Only the chicken man Jorge seemed to guess what had happened and it had scared Yolanda into accepting his visits.
He would come in the late afternoon just before dinner and sit at the head of the table. Yolanda didn't like him sitting in Carlos' chair. She didn't like the way he grinned at her. Most of all, Yolanda didn't like him eating her food and picking it out of his teeth.
She prayed that the children could not hear them. The oldest might understand for they'd watched dogs in the dust of the yard. Yolanda wondered if they could make the connection between that and what she was doing to Carlos in the chair.
She sat impaled on his lap, his hands clamped on her breasts as he pulled her up and down upon him. They both were slippery with sweat and he held on all the tighter, her breasts aching with the grip of his fingers.
She hoped the children did not hear them. For they would tell their father when he returned home.
Eventually he did not bother with the meal and came late at night. She would feel his hairy arms around her, his chest furred like that of a bear, his calloused fingers grabbing and poking. He would thrust himself into her but he was quick and if she held her breath, he would be done and gone and she could go back to sleep.
Carlos had made her suspicious. There was a smell on him when he came in late and slipped in beside her in bed. It was the smell of a woman.
Yolanda once noticed bruises and asked him where he had gotten four perfect round purple spots like fingertips on each half of his buttocks. He told her he'd backed into a pitchfork.
There were other signs that cut deep. The whispers of the village women tickled her back as their false smiles mirrored her own. She felt fat and foolish. Yolanda's pretty dark eyes and pouty red lips had become lost in flesh.