"After the death of her baby, Mama spend many days crying in her room," Mama Coco. continued, "Ernesto made no attempt to try to console her because he didn't know to comfort a grieving woman."
Ernesto and Imelda had been sleeping in separate beds and in different rooms. They had never touched each other since that night two years ago.
One morning, Imelda slept soundly in her bed. She was jolted awake by someone pouring cold water over her head. "Ahhh!" she screamed. She sat up immediately, and wiped the water from her face, with the corner of her blanket.
Ernesto stood there, holding a jug that had been filled with water, a few seconds ago. "You're sleeping the whole day away!? Get up and make me breakfast!"
"Cállate," Imelda spat. "I'm tired. I've been working around the house all day yesterday!"
"Don't talk like that to me, you stupid puta!" her husband spat back. He pulled the blanket off her, not caring that she was shivering. "Now stop your slobbering, and make me beans!"
He stomped out of the room, closing the door.
After Imelda got dressed, she said a silent prayer to the Lord for peace.
Then she went to do the many chores that Ernesto so lovingly dumped on her.
First, she made his bed. Next, she went downstairs and began making beans. While cooking beans, Ernesto sat around on the table, reading his newspaper.
"Make me coffee!" he demanded. "I need lots of energy for work today!"
The woman grudgingly grabbed a pot and some coffee beans. "What work?" she grumbled. "All you do is show off your guitar like a fool!" She put a pot in the fire and threw beans in it. "Not to mention you don't sing well!"
"Cállate!" Ernesto snapped from his newspaper.
"No, really!" Imelda wouldn't stop talking. "You have a great voice, but you rarely spend any time rehearsing. When was the last time you practice singing? How can you be any good if you don't practice?"
Ernesto threw his newspaper down on the table. "How dare you speak to me like that! Who do you think you are? I am the greatest musician ever! You are just a stupid little woman! And where are my beans and coffee?"
The more he yelled at her, the more angry Imelda became. If she could, she'd hit or slap him. But this wasn't a good time to do it, because she had food to make.
After finishing beans and coffee, she served them to her husband.
"Here you go, your majesty," Imelda growled.
Ernesto took one bite of her beans, scrunched up his face, and spit them out. His chewed-up beans flew into his wife's face. "Ugh, this is the worst beans I have ever tasted!"
Then, the man took a sip of his coffee and also spit it out. His coffee splashed onto Imelda's face.
"Why does this coffee taste like s &$? Don't you ever read the recipe? You stink!"
"I do not!" Imelda snapped, her hands clenching into fists. "I followed the recipes very well! My friends' husbands like whatever food they are served, why can't you like my cooking, too?"
"Oh por favor!" Ernesto laughed, mockingly. "No man would ever like your cooking, either! They'd agree with me!" He stood up and dumped the food outside through the window. "Heck, they even feel sorry for me because I married a woman who can't do anything-not even cook!"
"At least, I don't show off in front of big crowds!" Imelda sneered. "You don't even get paid well!"
Her eyes widened when her husband turned to her with a dark glare.
"You should be lucky that you are married to me! Any other man would have discarded you for good! And I am not talking about your cooking, puta!"
Then, Ernesto walked towards the door before Imelda could either yell or try to hit him with her shoe.
"Adios, witch!" He shouted, before slamming the door.
"Good riddance!" Imelda shouted. He had left but she only said it thus she wouldn't have to worry about being hearing another insult from him.
Next, the woman made herself huevos divorciados. She's the only one that likes her sunny side-up fried eggs, topped with green salsa. She would have served it to Ernesto but last time she did, he complained that the sauce was too hot. "You're Mexican, how could you not handle the salsa?" she had yelled, at one point. Then when she gave him the eggs without the salsa, he complained that the eggs gave him a headache. That was why she had to always serve him beans and coffee.
After finishing her breakfast, she began to clean up. She cleaned the stove, swept the floor, and washed dishes. Then she went outside to sweep the courtyard and water flowers.
It took a long time but she finally finished her household chores. She could read or sew for an hour before getting started on dinner.
In the evening, Ernesto came home, plopped down on the chair, and put his feet up on the other one. "Imelda, rub my feet!" he demanded. "I had been standing and walking all day!"
