Madari Pendas

LA OTRA

Celia claimed she waited until after Hugo’s divorce to pursue him. “I waited,” she said, extolling her own virtue. “I’m not a home wrecker.” However, that never stopped her from inviting Hugo out for drinks after a shift, or giving his son, Alejandro, rides to campus, or offering marital advice—counsel that championed separation as the panacea to all domestic misgivings. 

Celia had not anticipated the appetite Hugo would have after his divorce. After twenty-two years of marriage, the man couldn’t even commit to what he wanted for breakfast, let alone one woman. 

She turned a blind eye to his sexual blitzkrieg. But she would not relent. If she could wait out his marriage, then she could wait out this “little phase.” Time was on her side, she thought, soon Hugo would tire himself out and return to the one who loved him best. 

“Pancreatic cancer is a wily one,” the attending physician explained, readjusting the height on his desk chair. “It’s normally detected late since it’s asymptomatic. Once you experience symptoms, it’s usually already spread throughout the body. It sneaks up on you. One day you’re fine, the next you’re spread out like cold supper. “

It was too late for radiation therapy. The cancer had metastasized in the liver and lymph nodes. It was insidious. The cancer had braided itself into Hugo’s body so deeply, none of the doctor’s suggested treatment. They talked about “comfort” and “pain management” instead. 

This is when Celia shone the brightest. She was no longer a plato de segunda mesa. She had been liberated from the periphery and stepped into full view. 

 She became the coordinator and created rotating schedules for family visits; she became the official translator for non-English speaking members; and she became the litigator, who found different loopholes to keep the uninsured Hugo in the hospital. 

One morning, Celia passed the hospital chaplain. An elderly gentleman, plump and with a walking fragility. When Celia shook his hand, she saw the nodes of veins that ran up the lengths of his thin arms. Why did this man get to grow old? 

After a few pleasantries, she hoped he would agree to her request. She brought him to Hugo’s room, but the Chaplain insisted on waiting by the door. “I’m fine here, dear.” 

Celia sat on Hugo’s bed, kissed his hand, and pressed it to her cheek. “Hugo, will you marry me?” 

“I can’t,” he said meekly. “It could confuse things... legally.”

“I’m not interested in your money. Don’t listen to what Natalia says. I’ll make sure it all goes to Alejandro.”

Natalia, Hugo’s sister, insisted that Celia was only interested in citizenship and making it into Hugo’s last will and testament.  

Celia draped herself over Hugo like a pall. “Please,” Celia pressed. A marriage certificate would legitimize what they were. “Please.” The somber vapors of the sunrise fell over their faces. 

Hugo swallowed hard and patted her back. “I’m lucky to have had such a great friend,” Hugo said. 

She gripped his chest, waiting for him to say more, to revise himself. After a while, the chaplain excused himself and left. He gave a little wave and scuttled off, his sneakers squeaking on the waxed floor.  

Celia fantasized about a wedding here, in the presence of his family. Mourning replaced with jubilation. Here, where Natalia asked her to fetch coffee and checked Celia’s purse before leaving. Celia had imagined the ceremony many times. The sound of Hugo’s heartbeat would be audible. It would fill the pockets of silence, and its jolting pace would be universal evidence of his love. They could get married here. Here where life begins and ends, as holy as a church. A place also of miracles.

Hugo died in his sleep. There was no thrashing, no negotiating, no supplications. He released his corporeal tether as if dropping the reins of a wild horse.  

Celia learned of the death from a sympathetic nurse aide, also from Colombia. “It happened. Come!” But when she arrived the body had already been transported for cremation. Celia would only ever see Hugo again as a heap of ash, sliding through the gaps of her fingers. 

Alejandro stood next to the window. His eyes were fixed on the empty bed which still contained the grooves and impressions of Hugo's body. Celia wanted to ask him why he hadn't called her. But he was in a trance, as if shocked that death really did exist. 

Celia faced the five relatives, including Natalia who arched an eyebrow. “Why did no one call me?” Celia demanded. “Did he ask for me? Was he in a lot of pain?”

There was a patent air of superiority from Hugo's European family, who saw the south-American woman, sudaca, as undeserving of Hugo's love. They called her La India in private; and regularly made an arrow throwing gesture when she left the room. 

“And what’s our obligation to you?” Natalia adjusted her tone when she noticed Alejandro was looking at her. “You’re welcome to come to the wake. That's open to the public.”

The wake was held the following Sunday in Hialeah at a quaint and inexpensive funeral home, which advertised after Caso Cerrado. It was nestled in a strip mall between a KFC and drycleaners. The room was poky, about eight-hundred square feet, with foldable chairs against each wall, and a center mantel where a white and cerise ceramic urn sat. 

After the wake, they’d move into the larger hall for the funeral services. Natalia had made it clear that Celia would not be allowed to speak at the lectern or “say any words.” Natalia tried to put it delicately, “no one wants to hear from a man’s mistress. This is a serious place.” Then she brought her finger to her lips to suggest Celia keep silent. 

Celia walked to the urn and put down the hyacinths she had bought. She took a seat across from the mantel and scowled at Natalia from across the room, studying the woman as if she would have to recreate a sketch of her from memory. 

