Twenty-threeThe sober three-thousand-dollar

wedding dress chosen by her mother (bone-colored, long-sleeved, with a buttonhole collar and a long row of chaste buttons running down the back) awaited Lucía on a hanger. It was loose on her, even though they had given it to the seamstress more than once to take in several centimeters and even though a baby had been gestating inside her for about five months. Lucía observed everything that happened around her from above, as if she were a figurine in a miniature model of a residential development, of the kind displayed at shopping malls. She was nothing but a playing piece in that perfect world of tiny moss trees and cellophane swimming pools. They could place her holding a tennis racquet next to a car, on the lawn, or at the entrance of a luxurious residence, standing behind a man with a briefcase. It didn’t matter. She was exhausted. She wanted to slit her wrists.

“You are a romantic vision: vaporous, feminine, diaphanous, but those bags under your eyes are scary, chiquita. Haven’t you slept?” said Flavio, the makeup artist.

“Isn’t she still too pale?” asked the mother of the bride, who observed Flavio as he applied Lucía’s makeup with a surgeon’s precision.

“Well yes, está color axila de lagartija—she’s as pale as a lizard’s armpit,” said Flavio. “But I will take care of that with my magic powders. Don’t worry, Señora, we’re going to make this child dazzle like a shooting star.”

The maids helped Lucía fasten the veil. They gathered the train so she wouldn’t drag it all the way to the garage, where an old-fashioned car festooned with lace, gladiolas and tuberose awaited her. Zenaida held her bouquet, as she helped her get in the car.

“You are very beautiful, Señorita Lulú,” she heard her say in a distant echo. “May God bless you. Here are some María cookies with cajeta, so you can eat something before the wedding.”

Lucía levitates over the church’s aisle, groggy from the tranquilizers. Her mother has instructed her how to reach the altar: one step and stop, two steps and stop. Her upper lip trembles. Her smile hurts. She glances sideways at the maids, who give up their seats for late-arriving guests.

Her father reeks of alcohol. His arm feels as cold and inert as a handrail. Since the morning he hit her, he won’t talk to her, won’t look at her, and won’t touch her. To control her tears, Lucía observes the gaggle of her mother’s friends, some wearing fur coats, although it’s 2 pm on a sweltering Saturday in March.

Her mother wears a sequined chiffon dress straight out of Star Wars. She takes stock of everything everyone says, thinks, and imagines. She is on Adolfo’s arm, who smiles like a fool, since the bump he just had with the groom has kicked in. The in-laws look like they are at a wake. The only one radiating joy is Luis Lombardo, her brother’s “best friend,” who waits for her at the altar, thrilled to see his beautiful bride, whom he will take on trips, dress up, makeover and flaunt, as well as his dashing brother-in-law, flawless in his Hugo Boss tux, whom he will have nearby to love for the rest of his life. It was two for the price of one. ‘He sure took advantage of the clearance sale,’ a guest may have remarked.

Her friends Mercedes, Marifer, Fernanda, Viviana, and Lolis shed crocodile tears. Did they cry like this at Ximena’s wedding to Ricardo?

A few days after the incident, Luis started showing up at Lucía’s house with bouquets of roses and chocolate boxes. He was happy, courteous, and sweet as he gave her the pills she needed to keep from going insane. Roberto and Natalia were alarmed at first, but soon they had to admit that Luisito was their best, and in fact only, option. Locked in her bedroom with him, weak from not eating, lightheaded from the drugs, or dizzy with the pregnancy, Lucía could feel his throat constrict when he forced himself to kiss her. She could sense his repulsion every time he touched her. To punish herself, she urged him:

“Fuck me, faggot.”

The morning Agustín left, Lucía sneaked into the servants’ quarters while the rest of the household was deep in their chores. The walls were still swollen with dampness, the tile floor was icy, and the mattresses now bare, left proof of solitary dreams in their stains and grooves. Agustín was tying his cardboard box with rope. Lucía handed him an envelope containing the fifteen thousand pesos she had managed to save.

“This is all I have,” she told him, “but I hope it can help can get Gabriel out of jail soon.”

“He’s not getting out until God knows when,” Agustín replied.

Lucía burst out crying.

“It wasn’t Gabriel’s fault. It was mine.”

Agustín looked at her coldly.

“Bail is set at 50 thousand pesos, if you really want to help.”

