Free The Years That Followed by Catherine Dunne

forty?
    No, thanks.
    â€œI promise,” she said. “Besides, I don’t have a young man. I don’t want one.”
    Señor Gómez had laughed at that. “Well, perhaps not just now,” he said. “I think you have other fish to fry.”
    There were already tenants in the building, he told her. For now, it would be the most practical solution for Pilar to move into the living quarters that came with the portería : a kitchen, a bathroom, a living area, and one large bedroom, located in one of the most fashionable areas of Madrid. That would mean, of course, that Pilar would also take over the portera ’s duties—the present incumbent was due to retire. Señor Gómez paused. She could see him weighing up the odds that always remained invisible to her.
    So. What did Pilar think?
    Pilar didn’t need to think. Of course she could do it. The duties that Señor Gómez outlined were as nothing compared to the constraints of a life surrounded by dozens of bickering girls, the demands of the nuns at the laundry, the stress of waiting tables at Señor Roberto’s restaurant every weekend. Not to mention the night shift at the neighborhood launderette, endlessly loading the washing machines, folding other people’s sheets. She could be a portera , of course she could. She could run errands, manage money, take in people’s deliveries. Pilar remembered her mother’s words: that she was never to clean floors that belonged to other people.
    No, Mamá, Pilar thought: if I ever clean floors again, they will belong to me.
    She watched the customary slow smile spread once again across Señor Gómez’s face. He nodded his approval. Later, he added hastily, Pilar would, of course, want more space, a better job, a different lifestyle. But this would do for now, he said; this was killing lots of birds with one stone. Take things slowly, he counseled. Cut your cloth to suit your measure.
    Little by little.
    * * *
    A month later, Pilar packs her things and leaves the nuns’ hostel. Sister María-Angeles is less than pleased. “It is customary to give notice,” she says. “So that I can find your replacement.” She fingers the heavy rosary beads that gird her habit, cutting her in the middle like one of the copper hoops that encircle the vats in the laundry.
    Pilar looks at her steadily. “A replacement?” she says. “Your hostelis already full of replacements, Sister. Many of them fallen women. What better replacements could you get?”
    Pilar is conscious that Sister Florencia has appeared in the hallway, her slight figure partly concealed by the late-creeping shadows of the January afternoon. She regrets that; Sister Florencia has been kind to her, always, and to all the other girls who work in the laundry. Pilar would have preferred her not to witness her departure, not like this.
    Sister María-Angeles cannot contain her anger. “You ungrateful girl,” she says. “We took you in out of the goodness of our hearts.”
    â€œReally?” Pilar takes a step closer. “I think I’ve paid very dearly for the goodness of your hearts. I’ve slaved away for you, one way or another, for far too long. All of us here, we’re all badly paid, badly treated, badly fed.” Pilar can see that some of the other girls are leaning over the banister, peering down into the hallway. Their faces are terrified with listening.
    Good. What Mamá once did for her, perhaps she can now do for some of them. There are times when it is necessary to be frightened, Pilar believes. Necessary to feel the fear of imprisonment in order to grasp for freedom. She raises her voice. “If that is what you call the goodness of your heart, you can all keep it. I’ll wash your clothes and your floors no longer.”
    Pilar has the satisfaction of watching a pall of silence gather around Sister María-Angeles. It is almost