there. But that’s her strategy. Graciela has always
played a good game.
Even during those awful days back in Palmagria when the rumor had almost become a shout, her hand was warm, her grip was firm,
and her brushstrokes were as precise as ever. I sat across from her, my hand in hers, and searched her eyes while she lacquered
my nails, but her eyes gave away nothing. If she’d heard what people were saying, she never let on. I remember that Ernesto
came home while we were all still there and she offered him her cheek to be kissed, as if nothing out of the ordinary was
happening.
Imagínate! Ernesto
must
have been aware of the stories circulating behind his back about Graciela and Pepe Medina Ynclán. It’s not as if Palmagria
was a town known for its restraint. Imperio and I decided that because Ernesto was not a man given to hysteria, he thought
he could just wait it out. And then, in his own time, he would quietly dissolve his marriage without scandal. Like a teaspoon
of sugar in a glass of warm water, it would simply vanish and leave only clarity and sweetness behind.
But Imperio’s husband, Mario, who, sadly, often found courage in alcohol, finally told him what no one dared to say. He did
it to his face and in front of everyone.
It happened while Ernesto was playing dominos outside the grocery store. He had been playing the same game with the same five
men every Sunday for fifteen years. Mario walked by and saw Ernesto calmly involved in a game while the town talked about
Graciela and seethed with shame for him. He stood watching for a moment, swaying from side to side, then stepped up and poked
a finger into Ernesto’s chest.
“Ernesto,” he said in that overfamiliar way Mario took on when he’d been drinking. “Do something about the situation, before
the rest of the women in this town start to think they can do the same as your wife and get away with it.”
The other men, who loved Ernesto like a brother, just looked down at their domino tiles. No one jumped up to defend him. No
one told Mario to get lost. In fact they seemed grateful that Mario, in his drunken stupor, had done the dirty job that everyone
at that table was dreading. They had all wanted to say something to him, but how do you express something like that to the
most educated and honored man in town without tearing his heart out? Even Dr. Celedonio, who had been Ernesto’s friend since
they were boys and had delivered both his children, did not lift a finger or even raise his voice to defend him.
Mario moved on down the dark and empty sidewalk, weaving and stumbling his way home, and Ernesto was left with the image of
his wet lips spitting out words like bullets.
The next morning, as soon as I heard what had happened, I ran to Imperio’s house. Mario hardly remembered the incident at
all. But just the same, Imperio had decided to send him away for a while, to a cousin’s in Pilón. She frantically packed a
bag for him while he showered.
“Por Dios,” she said. “He felt terrible about the whole thing once I told him what he’d done. He wanted to go and apologize
to Ernesto. But I told him he’d already done enough.”
“Ernesto must have felt so alone last night,” I said. My heart ached for him.
The rumor of the encounter between Ernesto and Mario grew louder and went farther, faster and faster, until it was on everybody’s
lips. The town was abuzz with gossip. It was all they could talk about. I could hear it as I walked down the street, whether
I wanted to or not.
“Pepe neither confirms nor denies it,” someone said.
“Pepe’s become too important to be pushed around,” from another.
“Rumors become fact if no one contradicts them,” it continued.
“If no one steps up and offers a different story it must be true.”
“The whole thing stinks of weakness and no cojones.”
“It sets a bad example.”
“I told my Nena, if I ever catch her, she’s as good as
played a good game.
Even during those awful days back in Palmagria when the rumor had almost become a shout, her hand was warm, her grip was firm,
and her brushstrokes were as precise as ever. I sat across from her, my hand in hers, and searched her eyes while she lacquered
my nails, but her eyes gave away nothing. If she’d heard what people were saying, she never let on. I remember that Ernesto
came home while we were all still there and she offered him her cheek to be kissed, as if nothing out of the ordinary was
happening.
Imagínate! Ernesto
must
have been aware of the stories circulating behind his back about Graciela and Pepe Medina Ynclán. It’s not as if Palmagria
was a town known for its restraint. Imperio and I decided that because Ernesto was not a man given to hysteria, he thought
he could just wait it out. And then, in his own time, he would quietly dissolve his marriage without scandal. Like a teaspoon
of sugar in a glass of warm water, it would simply vanish and leave only clarity and sweetness behind.
But Imperio’s husband, Mario, who, sadly, often found courage in alcohol, finally told him what no one dared to say. He did
it to his face and in front of everyone.
It happened while Ernesto was playing dominos outside the grocery store. He had been playing the same game with the same five
men every Sunday for fifteen years. Mario walked by and saw Ernesto calmly involved in a game while the town talked about
Graciela and seethed with shame for him. He stood watching for a moment, swaying from side to side, then stepped up and poked
a finger into Ernesto’s chest.
“Ernesto,” he said in that overfamiliar way Mario took on when he’d been drinking. “Do something about the situation, before
the rest of the women in this town start to think they can do the same as your wife and get away with it.”
The other men, who loved Ernesto like a brother, just looked down at their domino tiles. No one jumped up to defend him. No
one told Mario to get lost. In fact they seemed grateful that Mario, in his drunken stupor, had done the dirty job that everyone
at that table was dreading. They had all wanted to say something to him, but how do you express something like that to the
most educated and honored man in town without tearing his heart out? Even Dr. Celedonio, who had been Ernesto’s friend since
they were boys and had delivered both his children, did not lift a finger or even raise his voice to defend him.
Mario moved on down the dark and empty sidewalk, weaving and stumbling his way home, and Ernesto was left with the image of
his wet lips spitting out words like bullets.
The next morning, as soon as I heard what had happened, I ran to Imperio’s house. Mario hardly remembered the incident at
all. But just the same, Imperio had decided to send him away for a while, to a cousin’s in Pilón. She frantically packed a
bag for him while he showered.
“Por Dios,” she said. “He felt terrible about the whole thing once I told him what he’d done. He wanted to go and apologize
to Ernesto. But I told him he’d already done enough.”
“Ernesto must have felt so alone last night,” I said. My heart ached for him.
The rumor of the encounter between Ernesto and Mario grew louder and went farther, faster and faster, until it was on everybody’s
lips. The town was abuzz with gossip. It was all they could talk about. I could hear it as I walked down the street, whether
I wanted to or not.
“Pepe neither confirms nor denies it,” someone said.
“Pepe’s become too important to be pushed around,” from another.
“Rumors become fact if no one contradicts them,” it continued.
“If no one steps up and offers a different story it must be true.”
“The whole thing stinks of weakness and no cojones.”
“It sets a bad example.”
“I told my Nena, if I ever catch her, she’s as good as
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