His wife reluctantly walked over and rubbed his feet. Imelda wished she had a clothespin so she wouldn't have to smell his feet.
After two hours of rubbing feet, dinner was served.
"Phew!" Ernesto gagged after spitting his food out. "What is this? Rubber shoes?"
"Beef enchiladas, genius," Imelda said, bitterly.
"Well, they stink!" Ernesto said, in a snobby voice. "I've tasted better enchiladas than this mush!" Despite her protests, Ernesto threw his dinner out of the window.
"Now get me ready for bed!"
After Imelda put his clothes on and tucked him in bed, she went to her room. She put on her pajamas and sat down in her bed.
Imelda was sick and tired of this terrible life. The same routine over and over again: get up, dress Ernesto, feed him, do chores, feed him, and dress him for bed. It's so boring!
It would have been nice if she could get away or find a friend to talk. Ernesto was always out so much that he may as well not be her husband. Her parents did not visit her or write to her as they had promised. Imelda had a sinking feeling that her father thought of her as a "puta". When she got married, she thought her father would forgive her and forget her sin. But the fact that he failed to write to her showed her otherwise. Her brothers had tried their best to visit her but they were too busy with school and chores. Her friends were also occupied with their families to check on her. Clutching on her rosary, Imelda began to pray. Through her many prayers, Imelda prayed for a friend.
"When did Papa Hector come along?" Miguel piped up. It was not that he couldn't handle tense scenes. The boy just hoped that Hector would come into the picture sooner than later so Imelda wouldn't be sad for long.
"I am glad you asked, Miguelito," His bisabuela smiled.
One day, Ernesto was chatting with other musicians about how much he disliked his wife.
"...To this day, I still hate being married," he concluded, on his rant.
"Yes, Ernesto," his friend, Gustavo groaned. "I have been hearing that speech a million times before! Why did you ever marry her in the first place? You should have thought of this before marrying Imelda!"
"How was I supposed to know that she was a nagging shrew?" Ernesto grumbled.
"Now, now Ernesto," said Antonio. "You know how Imelda is: strong, fiery, and smart. Surely you must know that."
"Yes," said Ernesto. "But not quite like this. I should have picked a different woman!"
"Yeah, you should have!" Gustavo agreed.
"Mira, Mira!" Antonio crowd, pointing to a big poster by the bulletin board by the plaza. "They're having a talent show coming up in three months! Let's sing up!"
The men walked up to the poster and looked at it.
"Good idea!" Ernesto smiled. "We will enter in it as a band! We got a trumpet player (Antonio), a violinist (Gustavo), and a guitarist (me)!"
"We need a songwriter," Antonio said.
"A songwriter?" Ernesto questioned. "Why do we need one? Can't we just sing covers of folklore songs?"
"The poster says that we need to sing original songs," Antonio explained. "Whoever has the best original song, will win Fifty pesos."
Ernesto thought deeply. Then, he snapped his fingers. "I just know the perfect songwriter to ask!"
Inside the town's library, Ernesto took a pen and paper. He wrote a letter to his friend from Santa Cecilia.
Dear Hector,
I offer my congratulations to you for finishing your high school studies. I have a job for you. My band is going to join our town's talent show and we need a songwriter. I thought of you because you have a talent at writing songs. Meet me at my house on July 29th, 1917, at 5:30, so we can work on a new song. Attached to my letter is my street address: 450 Rojo Rd. Pátzcuaro, Mexico.
I wait for you to come.
Sincerely, Ernesto de la Cruz.
After he was done writing, he mailed the letter. It took a week for his letter to reach Santa Cecilia.
A few weeks later, Ernesto received a response from his friend.
"Good news, amigos!" He addressed Gustavo and Antonio. "Hector has responded and he is coming!"
The three men were so excited that they jumped and yelled their gritos. Now they are going to be in the talent show!
"I can smell the prize money already!" Gustavo cheered, with dollar signs in his eyes.
"What's Hector like?" Antonio asked. "Is he reliable? We need someone who is talented and responsible!"
"Por supuesto!" said Ernesto. "Hector is the most responsible guy I have ever known!"
