Red Glass

by Laura Resau

  She scattered the kernels, praying, moving her lips in the flickering candlelight. She studied the corn as though it were a book.

  Dika whispered to me, “See how smart is this lady. My comadre.”

  “Shhh!” I told her.

  “Hmph!”

  Abuelita was silent now, watching the kernels. Finally, she spoke in a grave voice. “Glass, there is green glass, brown glass.”

  “The jewels,” Dika said. “Maybe they found them.”

  “There is wood. And metal, too. Heavy things, sharp things, blood.”

  “Here is my secret. It’s quite simple: One sees clearly only with the heart. Anything essential is invisible to the eyes.”

  “Anything essential is invisible to the eyes,” the little prince repeated, in order to remember.

  —THE LITTLE PRINCE

  Unforeseen Journey

  Three more times, Abuelita threw the corn, and each time, it said the same. Always blood, sharp things, heavy things.

  Dika pushed it. “But what kind of things, comadre? Is it Mr. Lorenzo or Ángel? Was it an accident? Are they coming back?”

  Abuelita said the corn gave her no more details. Only the glass, the wood, the metal, the blood.

  “Abuelita,” I said. I hugged my knees and shivered in my cotton nightgown. “Can you ask the corn another question? Can you ask if Ángel found his mother?” I tried not to look at Dika, but I felt her eyes on me.

  Dika said to me in English, in a low, hurt voice, “You think this is reason they don’t come?”

  “I don’t know, Dika. Maybe. I mean, they never found her body.”

  Dika put her hand over her heaving chest, took a deep breath, and said to Abuelita, “Comadre, please throw the corn again.”

  Abuelita chanted a few minutes with her eyes closed and finally tossed the corn onto the table. She examined it, moving her fingers over it lightly, and then looked at us, her face solemn. “Ángel has not found his mother yet. But he will.”

  A moment of shock. Dika pressed her lips together. In Spanish, she whispered, “If his wife is alive, he should be with his wife.” Then she lay down on her mattress and stared at the ceiling. After Abuelita put away her tin of corn and copal, she settled next to Dika and stroked her forehead. I wished someone were stroking my forehead.

  Just before sunrise, Abuelita and Dika had finally fallen asleep. Next to Ñola, I was trying to breathe deeply so that sleep would come.

  Suddenly, Ñola said my name. “Sophie.”

  Maybe I’d imagined it. Did she know my name? I stared at her small, wrinkled face on the pillow, her white braids spread out like wings. Her mouth moved. “Sophie.”

  Then she said the same phrase she’d said while handing me the Queen of the Night flower. “Cuaá nanducuvé.”

  “I don’t understand Mixteco, Ñola.”

  “Cuaá nanducuvé,” she said again.

  “Cuaá nanducuvé,” I repeated.

  She nodded and laughed—“heeheeheeheehee”—and then, just as suddenly, fell back asleep. I repeated the phrase like a mantra in my head until finally, I slept.

  I woke up to Pablo bouncing on the mattress. “Sophie, wake up!”

  I opened my eyes. Light streamed through the flowered curtains. Ñola was gone, probably lying outside somewhere. Abuelita and Dika’s mattress was empty.

  “What, Pablo?” I groaned.

  “Wake up!”

  “Why?” A rush of excitement. “Is Ángel here?”

  “No. But it’s breakfast time. You slept late!”

  I propped myself onto my elbows and held his hands, which were already grimy from playing outside.

  “Hey, principito. What does this mean? Cuaá nanducuvé.”

  “I don’t know Mixteco.”

  “You understand it. Abuelita and Ñola speak Mixteco to you sometimes. Come on, what does Cuaá nanducuvé mean?”

  “Bueno. Cuaá nanducuvé. It’s like when my dad was in the field and it was time for lunch and Abuelita says Cuaá nanducuvé, then I have to go tell him to come back.”

  “So what does it mean, Pablo?”

  “Go. Go find him.”

  All morning long, the words echoed in my head. Cuaá nanducuvé. Go find him.

  The phone call came that evening, when the sun had nearly sunk from sight.

