The Five Acts of Diego Leon by Alex Espinoza Read Free Book Online Page A

for the likes of you.”
    Diego’s voice quivered when he spoke. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
    “Why?” She sighed now, folded her arms. “Well?”
    Finally, he spoke again. “Grandmother?” he asked. “Are you my grandmother?”
    “What did you say? What did you call me?”
    “Are you the mother of my mother, Amalia León?”
    “Amalia.” She whispered it as though it were a name she hadn’t heard in a long time. She gripped the gold crucifix around her neck. “Who
are
you?”
    “I’m Diego. Amalia’s son.” He handed her the envelope.
    She looked at it then reached out to him. The woman cupped her palm underneath his chin and regarded him, as if he were not at all a person but a thing. Then she pulled her hand back, straightened her shoulders, and cleared her throat.
    “And your father? Something must have happened. Is he dead?”
    Diego lowered his head. “No,” he said. “But he sent me away. He told me to come here. He said he couldn’t take care of me.”
    The old woman shook her head. “Very well,” she said. “Come along inside. I don’t want the neighbors thinking we’re taking in vagrants.” She led him through the door. “Quickly. Quickly.”
    Inside, the house was vast. The tile floors shone brightly in the afternoon sun. The living room was filled with clay pots, couches with pillows, and sitting chairs with intricate scrolls and designs etched into their finely polished and fragrant wooden backs. A thick tapestry hung from a long metal rod on the wall alongside an oil painting of a young man wearing a suit of armor. A collection of antique pocket watches and magnifying glasses were arranged in locked cabinets. Glass figurines covered the top of a credenza made of dark wood with iron inlays. When the grandmother had him sit down, Diego couldn’t believe how soft the cushion beneath him felt, and he had to fight the urge to let himself go and fall asleep. The grandmother ordered a servant to bring him a glass of warm milk and two slices of sweet bread and roasted almonds that she carried in on a silver tray. Diego ate, swallowing the milk in deep and long gulps.
    “Slowly,” she said, her voice tense. “Slowly.” She took a seat across from him, in a chair with a high back. She sat erect, her hands folded neatly on her lap. “Diego?” she asked. “You say your name’s Diego?”
    He put the milk down. “Yes.”
    “Wipe your mouth before you speak.” She gestured at a lace handkerchief before him.
    He dabbed his lips with it then passed it back. “Thank—”
    “No,” she interrupted. She waved a hand at him, flinging herthin wrist, the bones beneath her skin jagged. “Keep the thing. I don’t want it back. How old are you?”
    “Eleven. What … what should I call you? Grandmother?”
    “Doña Julia. Call me Doña Julia.” Her face was gaunt, the flesh pulled taut over her sharp cheekbones. Her mouth was small, the lips very dry and pale. Her eyes were two dark brown pits that seemed to devour all light, and Diego found he couldn’t look directly into them. They were crowned by a pair of uneven and bright white brows that rested—very heavy and sagging uncomfortably—along loose and flaccid ridges of skin.
    “Doña Julia?” Diego asked. “Can you tell me about my mother when she was younger?”
    “She was very pretty.” His grandmother rose and walked over to a wooden secretary. She pulled the front drawer out and removed a photograph in a pewter frame that was heavy when she placed it in his hand. “Here she is. It was taken her last year of school,” his grandmother said, her voice tender, her eyes filling with tears. He saw her smile when she placed the photograph before him.
    It was hard for Diego to believe that this woman in a white dress with ruffles along the neckline, pearl earrings dangling from her earlobes like small drops of milk, was his mother. In the photo, she neither smiled nor frowned. She was beautiful in a way that would forever be