Infideledad, Violencia, y Tortillas (The End of Servitude)

The true story of 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.

Reviews

[ashley]

This broke my heart. Dreams and plans crushed in a moment of fury. I know this scene all too well, as I'm sure many women do. I'm glad you had the courage to throw him out and call the police. This was well written, a very powerful story.

[Ed Hart]

yes, we have these tales...somehow we have to get strong...somehow we have to learn...these are the things that become the foundation of who we become...and, look at the miracle you are now...