  Dika and I were washing dishes outside, and my hands were red and raw from the harsh soap, cold in the evening air. Go find him, I heard in the lyrics of every song. Over the loudspeaker, the music stopped and a voice came on: phone call for Señora Dika and Señorita Sofía. We dropped the dishes and without even rinsing the soap off our hands, we ran. Dika could run only about five paces before gasping for breath and doubling over, clutching her belly. I ran ahead, taking long strides in my sandals, my feet pounding the ground.

  When I was nearly there, a scream rose over the music. “Sophie!” It was Dika. Something was wrong. I sprinted back along the path, and found her struggling to stand.

  I knelt beside her. “Are you okay?”

  “My leg,” she muttered. “I trip this damn tree root.”

  “Is it broken?” The skin on her ankle was scraped pink and bleeding. It was the same ankle she’d hurt climbing out of the pool the day she seduced Mr. Lorenzo.

  “We see,” she said. “Now help me to stand. We must to talk with my boyfriend.”

  I held my arms around her waist as she limped down the path. A few minutes later, breathless, we reached the shop with the phone.

  “He’ll call back in ten minutes,” the lady said.

  Dika plopped onto the bench, huffing and rubbing her ankle, while I paced the wooden floor, watching the phone.

  When it rang, I snatched it up. “¿Bueno?”

  “Sophie,” Mr. Lorenzo said.

  “Where are you?”

  “Buenas tardes, Sophie,” Mr. Lorenzo said. “Ah, can I speak with your aunt?”

  “What’s going on? Are you coming back?” I tried to make my voice calm. “Please, just tell me.”

  “M’hija, something happened to Ángel.”

  My legs grew weak. I waited. Heavy things, sharp things, blood.

  Mr. Lorenzo’s voice shook. “You know that there is much anger in our tierra since the war. People saw terrible things and the anger stayed in their hearts, and some of them—”

  “Mr. Lorenzo, please. What happened to Ángel?” Out of the corner of my eye I saw Dika, tears in her eyes.

  “Bueno, he is alive.” He cleared his throat and still his voice shook. “That is the important thing.”

  My knees were about to collapse. I sat down on the bench beside Dika. She put her hand on my shoulder.

  “He has been in the hospital for three days, Sophie,” Mr. Lorenzo said. “I couldn’t call you sooner because he was unconscious and I wanted to be there when he woke up.” He was quiet for a moment, making little sniffling noises.

  I clutched the phone. “What happened?”

  “A gang attacked him one night, stole everything from him. They took his mother’s jewels. They beat him and cut him badly. Knives, they had. Broken bottles. Beams of wood. They had too much anger in their hearts.”

  “But what—”

  “I’m sorry, m’hija, but I only have enough money to talk for a minute. Listen, the gang stole our money and passports. We can’t cross back into Mexico without them. We need you to get our visas and the photocopies of our passports—they’re in my bag. Can you send them here?”

  “Is that safe? To send that through the mail?”

  “We have no choice, Sophie. Do you have a pen?”

  My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold the pen the shopkeeper had given me. I wrote the address of the hospital, and then the bank where I was supposed to wire them money. “Mr. Lorenzo,” I said. “Will Ángel—”

  “M’hija, listen, the time’s nearly up—”

  “Mr. Lorenzo?”

  No answer. The line was dead.

  We waited two hours for Mr. Lo
renzo to call back, then shuffled home in the dark, very slowly, Dika limping at my side. She talked nonstop, moaning and asking me questions. How long they will be there, Sophie? Where he is hurt? They will to catch the bad guys, no? Mr. Lorenzo’s wife, she lives?

  My answer was a numb shrug. Nothing mattered except Ángel.

  Back at the house, Abuelita sliced open some fresh aloe leaves, revealing clear slime that she rubbed over Dika’s wounds. After examining the ankle, now purple and swollen, Abuelita announced it was only a bad bruise and deep scrape. She said it should heal fine if Dika stayed off it for the next few days. Pablo moved his chair next to Dika during our evening coffee and traced the blue veins of her thighs with his fingers. Sugar from his jam-filled pastry coated his chin like an old man’s beard.

  He must have sensed something was wrong, because he asked in a small, hesitant voice, “Where’s Ángel and Mr. Lorenzo?”

  “Oh, they’ll just be back later than expected,” I said, forcing a smile.

  “Will Ángel bring me the slingshot?”

