Tarnished Beauty by Cecilia Samartin Page B

her front tooth was chipped as well. “Does that hurt?” she asked, pointing to her cheek.
    â€œOnly when I smile,” Nancy answered, wiping her hands on the skirt of her dress and glancing out the window toward the clothesline. “I…I got an old foul-tempered horse in the barn. I should probably get rid of him.”
    â€œYou probably should,” Jamilet agreed, certain she hadn’t seen a horse when she was in the barn. “Or put him out to pasture, and pray that somebody steals him.” Nancy laughed easily, ignoring the pain, and took Jamilet’s plate to the sink.
    Jamilet felt an immediate connection with Nancy and began to speak without thinking too much about what she was saying. As she began to tell Nancy her story, she realized she’d never felt so compelled. And her close encounter with death had given her newfound confidence. Instinctively she knew that it was rare to find such a kind and interested listener. She told Nancy of how she’d been born with the mark that the villagers believed to have come from the devil, and all that she had suffered because of it. She told her about her years at the Miller house, and her mother’s long illness and death, and her decision to leave home. She told her about how she’d traveled across the desert at night, and how she’d been tied up while she slept. She trembled when she described how it was to cross the river alone, and how it reminded her of the fear and repulsion she’d lived with all of her life. Surviving it had made her feel more capable than she’d ever felt before, and gave her hope that she’d find the cure she sought in the north. All the while, Nancy listened, enraptured, as her hands made lazy circles over her belly. When it seemed there was nothing more to say, Jamilet felt suddenly ashamed that she’d imposed in such a manner, and awkwardly thanked Nancy for her time and hospitality. Then, standing up, she asked her which way it was to Los Angeles.
    â€œLos Angeles is real far. You gotta take the bus, and it ain’t cheap.”
    Jamilet retrieved all the money she had out of her boot, and placed it on the table for Nancy’s inspection.
    â€œThat won’t get you nothing here. It’s Mexican money,” Nancy said, and she disappeared wordlessly into the pantry, returning moments later with a small wad of bills folded in her palm. “There should be enough here for a one-way bus ticket to Los Angeles, and a little to spare. You’ll find a bus station in the next town, five or so miles down the road. Just stay close to the trees in case the border patrol comes back this way.”
    Jamilet was overwhelmed with emotion in the face of such generosity. “I…I can’t take your money.”
    â€œYou’re not taking it—I’m giving it to you.” She grabbed Jamilet’s hand and pressed the bills into it. “You know what they say, when you got money and no purpose for it, it…it starts to stink so bad that even an old horse can sniff it out. It’s best I get rid of it.”
    Â 
    That afternoon, Jamilet found herself seated on a Greyhound bus headed for Los Angeles, the place where her aunt Carmen lived, and where Lorena believed that miracles could be found. With the few dollars that remained, she bought a hamburger, potato chips, and a small Coke. It was the first hamburger she’d ever tasted, and she ate it reverently while gazing out the window and thinking about Nancy. It was getting dark, and in the window Jamilet was certain she saw the reflection of her mother’s face wavering beyond her own. And if she partially closed her eyes, the vision became more distinct and impossible to dismiss. And when her mother spoke, her voice was like the melody of a lilting flute, and more real than the droning rumble of the engine.
    Â 
    â€œI’m very proud of you,” she said. “I didn’t think you’d get