On July 29, 1917, a man who was about 18 years old, was rushing to the train station. He had overslept and did not want to miss his train! He was lucky that his Tío Chicharron woke him up, otherwise, he would have been doomed! The young man had thrown on clothes, grabbed his suitcase, and dashed out of his home, not having time to eat breakfast. His Tía Juanita insisted on eating but he didn't have time so the best she could offer him was a piece of bread. The tall man ran as fast as he could. As soon as he made it to the train station, the man quickly spoke to a conductor.
"Perdóname Señor, is this the train to Pátzcuaro?" He asked, breathlessly.
"Yes, this is the right train!" the conductor responded, kindly.
The young man hopped onto the train just as the door was about to close. Once he was inside the car, the man found an empty seat and sat down, breathing a sigh of relief.
Whew! He made it!
"All aboard!" the conductor hollered. "All aboard!" the conductor hollered. "Pátzcuaro, let's go!" Right on cue, the driver started the train's engine and began driving it. "Chugga-chugga-chugga-chugga!"
The young man popped his head out of the window to see the view. The wind blew through his unkempt black hair as if it were combing it. He laughed as the air tickled his goatee.
"This is the start of a new adventure! I cannot wait!"
The train stopped and opened its doors. Many passengers stepped out and found their friends and family who wholeheartedly greeted them. Eagerly, the young man hopped off with his suitcase. He looked around, taking in the sight of the town. It looked similar to Santa Cecilia but it had more people and some more towns. Hector sighed, a bit disappointed that his host wasn't here to come and pick him up. Shouldn't the host show him around town? Hector shrugged good-naturally. He will find his way around here. After reading the letter for the third time, his eyes landed on the street address.
"Where is 450 Rojo Rd.?"
Later in the afternoon, Imelda heard a knock on the door.
"Ugh, my moment of peace is over," she grumbled, turning the stove off. She had been cooking rice before somebody knocked. "Time to greet the bull, feed him dinner that he never likes, and hear an obnoxious lecture of how much he hates my cooking! Honestly, is there any food he likes, he hates everything!" She walked to the door and opened it. Her irritation at having to deal with Ernesto again melted away. It wasn't her husband, but a tall and scrawny man with big nose and big ears.
"Hola Señor, how may I help you?"
"Hola Señora!" the man greeted her, kindly. "Es esta la casa de Ernesto de la Cruz?"
"Why do you ask?" Imelda asked, suspiciously. "Who are you?"
"Oh forgive me, I almost forgot to introduce myself!" the man chuckled. "Me llamo Hector Roberto Fabio Garcia Rivera. I am an old friend of your husband from high school. Ernesto had written to me to visit and help him work on new songs for the town's upcoming talent show. He told me to be here today at five-thirty today. Is he here?"
Imelda relaxed a bit, seeing that this man was not a stranger.
"Please come in," she said, moving aside.
Hector stepped inside with his suitcase. He looked around the house and noticed how clean it looked, yet there was a feeling about this house that didn't seem right. He just couldn't put his finger on it. "Nice place you have."
"Yes, this is the right casa and you are on time," Imelda frowned, apologetically. "But as you can see, he is not here."
"Oh," Hector blushed, feeling a bit embarrassed. "Perdóname, I should come back another time." He picked up his suitcase and took only a few steps when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Wait, don't go!" Imelda said, a bit frantic. "You can stay here! Ah, in fact, why don't you stay here for dinner? My husband will be home by then!"
"Oh no, I don't want you to trouble yourself. I can come back at a later-"
He opened the door, only to find that the rain had started to pour down.
"I didn't know it was going to rain," Hector sighed, in annoyance. "I should have brought a raincoat. Oh well, it's not too far to walk to the hotel."
He jumped back when thunder roared across the sky.
"Well, there's no way I am letting you walk in the rain and catch a cold!" His hostess piped up.
"But Señora!" Hector pleaded, at seeing her closing the door. "My hotel is not that far!"
"Ah, ah, ah!" Imelda chided. "You are staying here until my husband gets home and until the storm stops!" After locking it, she turned around and faced her handsome guest, kindly. "So, what would you like to eat?"