Ebro

A short story.

I lived in Spain at the time, in the town of Ebro. My father owned a farm, a big one. In english, it would be called plantation, I guess. My father was french, and my mother spanish, which made it confusing to look at me. "French and Spanish were separate until you came along," Papa would say, "and look how beautifully they work together!"

I don't think i'm especially more beautiful than other girls. It was only my strange, blue, French eyes that contrasted so strangly with my dark, Spanish skin that made me so conspicuous, and that Papa was so rich.

Anyway, we had a wonderful system going on in the house. Papa would wake me up with a boisterous French pub song, then i would chase him out of the door of my room, scolding him for using such language. This was only on the weekdays. On Sundays Papa would never dare to even hum a tune of a pub song, Mama being so religious.

Then Papa would go to his work and on Mondays and Wednesdays Mama would teach me how to be a lady, just as her Mama taught her. I would follow Mamaaround, and then Mama would follow me around, joking in whispers about poster and flirting with boys.

Tuesdays and Thursdays were Abuela's days. she would teach me how to sew and knit and how to braid my hair like hers.

Fridays, though, Fridays were special, for they were Papa's days. I would follow him and he would teach me numbers and what he did with the fruit and vegetables and cotton that grew on our big farm. By the time I was ten, papa was even consulting me on how to do things, or whether or not to invest in a certain product. I took this very seriously, confidently telling him my opinion on such matters.

This caused some talk in the town, a scadal for some, a rumor for others, and for a very few, proof that women were right. They would use it against their husbands; "What would you know of such matters of the house! That is a woman's domain. Even in your appointed place, there are little girls who could invest better than you."

I can't remember who started the game between Papa and me, but I don't think it was me. Papa would tell me a word, a big one, like "repugnance" or "malignant," and I would point to whoever or whatever I though fitted the word. "That boy, see him? The one skulking in the shadows. He looks 'aggreived.' "

i would often use it wrong, and Papa would say, "No, chikita. But he does look 'ireful.' " "What does that one mean, Papa?" "Someone who is angry," he said, "like that man over ther with the rotten orange." And we would go on like this, sometimes ten words a day, sometimes he would steadfastly keep me on one, like "duplicate," or "plantation." "These are the words of your life," he would say if i complained. "They are the most important of all." I never got tired of it.

Then Mama got sick. She had pnemonia, "but it is not dangerous for a strong woman like her." they told us. Bed and rest, and soon it would clear up, she was strong, healthy, they repeated, it would not be too bad. They were worng. As the illness ate away at Mama's health, it ate away at Papa's spirit. Soon there were no more rough pub songs in the morning, just Abuela opening the shutters and promting me softly to get up. Every day became Abuela's. When Mama could no longer get out of her bed on her own, Papa stopped taking care of the farm, and I took over the buisness. He even stopped going to church.

Slowly the illness ravaged Mama and Papa, but it had the opposite effect on me. I suppose that I was simply "in denial," but I steadfastly kept an optimistic veiw on the situation. Mama would get better, she had to. I was fourteen, and death seemed like an impossibility then.

The worst part for me was when the game stopped. I will always remember the last word; "inharmonious." Every morning before I went to work the big farm, I would check in on Mama and Papa.

Papa was always awake, and as I came in he would smile. It never touched his eyes, that smile. he used to have the most wonderful laughing eyes. We would talk about yesterday's problems, and then he would tell me the word.

But one day, when I asked him the word, he sighed. It was a heavy sigh, weighed down by worry and fear, and a terrifying resignation. "I don't know," he said softly, "I don't know a word good enough anymore." "We'll just use 'inharmonius' again then!" I said, not willing to let this precious scrap of our old life be ruined by this savage illness that wanted to destroy us.

When i told this to my husband, so many years later, valiant was the word he used. I don't think so, I was only doing my best to keep dispair away. Dispair showed remarkable perseverance, and I suppose he won in the end.

It was unusually difficult to keep the books during this time. Doctors were always coming and going, perscribing medicines and special diets, and it was all quite expensive. I could cut out most of the clothes cost, but I also had to take out part of the food budget. Thankfully we had Abuela, who didn't have much to do since i started working the farm, and she took over as cook. Abuela didn't cry, she was vrey accepting of her daughter's death. It cut her deeply, though, even if she didn't show it.

When I first had taken over the farm, i was swarmed by people who, either treated me like a very small child with a very limited vocabulary, or people who would try to convince me into bad investments. Papa had taught me well, and it soon became clear that i knew what I was doing.

I think if Papa hadn't been so hurt by Mama's death, he would have been proud of me. I know he was, but he never told me, he perfered to stay away from talk of that time. I even managed the funeral costs and the sale of the house and farm. Even the trip to America was my responsibility.

Papa never said anything about moving, but I could see the pain that Ebro caused him, and when I suggested moving, he grabbed without even waiting for an explanation. "I 'verily' agree," he said, "That was the very first word, do you remember?" I didn't, I said, but I will always remember inharmonious.

 

Reviews

[KhelticRyder]

Very sweet & endearing yest sorrow filled. I really truly enjoyed this. I am always telling my children that even though one should never judge a book by it's cover, too many people often do & that their vocabulary would be used to gage their intelligence. Seems like Papa knew this as well.

Wonderful story, Thank you for sharing.

~ Kheltic Ryder