Without a Second Thought by Diane Lorz Benitez

Author:Diane Lorz Benitez
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Amphorae Publishing Group, LLC
Published: 2020-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

We found Anita’s apartment, one of the first to be built, in a nondescript concrete cube of four floors, the maximum allowed in a building with no elevator. Sticky and tired, we dragged our luggage to Anita’s third-floor apartment. The only one with energy was the child, who busied herself opening and closing doors and cupboards. Once she had finished her inspection, she did it all over again.

“Tomorrow,” I said when she asked to go to the ocean. “Right now you can help me make our bed.” The cupboard held clean linens. “And then we can go for a walk before supper.”

I had to escape the sound of Tia Anita’s voice. I could hear her in the kitchen pelting Aurora with questions. Did she have enough soap powder? Did she know how to use a washing machine? Had she brought enough bread for the evening meal? Were there enough eggs? Could she make gazpacho for the next day? Would she remember to turn off the gas stove? Would she make a grocery list for Anita’s inspection? Was the melon she brought from Madrid ripe? I swallowed two aspirins with a handful of water from the bathroom sink, took my daughter’s hand and bolted for the door.

“Volveremos en una hora,” I said as we sailed past the kitchen. Surely in an hour Tia Anita would have finished her interrogation and my Ana should have burned off some energy.

The aspirin took effect within minutes. We found a children’s playground behind the building, and I felt rejuvenated enough to push a swing for Ana and to hold her waist while she crawled along the monkey bars. When she tired of that, we walked the short distance to the water’s edge.

“Yes, yes,” I said. “Tomorrow. I won’t forget.”

My head was clear when we started home but the smells of our supper—or someone else’s, it didn’t matter—filled the stairwell, and by the time we reached the second floor, I felt sick.

Normally, I would have relished a supper of fried eggs on white rice with a splash of tomato sauce. But I shook my head when Aurora asked if I wanted one egg or two. I didn’t want any. I blamed my aversion on Tia Anita’s olive oil. By all accounts the orchards in Anita’s corner of Andalucia produced the finest oil in the country. It was graded according to acidity and labeled according to region, rather like wine. In spite of its reputation, I had never liked it. The light yellow oil I used in Madrid had a delicate flavor. But Anita’s pride was a translucent pale green with a heavy, almost smoky flavor. I didn’t care for the taste and now I couldn’t stand the smell as it sputtered in a skillet waiting for Aurora to slip in an egg. The odor hung in the air long after the eggs had been fried and hours after the dishes had been washed.

In the morning I thought something in Alicante’s water made the coffee bitter. All I wanted for breakfast was a chunk of stale bread.

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