Maria's death infected the house like a plague. It clung to the dust in the curtains, to the hallways they used to run down, to the old heating vent they used as a hiding space when the arguments became too loud. The house became too large for Alma to stand being in, to stand living in. Every night, she'd go to sleep staring at the empty bed across from her, the sheets still creased and wrinkled in the familiar places, as if she'd slept in them the night before. As if she was just out in the square, counting down the seconds until the end of her curfew, spending them with Ramiro.
It wasn't fair, Alma thought.
And when she'd gone downstairs to help Mother with dinner, Grandmother Ruiz - one of their older boarders - watched her move down the stairs with that curiously sharp gaze of hers. "Nice to see you, Alma," she said. Maria had called her the parrot; every day, every night, she'd say the same things to each of them.
"Buenos tardes, senora," she said.
She smiled then, wrapping her cotton shawl tighter around her shoulders. Alma noticed the spots where she'd tried to fix the rips and tears in the fabric; the dye was beginning to leech from where it met her elbows. Alma never liked Grandmother Ruiz; there was something too sinister about the point of her chin. Mother said it wasn't nice to say things about older people, so mostly Alma kept her thoughts to herself.
Grandmother Ruiz leaned forward, her grey hair falling past her shoulder, the rocking chair creaking with her movement. "How are you doing?"
Alma shifted, casting her gaze to the floor. She hated Grandmother Ruiz, but even more now with her stupid obvious questions and false sympathy.
"I know you and Maria were close." Her thin hand gripped the arm of the chair as she moved to stand, the rocking chair falling into its own rhythm. If she focused hard enough, it almost sounded like a breath, like Papa's snores in the middle of the night echoing down the hallways. Like a heartbeat. "It must be very difficult for you." Her rosary glittered in the light, the beads black, and Alma wondered how often she prayed. It rested over her collarbone, on the stiff pressed black brocade she wore in mourning of her late husband. "Walk me to the kitchen, dear."
Alma didn't expect her nails to be so sharp as they dug into her forearm. Grandmother Ruiz took slow halting steps, like someone learning the merengue for the first time and staring too much at their feet, tuning out the music. At the very least, she didn't try to make conversation as they crossed down the long hallway towards the back where the servants were quartered; since Maria died, Mother had kept the dining room sealed - it was too large to be used now, and they certainly weren't going to be hosting any parties anytime soon.
It wasn't fair, Alma thought.
And when she'd gone downstairs to help Mother with dinner, Grandmother Ruiz - one of their older boarders - watched her move down the stairs with that curiously sharp gaze of hers. "Nice to see you, Alma," she said. Maria had called her the parrot; every day, every night, she'd say the same things to each of them.
"Buenos tardes, senora," she said.
She smiled then, wrapping her cotton shawl tighter around her shoulders. Alma noticed the spots where she'd tried to fix the rips and tears in the fabric; the dye was beginning to leech from where it met her elbows. Alma never liked Grandmother Ruiz; there was something too sinister about the point of her chin. Mother said it wasn't nice to say things about older people, so mostly Alma kept her thoughts to herself.
Grandmother Ruiz leaned forward, her grey hair falling past her shoulder, the rocking chair creaking with her movement. "How are you doing?"
Alma shifted, casting her gaze to the floor. She hated Grandmother Ruiz, but even more now with her stupid obvious questions and false sympathy.
"I know you and Maria were close." Her thin hand gripped the arm of the chair as she moved to stand, the rocking chair falling into its own rhythm. If she focused hard enough, it almost sounded like a breath, like Papa's snores in the middle of the night echoing down the hallways. Like a heartbeat. "It must be very difficult for you." Her rosary glittered in the light, the beads black, and Alma wondered how often she prayed. It rested over her collarbone, on the stiff pressed black brocade she wore in mourning of her late husband. "Walk me to the kitchen, dear."
Alma didn't expect her nails to be so sharp as they dug into her forearm. Grandmother Ruiz took slow halting steps, like someone learning the merengue for the first time and staring too much at their feet, tuning out the music. At the very least, she didn't try to make conversation as they crossed down the long hallway towards the back where the servants were quartered; since Maria died, Mother had kept the dining room sealed - it was too large to be used now, and they certainly weren't going to be hosting any parties anytime soon.
