Woman in Black by Eileen Goudge Page A

the ash-strewn grass. Others wandered aimlessly about, their eyes staring whitely from soot-grimed faces as they watched the factory, and their livelihoods, go up in flames.
    Concepción ran from one person to the next, crying hoarsely, “Have you seen my daughter?”
    No one had seen Milagros.
    No one knew where she was.
    At last she came across the jefe , looking on in dull-eyed disbelief as the whole rear section of the building collapsed in a shower of sparks. Señor Perez didn’t look so puffed up with self-importance now; he looked more like a wet rooster, with his oily hair in strings and sweat pasting his khaki shirt to his fat belly.
    Concepción seized his arm. “Did everyone get out?”
    Woodenly, he shook his head in response. “ Espero que sí .” I hope so. The words only heightened her fear. He didn’t have to add that anyone still inside would have perished by now.
    Still, she clung to the hope that Milagros was alive. Maybe she was wandering about in a daze somewhere nearby. Concepción prayed to God that it was so as she hurried off to continue her search.
    But the God to whom she’d prayed wasn’t the God of mercy, as it turned out. He was the same heartless God who had taken all her other children. Once the fire was under control and a head count taken, it was determined that all the workers had made it to safety. All but one. By the time the body was recovered, it was barely recognizable as human remains.
    Immediately after the funeral, Concepción took to her bed. Her days became a dark tunnel through which she passed without any sense of time or purpose. Concerned neighbors brought food, for which she had no appetite. They lit candles, which burned unheeded. She neglected to bathe, and the glossy black hair in which she’d once taken pride grew dull and matted. One day, she happened to glance in the mirror and was startled to see a stranger looking back at her—a crazy lady, a bruja . She attempted to draw a comb through her hair, but it was too tangled. So she took a pair of scissors and hacked it all off instead.
    Dios, why didn’t you take me instead? she cried inwardly.
    In time, the grieving mother began to wonder if the reason she was still alive was because God wasn’t done with her yet. Perhaps He had a purpose for her. It wasn’t until Señor Perez came to call one day that she discovered what that purpose was.
    She looked at the jefe seated across from her, his hair slicked back and his fleshy fingers splayed over his knees. It might have been the heat causing him to perspire, but for some reason he appeared nervous, as though he found her presence unsettling. And why wouldn’t he? She herself would have run from anyone who looked as she did. She was a wraith, alive only in the corporeal sense, her hair, what was left of it, sticking out in clumps and her sunken eyes like two nails pounded into her death mask of a face.
    The jefe handed her an envelope. Inside was a thick sheaf of bills. “The Señora wants you to know how very sorry she is for your loss, as are we all.” He was quick to add, “And though she is under no obligation to do so, she was good enough to insist on my giving you this, to cover the cost of the funeral as well as any lost wages.”
    For a long moment, Concepción merely sat there staring wordlessly at the envelope full of bills before she passed it back to Perez. “Tell her she can keep her money,” she said with contempt. “I don’t want it.”
    Perez appeared at a loss. He’d clearly never encountered anyone who’d refused such a large sum of money. “Now, señora , let’s not be hasty. It may be some time before you’re able to return to work, and in the meantime you’ll need—”
    â€œI don’t need anything from you or the Señora,” she cut him off.
    He licked his lips nervously. “I assure you, the