The Memories of Ana Calderón (26 page)

Lynette was the heavier of the two women, and her weight bore down on Ana, who seemed unable to free either of her arms even while she felt the other's fingers tightening around her throat. After struggling and squirming for a few seconds, she was able to jerk up her legs far enough to pound Lynette's back with a powerful knee blow.

“Ahgg!”

Ana took advantage of the fingers being released to contort her body. She grabbed at Lynette's hair, and with a
strong yank forced her down to the concrete. Now it was Ana's turn to get on top where she battered the woman's face and shoulders countless times with clenched fists. At one point, she grabbed Lynette's hand and bit it.

“A-y-y-y! Bitch!”

Lynette began to cry as she screamed out for help, but no one helped her until a whistle brought several guards running. Even when three of them took hold of Ana's arms and legs, she kept on thrashing about and twisting, trying to land more blows on her enemy. When the officers finally forced her against a wall, she stood dripping with grimy soap. Watery blood trickled out of her nose and from her forehead. Still on the floor, Lynette appeared to be really hurt because, even with the help of two guards and several inmates, she was unable to rise beyond a kneeling position.

Ana, chest heaving and her eyes filled with rage, appeared to have been subdued momentarily. But she surprised everyone when suddenly she lunged at Lynette again. This time the officers slammed her against the wall, pinning her down as they waited for the supervising officer to appear.

Lynette's mouth was wide open and bloody saliva dribbled out of it. She began to scream, accusing Ana. “She's trying to escape! I found out! That's why the snake attacked me! She sneaked up behind me! Try to do it right the next time! Bitch! Bitch!”

The main officer had arrived at the scene in time to hear Lynette's accusations, and she approached Ana, who was still breathing heavily. “What is she talking about, Number 36? Speak up!”

Ana said nothing. Instead she glared while she sucked up enough saliva in her mouth to spit at Lynette. The spittle shot through the air but fell short of its mark, landing on a guard's high-top shoe. The woman cursed loudly. “God-damn greaser!”

“That's it, 36! You're in for a treat.” Turning to the guards, the supervisor said “Put her where she can cool off.”

Ana was confined to a tiny, windowless cell for a week. She was taken out of it once a day so that she could exercise by walking up and down the vast concrete compound for half an hour. But the session was more painful than helpful to her. She always returned to the pitch-black cell with a headache caused by the sunlight, and because of the pain,
she was unable to eat or drink.

When Ana returned to her job in the laundry, she was afraid because she thought that Lynette Hampton would be waiting to attack her again. But the woman avoided her. Ana discovered that she had gained a position of respect from the inmates because she had prevailed over the strongest of them all. She found out that now others looked at her with a mix of awe and envy.

The week of my punishment dragged; it seemed like an eternity. I hardly slept because I was tormented with thinking and asking myself questions. Should I go on trying to escape? And if I did escape, what were the chances of my actually being free? If I made it, wouldn't I be a fugitive all of my life? On the other hand, if I were caught, wouldn't my sentence be extended more years?

I finally told myself that one year had already passed and that a second would pass just as fast. I decided not to try to break out of that trap.

The two years in prison had ended for Ana. She leaned her forearms against the railing of the ferry as it made its way across the narrow channel between Terminal Island and the San Pedro dock. She was dressed in the simple suit, blouse, and pumps provided by the prison supply store. A thin woolen three-quarter-length coat protected her against the March breeze.

Her eyes squinted in the afternoon brightness as her gaze was riveted on the whitecaps. Looking southward, she made out the outline of the Long Beach harbor. She remembered Amy and the food they had peddled on those wharfs. César's face, laughing, was reflected in the cobalt blue as Ana looked down at the swirling water churned up by the boat engines. She looked northward. Her eyes made out the craggy cliffs of Point Fermin Park and its wind-swept, stunted pine trees.
Looking nearer to her, she saw Cabrillo Beach, its round formation reminding her of the secret cove near Puerto Real, and she saw Alejandra and Octavio, jumping, frolicking, gesturing.

Ana shut her eyes, trying to erase the vision. When she opened them again, she was thinking of Ismael and that he would have been eight years old that February. She wondered, as she did almost every day, where he was and just how tall he had grown; this thought brought a smile to her face. Turning to press her back on the railing, Ana raised her face to the soft warmth of the sun. She stayed that way for a few moments as she thought of her life since her son's last birthday with her. She straightened her head and looked into space; her stare was hard.

