Chương 26: Una Aureliano Buendia

It was almost seven. The dust storm skittered against the windows and the kitchen lights flickered. Luckily, the electric held up. ¡Bendito sea Dios! (Praise the Lord!) Una had many birds to get to. Her eyes weren't up to painting by candlelight. Tiny Morrie came on the radio and sang Sangre de Indio (Indian blood). There was no smart-aleck grandson around to groan about música de rucos (geezer music). The dial was tuned to 1350 KABQ. She could listen to whatever she liked all night.

Una smiled and tapped her foot along with the rancheras (torch songs) and corridos (ballads). In between the songs, Una listened critically to the disc jockey and mercilessly picked out every tiny mistake. The announcer was clearly a fill-in for the regular DJ. Earlier, she'd heard him come in a second late on changing the tapes. She could picture the DJ, a little sweaty maybe, facing a board he didn't know well. His voice was strong, but not so polished.

He had a cantadito (singsong) delivery that made Una think he might be from somewhere in the Bajío, maybe Guanajuato. His patter was solid enough, but he got sloppy on the legal and station IDs. She would have been all over him for that. As the hour drew near, she watched the Kit-Kat clock tick down. The song ended right on the hour, just in time for the news. She nodded. ¡Así se hace! (That's how you do it!) Una still missed working in radio. She had never wanted to retire; that was the owner's idea.

Probably, the whole station had breathed a sigh of relief when they got her out the door. But, look at them now. The manager they brought in to replace her was some big shot from New York City who didn't know a thing about what the ABQ liked to listen to. He didn't last a year, but the damage was done. Standards slipped and the ratings went in the toilet. Her station, the one she'd worked so hard to make great? They would announce a format shift any day now.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. Es lo que hay. It wasn't her station anymore. Una was a painter now. A tiny flock of finished birds was gathering on the newspaper she'd laid over the kitchen table. Una arranged them in a flying V. She painted the eyes last, always. There was a moment, while the paint was wet, where the bird almost seemed alive. She liked to hold the bird in her palm and imagine it could spread its clay wings and fly away.

It was a silly thing to think, but what did it matter? She was an old widow, alone with the radio. There was only one judgment that mattered now, and it wouldn't be long. The lights flickered out and the radio cut off. Una blinked in the darkness. I didn't mean right now. Her heart beat on, but the lights didn't come back. The phone rang, too loud in the sudden quiet. The power from PNM might be down, but Mountain Bell still had forty-eight volts from the substation. Something must have happened to Robin.

Una never should have let him stay out late. The telephone rang on; they wouldn't wait forever. She padded across the dark kitchen. The power must be out at the store. He's fine, he's just calling to let me know he's all right. Una picked up the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Mrs. Martillo? It's Dr. Suarez. Sorry about the hour. Are you free to speak?" Una's mouth fell open. No.

"Mrs. Martillo? Are you there?"

"I'm sorry. Yes, now is fine," Una said.