been vividly recalling how incredible it was to make love to the man. Bitter images of the ways he may have been touching that woman, at the precise moments when I had been caressing him in my mind, now consumed my thoughts.

 

 

 

 

 

Elena’s house, a little white clapboard shoebox with a yard full of debris -- fast food drink cups, wrappers from various sources, and old abandoned toys faded by the relentless California sun -- was across town. Elena was twice my age; so I had not been jealous of her, as apparently I should have been. Before the car stopped rolling, I hopped out onto the curb with more fervor than was characteristic. Immediately, almost involuntarily, I screamed, “DONDE ESTAS MI F*****G ESPOSO?! FUERA, CABRON! ( Where is my f*****g husband? Come out, jackass!)”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Elena’s neighbors, who were apparently all Hispanic families, began spilling out onto their concrete stoops, to gawk at the plump, blond geubacha yelling Spanish curses. Then, with his shirt open and his face contorted with rage and astonishment, my husband appeared at Elena’s front door. His long black hair was not tied back as I usually saw it, but was flowing freely to the middle of his torso. The woman was right behind him, with part of her hair underneath the back of her shamelessly low-cut, cherry red blouse, as though she had just put it back on in a rush. Her face was worry, but also anger, with a tinge of haughty disdain, as though I had no right to be angry with my husband for his infidelity. As though she were the one he really belonged to. My gorge again rose, as my ire reached a new peak.

 

 

 

“Como Puedes?” As though asking how he could do it could make me feel any better, I repeated myself a few times. I was in a state of complete disbelief. I didn’t WANT to believe that any of this was happening, and, at the time, I was so incredibly naïve.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Tú no comprendes a mi (You don’t understand me)," he shouted. “Porque vienes? (Why have you come here?)"

 

 

Shaking as I stood, I thought, “How dare you ask why I am here or accuse ME of not being understanding of YOU!” Then, the police cruiser pulled up at my back. I was astonished when the officer who stepped out of it was Sean, a friend of a friend, whom I knew quite well. Maria was still sitting in her car, awestricken and bewildered.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“What’s the problem, Constance?”

 

 

Still fuming in spite of myself, I explained the situation, and let Sean talk me into going home to “sort things out in the privacy of your own home and not out here in the street”. Ricardo and Elena were nothing but onlookers, as neither of them knew enough English to understand a fraction of what was said. They just stood there like two forlorn spokes models for some sexy cologne.

 

 

 

 

After the five-minute ride home, as we pulled up to the house in Ricardo’s car, I looked at him. I hadn’t spoken at all, as the world caved in around me over and over and over again. He still looked angry; I knew he felt absolutely no guilt about his infidelity. That was the moment when my love for him was transformed to hate. Though I had given up all ties to my own Caucasian American heritage and lived with him in his world, only for the pleasure of loving him, I realized then that my feelings for him had never been returned. We walked slowly and begrudgingly into the house. Then, the second I shut the front door and had Anya in her crib, he flew at me, bashing me into the kitchen counter behind me.

 

 

 

 

“Celosa! Loca! (You are jealous, crazy.)"

 

 

 

 

“No hay derechos para seguir atras de mi, Estupida! Fea! (You had no right to follow me, stupid! Ugly!)"

 

 

With all of his weight on top of me, the kitchen counter felt as though it were cutting deep into my spine. Though he was thin, he was 6 foot 7. The mass of him alone was enough to take the air from my lungs. I tried to adjust to stop the pain, starting to weep and trying to push him away. Ricardo struck my face, hard, with the back of his hand.

 

 

 

 

Anya was in her crib in the background, making startled and horrific half sobs, and perceptibly confused as to why her dad would beat her mom. She was only fifteen months old, and when I caught fleeting glimpse of her tiny face, something broke within me. I felt less than human.

 

 

 

 

Meanwhile, my attempts to struggle free of Ricardo only further enraged him, and he pulled my feet out from under me with a hooked leg. The back of my head crashed against the counter as I fell, and I groaned loudly. By slamming his fists into my breasts, he pushed me onto the floor. Showing no mercy, he punched me in the stomach and pulled my hair; he was so furious and I was petrified. He pounded my face numerous times, and one of my teeth fell out in a coppery hot gush of blood. Perpetually, he screamed in my face, repeating his treatise on how wrong I was to have followed him, how dreadful it was for me to be jealous. His words battered me as acutely as his fists. Amazingly, I somehow got onto my feet. Staggering, my nose bleeding, and my throat full of sandpaper, I pushed him away.

 

 

 

 

Anya was still crying in her crib, so Ricardo turned to scream at her, “Callete, niña!” (Shut up, child.)" I shoved his towering form from behind. When I did, he toppled over the back of the sofa, face first onto the floor. As he rose, I propelled him toward the door. I opened it.

 

 

 

 

“Get out of here you son of a b***h and don’t EVER come back. ADIOS!” I bellowed it in English, but I knew he understood my intention. He looked as though he would have a bit more, so I threw him a glance that said we were going to brawl, now, if need be. He slipped out into the yard and plopped himself down in the dirt. Pausing only to slam and lock the door, I then ran for the bedroom to dial the police station.

 

 

 

Mere minutes later, it was again Sean who arrived, though my neighborhood was not on his beat, and he hauled my husband away. Sean did not say he regretted urging me to return home with Ricardo, but it wasn’t necessary. His eyes spoke for him. The next day I filed for a restraining order and a divorce.