From then on, Lucía spent her days forcing herself to recreate the images of Gabriel, delirious with pleasure, his fingers tracing delicate silk lace on her shoulders. Frustrated by her imperfect memories, she would hug one of her pillows, pretend it was Gabriel, and spend hours expressing her regret, showering it with kisses, and stroking its cover with her hand, burning with pain. Addicted to her daydreams, she masturbated obsessively and walked around with her panties permanently drenched in longing. Naively, she believed that the little secret creature she was harboring would be a miniature Gabriel, to whom she would transfer all her love. But she did not dare visit him in jail.

Luis asked for her hand in marriage on Christmas Eve, and a date was set for early March, shortening considerably the customary engagement period of one year. The wedding preparations overwhelmed her for months, although their challenges seemed far more interesting to her boyfriend: whether to choose filet mignon with soufflé potatoes or salmon en croute with shiitake mushrooms, deciding on birds of paradise or Thai orchids; contemplating ring options, selecting the ringbearers and the dresses for the little flower girls; whether to celebrate it at the San Ángel Inn or the Four Seasons; take photos, or video. With epic reluctance she leafed through hefty wedding magazines and interviewed florists and caterers. She let her mother-in-law and Luis make half the decisions while her mother took care of the other half.

Natalia attempted to win her back by enlisting her in the wedding plans and acting sweetly, taking her out for coffee as if they were best friends. She was the only one that showed any compassion. Anything to keep up appearances.

“I convinced your father that since your in-laws will give you the house as a wedding present, we should give you the honeymoon,” she mentioned during one of their prenuptial outings. “Your dad thinks that the reception is enough, but I think the honeymoon is classier, considering the house is forever. Of course, the wedding is forever too, but it only lasts for one day, while you will live in that house with Luis and your children, God willing, for many years to come. Luis told me you want to go to Tahiti and Bora Bora, which I must say is quite far and a bit costly, but I think it’s splendid, because you need a good rest. Forget about everything. Start again. Besides, it’s paradise and you’ll be able to practice your French.”

Irma brought Gabriel food, soap, and toilet paper by bribing the guards or sacrificing a portion of her food when they let her through. Once, she had to hike up her skirt and squat in front of the uniformed, mangy dogs who searched her in case she was smuggling in any weapons or drugs. As the mother of an “urchin,” a convict without money, if she didn’t pay, her son barely got enough food to eat.

His parents came to visit him one Sunday, together after years of hate. His mother brought him two egg and chorizo tortas and some Boings. Gabriel devoured one with hunger and grief and hid the other one for later. His father looked ashen and his mother’s eyes were swollen from crying.

“How are you, hijo?” his mother asked.

All her questions were one and the same: Have they raped you?

Why do you ask if you don’t want to know?, he wished he could reply.

“Hanging in there, Mom. Thanks for the tortas.”

“Your case is at the bottom of a pile of pending trials,” his father said. The Orozcos want to screw you.”

“But we met with your lawyer, son, the one who will defend you,” his mother added. “He hasn’t come to see you? He said he would. The Señorita gave your dad some money. Maybe we can gather enough for your bail.”

“Give it back to her. I don’t want it,” Gabriel replied.

“It’s around fifteen thousand pesos,” his mother insisted.

“Serves you right for messing around with the lady of the house,” his father grumbled.

Lucía glances back, and for a few seconds, she thinks she glimpses a familiar figure standing at the doors of the church. The afternoon sun etches a halo around him. His posture is still, serene. Wisps of wind tussle his hair. Lucía strains her neck, rises, turns her body towards the church’s entrance, her heart pounding.

Come get me. Take me with you.

Taffeta and lace rustle, the rumors of the fever of her illicit love affairs, of her instability, threaten to unleash like a gale. The priest pronounces her name, Luis squeezes her hand. The apparition turns out to be a popsicle vendor ringing the bells of his cart, hoping to attract sweltering parishioners. Lucía returns to her penitence, and the buzzing subsides. She spends the remainder of the ceremony playing, grateful for the distraction, with the psychedelic green and yellow spots dancing before her eyes, courtesy of the sun.

The ring has been placed on her finger, she has eaten the flesh and drunk the blood. Luis has kissed her lips and lifted her gently by the elbow. Under the rain of applause and cheers of “Vivan los novios!” all that awaits her beyond the church are poisoned rays of light.