The Three Crones, who hadn’t taken their eyes off María Justa for a second, turned and looked at one another.
— Poor thing! Doña Consuelo lamented softly.
— So humble, isn’t she just? whispered Doña Martina. Ever so thoughtful in her sorrow!
At this, Doña Carmen stopped blowing on her coffee and frowned.
— A pearl in the pigsty, like the saying goes, she said in a low growl. She’s one in a million! Carries the cross for the whole family. And what a family! Don’t deserve her, they don’t. Lord knows they ain’t worth her little finger!
Doña Martina and Doña Consuelo, curious, pricked up their ears. But Doña Carmen said nothing more and eyed the Three Necrophile Sisters-in-Law suspiciously.
— Did you see her just now? insisted Doña Martina. On the verge of tears, but she held back.
— She shouldn’t have, opined Doña Consuelo. Better to let go and get it off her chest.
Doña Carmen’s lips smiled sadly.
— She can’t, she observed. Just like her mother in every way, my dear departed comadre, God have mercy on her soul! I wore myself out trying to convince her, “Cry, m’love, it’ll do you good.” But, no, she wouldn’t shed so much as a tear. The parade went by inside, you might say.
— Yes, yes, purred Doña Martina. I’ve heard talk.
— She took it all to the grave with her! Doña Carmen concluded. Anyway, she’s better off than us now.
But Doña Consuelo was dying of curiosity.
— Bad life? she asked a in low voice.
— A dog’s life, muttered doña Carmen. If these four walls could talk!
— I’ve heard talk, Doña Martina purred again.
Then Doña Carmen, her tongue itching so badly she could stand it no longer, leaned toward her two neighbours and whispered something. It must have been something incredible, for Doña Consuelo’s mouth fell open, as if she couldn’t believe her ears.
— Him? she exclaimed finally, looking askance at the coffin.
— May God forgive him! affirmed Doña Carmen. He wasn’t what you’d call a nasty lot. But when a man’s on a bender…
— And with the same whip? Doña Consuelo asked, still dumbfounded.
— The very one he used on the mares, grumbled Doña Carmen. I seen ’m with these very eyes that’ll return to dust one day! And there was no talking to him, ’cause when he was in his cups, he was a holy terror and wouldn’t have listened to Christ on the cross.
— An outrage! sighed Doña Martina, clapping her eyes on Juan Robles’s casket.
Doña Carmen followed her gaze.
— Like I said, she went on, he wasn’t bad at heart. You should’ve seen him the next day when he sobered up. Eyes downcast, like the man was carrying a burden of remorse. Circling around his wife, wanting to say something but not knowing what. So he’d bring her a little something — a length of cloth, a pound of chocolate, some guayaba sweet. But she got away on him anyway! We held her wake in this very room.
— Very long ago? asked Doña Consuelo.
— Let’s see. Wait, now. María Justa would’ve been ten, if memory serves. Now she’s twenty-eight. Figure it out.
— Eighteen years ago, Doña Martina calculated.
— That’s right, Doña Carmen assented. I can still see her! Just before she died, she made me swear by the Virgin of Candlemas I’d take care of her kids, especially María Justa, my godchild. The neighbours can tell you whether I did my duty.
— Oh, Doña Carmen! the other two women protested in unison. Everyone in the neighbourhood agrees. You’ve been like a mother to María Justa.
— Yes, yes, Doña Carmen admitted, finishing off the cold dregs of her coffee. But what about the others?
Doña Consuelo and Doña Martina didn’t know what to say.
— Bad eggs, grumbled Doña Carmen. Ever since they were kids. Just think about it: their father out at the bars, drowning his sorrows in cane liquor or whatever, and the little brats bumming around in the streets all the blessèd day long. Forget about discipline! Pointless. They just laughed in my face!
— Hmm! commented Doña Martina and Doña Consuelo.
— With Juan José, it doesn’t matter, insisted Doña Carmen. After all, he’s a man, and it’s up to him look out for himself. But the little ladies… Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn’t have taken it upon myself and paddled their bums with my slipper till they were red as tomatoes.
— Hmm! Doña Martina and Doña Consuelo intoned again, noncommital.
— But who was I? Doña Carmen argued. A Johnny-come-lately, like they say. And bein’ as the mother wasn’t there for them…
— Motherhood! Doña Martina and Doña Consuelo sighed in chorus.
Lost in memory, Doña Carmen muttered some unintelligible complaint.
— That’s how they turned out, she said at last. A real lot of gems! Phff! Juan José, he likes work, so long as it’s someone else doing it. Fritters away his day drinking mate. And at night, who know what he’s up to! Because he’s never short of shekels; they say he gambles, or worse. Márgara, she’s hopeless, a high-steeric, what with her fits and her endless aches and pains. And the Other One, the Other One!
— But María Justa… Doña Consuelo began to object.
— Yes, yes, admitted Doña Carmen. She’s the Cinderella type. I always told her, “Courage, my child, your mother is blessing you up there in Heaven.” But inside I was thinking, “The day I see the back of her going out that door in a bridal gown, I’m gonna get myself righteously squiffed.” But I never got the chance to!
— They did her dirty! protested Doña Martina. It wasn’t her fault that the Other One… Fiancés nowadays! Bah, why bother getting engaged?
But Doña Consuelo was out of the loop.
— Whose fiancé? she wanted to know, anxious and flustered.
— María Justa’s fiancé, Doña Martina clarified. Just imagine, standing her up like that, when her trousseau’s all ready and everything. All because the Other One…
— I see, said Doña Consuelo, not understanding a word.
Doña Carmen bowed her head as though burdened by a well-ripened sorrow.
— It had been going on for a long time, she began. When María Justa met that penpusher… a nice-looking boy and with good intentions, to be sure. But when it came time to act like a man, he turned out to be spineless. The day he broke the engagement, I gave him a darn good piece of my mind, and the lad turned every colour in the rainbow. Even Ciruja went after him in the yard, barking his head off — just about broke his chain, he tugged so hard. Because sometimes animals seem almost like Christians, even if they don’t have a soul.
Doña Carmen paused, in thrall to a great agitation, and her bony hand swatted at what must have been a swarm of painful images.
— Where was I? she asked at last.
— You were talking about when María Justa met the penpusher, Doña Consuelo reminded her eagerly.
— That’s right, Doña Carmen resumed. War broke out the day they met. It was Márgara who did her best to upset the applecart. If the betrothed pair talked together in the street, Márgara would say it was a scandal and the neighbours were already gossiping and the boy’s intentions weren’t honourable. If the boy came to the house, well, he was coming every night and he was a nuisance, and this, that, and the other. All out of jealousy, of course. Because no man came calling for her; the wretch didn’t have so much as a dog bark at her.