No one was concerned with her grief. As Celia moved about the room her sorrow was met with surprise more than sympathy. She saw Hugo’s mother by the entrance and walked over. “I’m so sorry. Your son was a good man—”

Natalia took her mother’s hand and widened her eyes at Celia. “What did I tell you?” Shr returned her lips to her mouth. Natalia moved her mother along and say her with the the rest of the Gallaecian family members. 

Celia tried to talk to Alejandro, who sat near the entrance, greeting guests, and accepting their condolences. She had hoped to one day be Alejandro’s step-mother. She had never had children of her own. Celia had tried but miscarried each time. Someday, she hoped to call Alejandro “hijo” and have him respond.  

She took a seat next to Alejandro. "How's it going?" 

He eyed the woman. "Fine. Thank you for coming," as he had said to all the other guests that afternoon.

"You should come over and help me with some of your dad's stuff. I can make us some flank steak. The way he makes—made them."

Natalia came up to the pair. She gave them a once over and then a strained smile. “Oh, what an interesting dress,” she said to Celia. “Looks comfy.”

Before Celia could think of something clever or equally insulting to say, Natalia asked Alejandro to help her with the flower arrangement. 

While the family occupied themselves, Celia walked to the altar. “I do,” she whispered to the ceramic urn with cerise stripes. “I do.”

Celia scanned the room. No one was watching her. They didn’t care what she had meant to Hugo. They didn’t even care to ask. 

She pulled out her blue-silk coin purse and emptied the money into the esophagus of her bag. She approached the urn, while glancing over her shoulder. Was anyone watching? With a light tread she sidled up to the mantle. She looked once more. She was in the clear. No one was looking in her direction. 

She slipped the lid off the urn and gingerly placed it on the side. Celia’s hands trembled as she moved to grab the urn’s edge. If she was invisible to these people, then what did it matter? She would only take a little of Hugo. Nothing noticeable, she swore as her grip tightened.

 She looked back one last time like Lot’s wife and dipped the coin purse into the urn. Celia had offered to host the wake at her home to save the family the cost, but Natalia had laughed in her face. “Your house? The one in the ghetto?”

 Celia fished out as much of Hugo as she could, while standing on the tips of her toes. She pulled the heavy load up slowly. She had filled the coin purse enough that it emerged thick. It was packed so tightly, Celia had to apply pressure to close the clasps on the purse.

“Oye, what are you doing?” Natalia shouted from the other side of the room, causing everyone to look at Celia.  

Celia startled. Her heart raced and the jostling cause her free hand to hit the urn, which tumbled over the mantle. “Oh, no!” A pop of grey dust flashed in a wide arc across the area. She thought of picking up the shattered pieces and brooming the dust, but they had seen her. They’d take Hugo away from her. 

Celia ran out of the room with the small amount of Hugo pressed against her chest. 

“Stop her!” Natalia took off her heels and chased her into the parking lot and down tenth avenue. Celia was heading for the Tri-Rail Station stop. “Come back! Stop!” Natalia hollered.  

 Cars slowed and followed—interested in the street drama playing out. One driver yelled encouragement: “¡Dale! Move those legs!” 

Celia was fast and made it to the station, leaving Natalia several yards behind. No one would take Hugo from her again. 

While trying to buy a metro easy-pass, Celia realized all her coins were in the trenches of her bag. She anxiously foraged through her purse, trying to get the $2.50 she needed for a one-way ticket. There was a security guard next to the turnstiles, so she couldn’t try jumping

“¡Mierda!” Celia groaned as she only had two-quarters and a dime, so far.

Natalia, finally, caught up and rushed towards Celia, who stood by the turnstiles. “Thief!”

 Natalia and Celia pulled at the purse’s drawstrings, each tugging fiercely. Celia wrestled the purse out of Natalia’s hands and ran a few feet away, towards the bus drop-out. 

“Stop her!” Natalia cried towards the apathetic security guard.

Celia didn’t have much time before Natalia caught up to her again. The woman would not relent. Once the police came, she’d have to forfeit Hugo. She’d be sent away, face criminal charges, and never see Alejandro again. 

Natalia was already starting towards her with the crazed expression of a wounded animal, preparing for another charge.

 No, not again. She couldn’t lose Hugo again. 

Celia took a fistful of ash, brought it to her mouth, and swallowed. 

They would not take him from her, Hugo would be hers, even if just in some infinitesimal way, he would be a part of her, a part of her being.  Natalia stood in stunned silence, gawking at the woman with ash smudged across her upper lip. 

She couldn’t lose him again. Celia heard a police siren in the distance, closing in. They could take her way, but they couldn’t separate them. I do, she thought as the red and blue flashing lights strobed over her grinning face. I do.

__________

MADARI PENDÁS IS A LATIN-AMERICAN WRITER, TRANSLATOR AND PAINTER. SHE IS THE AUTHOR OF CROSSING THE HYPHEN (TOLSUN 2022). HER WORK HAS APPEARED IN CRAFT, PANK MAGAZINE, SINISTER WISDOM, AND MORE. PENDÁS HAS RECEIVED AWARDS FROM THE ACADEMY OF AMERICAN POETS, FIU, AND TWO PUSHCART NOMINATIONS.