 

 

 

To ease my trembling heart and hands, just after Sean and Ricardo got into the patrol car and drove away, I began cleaning the kitchen. I picked up the stark white styrofoam tortilla warmer that contained the now cold and inedible tortillas I had so lovingly prepared. I went to the front door, propped it open with one tremulous foot, and slung the contents out over the barren and dusty yard- a feast for the crows. They spewed out slowly it seemed, as though they had enough consciousness to realize, somehow, that they were the last fresh corn tortillas I would ever make.

Author's Note

This really happened. To me. It's not just a story, it's a part of my life.

Reviews

[Michael]

Hi C-,

OK, first I have to take you to task a bit. As a writer, the format of your work is the baseplate everything is built on. Just because an electronic editor "screws" you with a poor paste job, does not mean you can leave it like that. Even if you have to retype the offending text, you must. Anything that gets between you and the reader has to be removed. A writer has one chance to catch a reader's attention, there should be nothing to put them off.

Now for the good stuff, even with it being a chapter I have to say it is a complete story. I like the way you present it. It is a compelling read.

I did find a few nits for you to look at.

Para 1:

"Walking in the front door of our three-room shack fresh from the grape fields, he would be dusty, sweaty, sour smelling, and exhausted" should have another comma: "Walking in the front door of our three-room shack, fresh from the grape fields, he would be dusty, sweaty, sour smelling, and exhausted"

Para 4:
This is a bit clumsy compared to the rest of the para: "A couple of times the sadness came washing over me, a bitter wave, and I would cringe." It would flow better with something like "A couple of time the sadness came washing over me, wave after bitter wave, making me cringe."

Para 6:
"Elena was twice my age; so I had not been jealous of her, as apparently I should have been." should use a comma, not a semicolon. No punctuation would work too.

Para 7:
"As though she were the one he really belonged to." should be "As though she were the one to whom he really belonged.

Take a look at your quotes and parentheses too. I think you can drop the quotes in the translations.

I know it sounds like I am being a hard-a*s. Trust me, I like your work. Just reviewing on a technical level that I hope others do mine on as well. Well all have enough people telling us how great are stuff is.

[L.G. Knight]

Very Well Done! I am so sorry that this happened to you but the way you presented it was wonderful. I loved how you translated for us poor people who understand not a bit of spanish thanks for that. Nicely done.

[LSS]

Very impressively written, I'm sorry this ever had to happen to any women, but I appreciate the story all the more. This was evidently building for a while, as evidenced in his infidelity. Your introspective glimpses into your thoughts were the best parts. I only found one missing part, the transition from being on the floor to kicking him out the door. Was there an emotional breaking point you reached as your mother instincts kicked-in when he turned his attentions on your daughter? I would have expected it. I'll have to read more of your story and find out what happens to the rest of your life. I also hope there is more to your talent than this one sad story. I'll be checking to see if your artistic instincts are expanding.
LSS

[Constance]

Please ignore the fact that some of the font is darker. When I copied and pasted from word, this occurred for some unknown reason.
C

[Tony]

This is an excellent story. Your depictions of Mexico take me home. You and I have walked some similar terrain.
Only one who had familiarity with Old Mexico could describe the personalities of the people and places as you have here. My favorite part is when you got to Elena's casa. Not because of the drama, but because of the descriptions.
Also, this was an awful thing to have to go thru, let alone write about. Eres formidable y eso es hermosa.
Gracias para presentar.

[imm's place]

I am impressed at how you managed to include the details and express this tradgedy. I am very glad you survived it with your daughter. very impressive . I hope this helps you dealing with the terrifying memories.
very well presented and written, mary

[OceanTropic]

Wow. It's good that you got this out of your system, regardless how long it took. It is a sad story but it is part of your life. You are very brave for sharing it.

On the contrary to one of the reviews, I think this unexpected burst of anger from you was just the thing to show us how hurt you were. Having prepared the tortillsa so delicately and with such love, emotions that burn up to such an extent shouldn't be expected, just like a cheating husband shouldn't be expected.
Unforseen emotions come with unforseen situations. I thought the story was well written and I am thankful to you for sharing it. It must have been difficult.

[Rhan F. Sydney]

-nods-Beautiful...It was very well written. And for a short story, it spoke very many volumes. Congratulations to you for getting away from the b*****d.

[Chad Wesley Allbrett]

Wow, anything I could possibly say would be surpurflous.
Betrayal of that magnitude is something I have experienced.
Although, physically getting beat like that by someone I loved is not.
Thank you for sharing, It's not my place to say more, but I will
say I have nothing but contempt for women beaters.

[Deidre A. H.]

A bitter story of infidelity, in which the cheater sees no reason to feel remorse, and even blames the victim. Sadly, this is too common of an occurrence in the waking world.

This story was done pretty well. The middle felt a little off to me, considering the delicacy of the beginning (how she made the tortillas and why). I'm also a little apprehensive of her decision to go straight to Elena's house... it seemed very abrupt and out of character, a burst of anger that doesn't really show in the narrator's character until then, and after we only get a flicker when she forces Ricardo out of the house. I suppose I'm saying that I would have liked to see more of her angry side, or at least more of her thoughts and feelings leading her to Elena's.

Still, well done in conveying the seriousness of the situation. Thank you for entering my contest, and good luck.