Maria

Maria had been standing up for more than a half hour at the bus stop. She was tired of waiting. If it weren’t so far, she would have walked. She would have to get used to walking. The bus was getting so expensive. Besides, she was tired and her bag was heavy. The day before, on a Sunday, there had been a party at the boss’s house. She had carried the leftovers home, the ham bone and the fruit that had been on the table. She earned the fruit and a tip. The boss was going to throw the ham bone away. Maria was happy in spite of being tired. The tip came at a good time. Her two youngest children were very sick with colds. She had to buy syrup and that medicine to unstuff their noses. The tip would also buy a can of Toddy. The fruits were excellent, and there was also melon—the children had never eaten melon. Would they like it?

The palm of one of her hands was hurting. She had cut herself right in the middle when she was cutting the ham for the boss. Unbelievable. The blade cuts to the quick.

When the bus stopped there at the corner, Maria reached down and grabbed hold of the sack that was on the ground between her legs. The bus wasn’t full, there was room. She could rest a little, take a nap until it was time to get off. When she got on, a man got up in the back on the last seat, making a sign to the fare collector. He passed by in silence, paying his fare and Maria’s. She recognized the man. She had missed him for so long. How difficult it was to continue life without him. Maria sat down in the front. The man sat down beside her. She remembered the past. The man lying in bed next to her. Their life in the shack. The first morning sickness. The enormous belly that everybody said was twins, and of his happiness. How good. The baby was born. It was a little boy. And he had become a man. Maria saw, without looking, that he was the father of her son. He was just the same. Good looking, big, with a frightened look that didn’t fix on anything or anyone. She felt an immense sorrow. Why couldn’t it be another way? Why weren’t they able to be happy? And the boy, Maria? How is the boy? The man whispered. Do you know that I miss you both?

I have an emptiness in my heart, full of nostalgia! I’m all alone. I didn’t get by. I didn’t want anymore. Do you already have others. . . . other children? The woman lowered her eyes as if asking for pardon. Yes. She had two more children, but she didn’t have somebody else. She stayed from time to time with another man. It was so difficult to be single. And with these sudden affairs, crazy, the two younger children were born. And would you believe it, boys as well? Boys, too? They should have had another life. With them everything should be different. Maria, I didn’t forget you. It’s all there in this emptiness in my heart.

The man was speaking, but he continued statically, a prisoner, glued to the seat. He whispered the words to Maria, without turning toward her. She knew what the man was saying. He was speaking of pain, of pleasure, of joy, of the child, of life, of death, of farewell. Of the longing in his heart . . . This time he whispered a little more loudly. She still guessed what he was saying, without hearing him directly: a hug, a kiss, love for the child. And then he got up quickly and pulled out a gun. Somebody else in the back shouted that it was a robbery. Maria was very afraid. Not of the robbers. Not of death. But of life. She had three children. The oldest was eleven and the son of the man who was there in the...