Gilda Salinas - Ananke

“Yeah, mom and dad… my parents, are Juan Antonio Salas Torres and Armandina Reyes Cadena. He’s a baker.”

She can smell the bread. At four in the afternoon, Antonio would come back with a paper bag for his children. He brought the warmest and most delicious bolillos with the perfect crust. Sometimes they’d have white bread with a piece of fresh cheese, pickled chilies, and the occasional piece of avocado for dinner. Other times they’d also have sweet conchas to dip in hot atole, or pastries shaped like little rocks.

She continues: “Well, my dad was a baker, but he doesn’t work anymore since he was run over by a car. Something in his spine broke, and he can’t walk. My mom prepares desserts from home.”

She and her brothers would run downstairs before school and gaze at five crystal-clear glass cabinets containing jello made with water, milk and walnuts, or milk and raisins, one flavor or multiple flavors combined in a mosaic of colors, little trembling hills recently taken out of the mold that hypnotized them until they got a slap in the hand.

“You little brat!” her mother would yell at her, “I already put jello in your lunchbox. These are all for Mr. Caritino.”

And it was always a surprise to open the lunchbox and find a different flavor each day. Would it be strawberry? Walnut? Mosaic? They could also get one more for each, or even two, when they got back home, and, yes, sometimes they’d find an entire platter of jello waiting for them.

Those were the good days, so distant now. When they’d never go hungry. When she, her sister, and her brother would share a bed, until he grew and was sent to the living room while Juan built a bedroom for him. Then another brother came, with all the more reason to set up a room, even if it was by putting an extra wall in the living room, as soon as the baby was ready to sleep alone.

“And your marital status?”

“I’m married to Marcelino Vega, but who knows where he is, ma’am. Some say they killed him, others say he is in Los Angeles in Darío’s bar. I don’t know. Maybe I’m a widow.”

That I do not knowthe whereabouts of my husband, Marcelino Vega Sánchez whose description is as follows: 22 years old, 5’5” tall, brown-skinned, broad nose, big mouth.

She met him when she was fifteen, when everyone called them Mel and Chilo. She didn’t even like him, but he chased her all the time: after school, between classes, during pe. Other girls would create a ruckus. Eventually she found him attractive. The first thing that captivated her was his love for music. Oh, he loved it just as much as her, if not more, and he was a great dancer. They made a nice pair. She can’t even remember when he stopped being that annoying kid from school because as soon as she said “yes” he was all over her. He’d kiss her non-stop, in that special way that made her shiver. Something was growing over her chest, and he eventually started moving his hands toward her thighs. An accidental brush over her breasts. The apology. Another “accident,” and glances filled with love, desire, or passion. Then Chilo grew into Marcelino. Mel into Mélida. Their bodies grew too, so did the heat. One day his lips covered her nipple under her shirt.

It was like fire in her loins, and his glances didn’t help. When he started toward her groin, modesty and logic made her stop him. Then she’d think about him all day, speak about him. She treasured his text messages, and his little notes inside her notebook with quotes, lyrics or poems he’d choose for her.

She was in love, and she wanted to be with him, become his, go all the way to that jumble of undiscovered emotions. Yes, she wanted to rise up until exploding, and then sway her way back down to earth. She was ready.

But there was a lot to consider: Some of her friends said it felt amazing, others said it was awful. She also didn’t want to end up being the object of gossip, like so many other girls. Boys would always use lies and half-hearted oaths to then boast about their conquests and suddenly lose all memory. Those fuckers.

And she also had to think about her dad. What would he say if she lost her virginity just because she was horny? What if they threw her out? No, she wouldn’t let that happen. They already disliked him, and it was getting harder to convince her mother to let her go out. Whenever she helped her with the jello, she’d get the same old sermon: “What do you see in that boy? He is a slacker. Can’t you see, child?” She couldn’t stand her mother’s judging gaze that almost seemed to smell her. She could take care of herself. Deaf ears, patience, no one but Marcelino in her head, that’s all she needed.

One day her patience ran its course, and she didn’t come home. She accepted to fully give herself in, as long as they lived together, even if it meant having to stand her rude mother-in-law. “Yes, mom,” he’d say, ‘I’m going to marry her as soon as I make some money. I’ll work really hard, I’m telling you, and I think I’ll even set up a room for my woman.” Chilo began to work with his father in the street market, bringing back and forth boxes with replica sneakers: from the truck to the tiny stand, from the floor and back to the truck in order of style, brand, and size. He talked the talk, and walked the walk, so he always earned some extra money. “Look, flaca,” he’d call Mélida for her slim body, “save this money, and we will figure it out.”

Mélida loved waking up at night and seeing her man sleeping next to her, the moonlight shining in his bald head, with the face of an angel. She loved feeling his hands in her curls, and the way he inhaled her scent after showering. She loved getting up early to prepare lunch for her Chilo. She even stopped feeling remorse. After all, her sister had moved to Puebla two years ago and had a job. Her father couldn’t walk, and Armandina had enough expenses to keep providing her with money, so there was no point in thinking about her family and missing them. If they had problems, they still had two sons left with strong hands. They could get a job.

When she told him she might be pregnant, he got really happy, and set up everything to get married. They went to see the judge, and then they had a small party where their families got together. Even Armandina came to hug her, and told her she looked beautiful. Her father, in a second-hand wheelchair they were able to get, looked at her with joy His face hadn’t seen the sun in a while.

She has wondered more than once how her happiness turned sour. Maybe she knows, but the answer is unfair. She thinks the problem was she couldn’t have sex with him because she almost lost the baby, and she wasn’t feeling like it. “Doctor’s orders.” And as her belly grew larger, as well as the discomfort, Mélida started noticing all the little defects around the house. Damp patches on the ceiling, a long lightbulb cable, those awful green walls in the living room. She missed the aroma of her home, and the sight of colorful jello over the table.

She’d drag her feet, and drowsiness would sink her in the afternoons. Marcelino avoided looking at her, touching her body, get close to her at night; if anything, he tried once or twice to have sex with her from behind, but she was grateful for the distance, the lack of love, for she couldn’t feel comfortable anymore. She always needed to pee, her feet were swollen, and she couldn’t recognize herself in the mirror. Everything was unpleasant.

When the baby was born, the first argument was over his name. Mélida didn’t yield, and she named him Antonio, after her father. Was everything that happened afterwards out of spite for that name? Was it because she didn’t let him grab her breasts and do the things they used to do? She did want it, it felt good, but between Antonio’s cries, hunger, and diaper changes, she was too tired.