She thought of the two years she had just finished in jail and what she had to show for it. Her mind shoved the word
nothing
to its forward recesses, but it soon reversed itself. Ana mumbled, “Not quite nothing.” She reminded herself that she had been allowed to read most of the books in the prison library for one thing, and she had forced herself to admit that this had been good. She had also been taught to operate several types of machines, especially those used for sewing clothes. More importantly, the prison directors had placed her in a job at a factory for women's apparel. This, at least, would give her a beginning.

Ana looked down and stared at her fingers. They were rough and calloused, just like those of the women she had left behind. She snorted through her nose as she saw that no matter how many good things she tried to squeeze out of her past two years, the truth was that she had hated every second of that time. Nothing could ever make up for the loss of those months ripped out of her life. She had detested the cell and the women who had surrounded her. And yet, she had to admit that they had taught her something. She had learned how to survive, and how to strike back. Those women had been her teachers.

Ana was jerked from her thoughts when the boat bumped against the wharf. It was time to go ashore. As she walked off the gangplank, she felt her legs tremble slightly. She knew it was due partly to the sway of the boat during the crossing, but it was also because she was afraid. She was alone. None of her family had attempted to communicate with her during
her term in jail, which confirmed their guilt in her mind. A surge of new rage coursed through her, sending energy to her shaky legs.

Her only connection with the outside had been Amy and Franklin. It was they who informed her that Alejandra and Octavio had moved away from Humphrys Street to a house in Monterey Park. They had sold the old place and used the money as a down payment on their new home. Pilar and Cruz had married one after the other and drifted away, each with her husband, and Zulma and Rosalva picked up stakes and moved to New York. No one knew anything about them, either.

Recently, Amy and Franklin had decided that they, too, would move back to Oklahoma. They had at first resisted the move, but circumstances around them were changing so much that they felt forced to begin a new life. Franklin explained to Ana how the end of the war had brought new streets and houses in their area, and that the city had passed rules outlawing the keeping of chickens, ducks, rabbits or pigeons. He said that it was because there were too many complaints of flies and stench.

Slowly in the beginning, then at a more rapid pace, their neighbors had sold their five-, two- and even one-acre spreads to private land corporations. The space was being converted into track homes. So Amy and Franklin, like their neighbors, sold the ranch and the market, and packed their things. After that they said goodbye to Ana, promising to keep close to her with their letters.

Ana walked to the red car terminal thinking of Amy and Franklin, and how they had cried when they hugged her for the last time. She was alone, but she knew where she was going. The prison counselor, the one who had managed to get Ana a job, had also arranged for a room for her to rent. It was located one street away from the factory, on Twelfth and Los Angeles Streets, just in front of St. Joseph's Church.

Ana climbed the high metal steps of the coach and walked down the aisle to sit by a window. As the train lurched forward, she felt blood course through her body and up to her head. She was free, out of the cage and on her own. She found it strange that she didn't mind being alone. On the contrary, she felt that if she followed the right direction she would be able to reach her goal. She blinked her eyes when
this thought crossed her mind. Goal? What goal? Ana wasn't sure.

The train swayed, picking up speed, and Ana saw how Los Angeles was changing. They were traveling north, almost parallel to the highway she and Amy had traveled over and again on their routes. She could almost feel the bumping of the pick-up, its tight springs bouncing off the badly paved road. She remembered Ismael seated between her and Amy, his small head jerking from one side to the other. And she saw César, in the rear of the truck, hanging on to its side as the wind swept his dark brown hair back on his head.

Now she saw long tracks of land on which were constructed countless houses; they all looked alike. Where there was still empty space, Ana noticed that new structures were in process, and that almost everywhere there were piles of fresh lumber and sacks of cement. Men seemed to be everywhere, digging trenches, peeping through engineering instruments, waving red caution flags.

The trip from the harbor took less than an hour. When Ana stepped off the train at the terminal in Los Angeles, she asked someone where she was. Sixth and Los Angeles Streets, she was told, six blocks away from her new home.

When I opened my eyes early that morning, it was still dark out and the ceiling of my room was bathed in the yellow glow reflected by the street light. My body felt strange in that new place. I stretched, putting my forearms behind my head while I scanned the small attic room that I had rented. I liked it. The walls were covered with decorated paper, and the floors were of polished wood. It was a corner room with two windows; one of them looked out to Twelfth Street and the other towards Los Angeles Street. I had a view of the twin spires of the church from that window. I smiled, thinking of how different this room was from the cell that had almost become my world.

I felt nervous. Again there would be new faces, a new routine and a new way of working in my life. But my shakiness began to fade away when I told myself that if I worked hard, I
would one day be able to find Ismael. There was something else besides this, though. I felt a desire, strong and new for me, to be able to trace out my own path in life, and to be able to choose what direction I would take.