  “Yes.” My voice cracked. “He will. I just need to send them some papers is all.” Dika and I had decided that the next day I’d go to Huajuapan with one of the aunts, and stop by the post office and the bank. But the aunts seemed doubtful the mail would arrive safely, especially since the documents were worth a lot on the black market.

  I left the flickering firelight of the kitchen and went into the bedroom to find the visa and photocopies and extra money to send to Mr. Lorenzo. The room was still and dark except for moonlight spilling through the window. For a long time, I sat on the mattress and stared at Ángel’s visa photo. It was a good picture. He looked just on the verge of breaking into a smile, with that faint dimple on his left cheek.

  How hurt was he? Was he still unconscious? How were they paying for food if they barely had enough to make a phone call? What if the documents got lost in the mail? They wouldn’t be able to pick up the wired money without picture IDs. They’d be stuck in Guatemala without money.

  I unfolded the map and traced the route with my finger. Could I bring the documents and money there myself? I’d have to travel alone—Dika wasn’t in any shape to travel with her swollen ankle. I could leave the next morning and then have lunch and get food for the ride and take the overnight bus there. Just like Mr. Lorenzo’s plan. He had said the trip was safe in the daylight. More or less. And once I got there, we could go to the embassy to get new passports or whatever we had to do, and then come back together. Hopefully all three of us.

  I stared at the dimple on Ángel’s left cheek. This wasn’t just about getting the visas to them. At the heart of things, Ángel needed me, I could feel it. His dreams had taken a beating along with his body. And I was the only one who understood all that he’d lost. I closed Ángel’s visa with my fingertips toughened by stripping corn and making tortillas. I wondered how strong I was, wondered what Sophie la Fuerte could do.

  That night I slept little, listening to Dika’s distinctive snore and Abuelita’s gentle breath and Ñola’s murmuring. Did I want to be an old lady like Ñola, never having followed the moon? I closed my eyes and slipped into memories, heard snatches of cumbia music, saw a full orange moon through the windshield, felt sparks in the van’s darkness…things that touched the core of me…which was not rusted scrap metal after all, but something deep and mysterious as the ocean.

  A rooster crowed. I got up quietly and slung my backpack over my shoulder. I tiptoed into the room where Pablo and the cousins slept. I bent down and touched my lips to Pablo’s cheek, right on the kiss-shaped birthmark. On the way out, I stood over Dika and Abuelita for a moment. A thin line of glistening drool leaked from the corner of Dika’s mouth. I felt like hugging her. Beside her, Abuelita looked as though she was in the middle of a wild dream, her eyes darting under their lids.

  I might not see these odd women again. I let the gravity of this settle in. For the first time in my life, I was taking a real risk. And yes, I felt fear, but it wasn’t the endless loop of worries I’d grown used to. My thoughts shone clear and sharp as cut crystal. This is the path I am taking. This is what I need to do. I wrote a short note and laid it between their heads. Then I whispered goodbye to Ñola.

  Her eyes opened.

  I jumped. She looked like a ghost, her white hair loose from her braids, feathery wisps fanned out on the pillow. “Cuaá nanducuvé,” she said.

  I nodded. “I know,” I whispered. “I’m going to find him.”

  She reached up and took my hands, which were no longer manos tiernas. She pressed them to her cheek. “Heeheeheehee,” she laughed. She moved her fingers over me, making little crosses, blessing me. She took off one of her necklaces—a square piece of leather imprinted with the Virgin of Juquila, the same Virgin on Ángel’s pendant, the very miraculous one. Ñola put it over my head, adjusted it on my chest, pressed it over my heart.

  “Gracias, Ñola,” I said. I walked outside into the cool night air, to the roadside. The scent of Queen of the Night was so strong it felt like a tangible presence. I shivered under my thin sweatshirt and waited for the truck. Supposedly it passed by every four hours, starting around five a.m. I had my passport in my pocket and an extra hundred dollars—the emergency cash Juan had given me—tucked in my bra. A few sleepy-eyed people carrying bundles on their backs walked over to wait for the truck. They looked too groggy to ask what I was up to.

