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Like a Sore Thum…b Bryan Betancur
G
ismelda found a severed thumb in the grocery store. A dirty, distended thumb, hidden under a head of lettuce she had picked up to examine. She set the lettuce down with the care of a bomb tech defusing an explosive device, then quickly pushed her cart away. She wandered the market with no clear purpose, stopping to search for items on her list but seeing only the gruesome thumb. “Vámonos ya,” she whispered at the end of every aisle. But she didn’t leave. For reasons she couldn’t yet understand, Gismelda returned to the produce section. It was still there: a discolored thumb that made her think of a bruised Vienna sausage. A glowing warmth radiated through Gismelda’s stomach like sourdough rising in an oven. A low-voltage current tickled her thighs. She gasped. She hadn’t experienced sensations like those since her wedding night, when Inocencio took her virginity. Inocencio, who expertly navigated Gismelda’s body while swearing he was also a virgin. Inocencio, who years later lost his left ring finger in a factory accident and exclaimed, “Mira, Melda, God don’t want me wear a wedding band no more!” Inocencio, who abandoned Gismelda because she couldn’t give him children, then returned ten years later, como si nada, as if it had been ten minutes. Inocencio, the man who broke Gismelda. u u u Gismelda took the thumb out of the freezer. As usual, she laid the finger in the palm of her hand to feel its frigid solidity permeate her skin, then placed it in a bowl filled with ice. She carried the bowl to the dining table and set it just beyond the newspaper, dictionary, and notebook. When she immigrated to the US, Gismelda habitually read the newspaper to improve her
HISPANIC CULTURE REVIEW