  Soon the pickup truck bounced up the road, and once it stopped, we climbed into the back. By the time we reached Huajuapan two hours later, it had grown light. The driver dropped me off in the bus station parking lot, a black stretch of oil-stained asphalt. “¡Feliz viaje!” he called after me. Happy travels.

  When I got to the front of the line, I smiled bravely, trying to look as if I traveled around Central America on my own all the time. The ticket seller was a middle-aged man wearing an intimidating starched shirt and a blazing blue tie. He seemed in a hurry. “Yes, señorita?”

  “I’d like a ticket to Tapachula. The evening bus, please.”

  He clicked on the keyboard with manicured nails and shook his head. “Sorry, señorita, but it’s full.”

  My mouth dropped open. “Full?”

  He nodded. “That overnight bus is popular.”

  After a moment of shock, I started forming plan B. Go all the way back to Pablo’s village? Or buy a ticket for tomorrow night and stay in a cheap hotel?

  The man clicked a few more keys. “You’re in luck, señorita. There’s a bus that leaves in twenty minutes. It’s only second class, but there’s plenty of space on that.”

  I tried to think fast. People were waiting behind me, looking restless and rushed. “Um, what time does that bus get to the border?” I asked.

  He glanced at the plastic map on the wall. “Oh, I’d say about six o’clock tonight. But second-class buses make more stops, so you never know for sure.”

  I chewed on my cuticle. “So, um, before dark?”

  “I’d say so.” He looked impatiently at the growing line of people. “Would you like to pick your seat?” He rotated the screen toward me, motioning to the available seats glowing green against the black background. The bus was mostly empty.

  I swallowed hard. “Well, are you sure I’d get there before dark?”

  “Nothing is sure, señorita.”

  “But is it safe?”

  He motioned to the TV, where the news blared. “Listen to the news, señorita. You only hear the bad things. If you worried about everything you heard, you’d never leave the house, would you?”

  My teeth tore at my thumb’s cuticle. “Well, I mean—”

  “Look, señorita, we have many people waiting here.” He smoothed his tie and looked at the next customer. “Please step aside.”

  “Okay, give me this seat, please.” I pointed to a seat by a window.

  Once I paid him and got the ticket, I realized there was no time to walk down the street to buy snacks. I’d have to get food at one of the sto
ps. I took out my bottle of water from my backpack and waited on a hard, plastic seat, sipping self-conciously. The waiting area smelled like a mix of disinfectant, exhaust, and cheap cologne. On TV, a woman with bleached-blond hair gave the news—floods and murders and hijackings. I unfolded my map and saw that Ángel’s town was not even a half inch from the border town, less than thirty miles as the crow flies. This reassured me. Even if the bus arrived a little late, I’d still have time to make it to Ángel’s town before dark.

  Soon I became aware of people staring, whispering, wondering what the foreign girl was doing alone at a bus station. A guy about my age was staring especially hard. He had a chubby face, kind of friendly-looking, kind of slimy. His hair was stiff and spiky, and its shadow on the wall looked like little sawteeth.

  I touched the Virgin necklace that Ñola had given me. My eyes flicked to the clock, the white tiled floor, the buses idling outside the window, and back to the clock. Where had they cut Ángel? I pictured his face crisscrossed with gashes. I thought of Mr. Lorenzo’s scars. The ones I had seen as a reflection in Dika’s and Ángel’s eyes.

  The slimy-friendly guy moved next to me. Up close, I realized he was the source of the cheap cologne smell. “Excuse me, señorita, where are you going?”

  “Guatemala.”

  “¿Solita?”

  I nodded. “Yes, alone.”

  “You’re brave!” He waited for me to ask about him, and when I didn’t say anything, he just kept talking. “I’m going there, too. I study in the university here in Huajuapan, but I’ll be visiting my aunt in Guatemala for a week.”

  I forced a smile. It was a good idea to know someone on this trip. That way, criminals might think we were together and not mess with me. This guy seemed pretty harmless. He could watch my back.

  Once the bus arrived, he insisted on carrying my bag outside. “Excuse the bother, señorita,” he said. “But would it be possible for me to sit beside you?”

  “Okay.”

  He sat down. “Do you have a boyfriend, señorita?”

  I hesitated. He was looking right into my eyes, as the cop had done. I wasn’t used to being flattered, and it made me feel cautious. “Yes,” I said finally.