The Queen of the Cicadas

by V. Castro

  Milagros ate a slice of tasteless spongy white bread and equally tasteless tinned meat. Her mother’s food was always so good. Belly- and soul-filling. She sat far away from the others to be left alone, but close enough to still feel part of the group. Sometimes she went to see Guadalupe at supper or during a lunch break, but the feeling of not being welcome never left. Never had she experienced this deep sense of ghost-like vulnerability before. She listened to her brethren’s conversations and songs, smelled their cooking, a melancholy reminder of home and what her future could have been.

  When finished with her meager meal, Milagros only had the energy to lie down. The bedroll felt thinner tonight, making it difficult to fall asleep while thinking of Billy’s hands tracing her body, that mouth full of rotting teeth and nicotine-stinking breath at her neck. She shifted to her back. Never mind the ten others under the same roof. She tented a red-and-indigo-striped serape she brought from home over her nose. The familiar scents were fading fast. Perhaps those last vestiges of the soap they made by hand infused with incantations and oils that would give you protection was all in her mind and not really there. In Mexico, her family was this serape. Here, she was a loose thread.

  The free housing advertised with this job could hardly pass as a home. The aroma of body odor and flatulence was a common fog at night in their cramped, shoddily constructed bunkhouse, which caused many people to sleep outside if the weather permitted. Only once had she been in the barn where they housed the horses. It was in better condition than this place.

  You had to venture out anyway if you needed to relieve yourself. Milagros was recovering from her third bladder infection caused from holding her urine to avoid leaving her bed. She needed to sleep for this work. The muscles in her shoulders required stretching to unknot before another full day of hunching over crops. Her hamstrings were in a constant state of aching soreness from squatting between the narrow rows of cotton that looked like they went on forever. Her hands, which were once smooth gloves of kid skin, were now crosshatched with scabs from field labor. At her last visit to the local clinic, she was told she appeared to be mildly dehydrated and anemic. The doctor must have felt sorry for her because he slipped her vitamins and medication for free, saying, “Our housekeeper is one of you. She is so lovely. I don’t know what we would do without her. You are such good people. Take care of yourself.” Milagros wondered why some kindnesses hurt. She said in her mind, I am Milagros from San Luis Potosi.

  There were those women who placed all their hopes in domestic work. Betty, the farm owner’s wife, prided herself on having the best of the bunch in the whole county to choose from. Her friends would arrive with their children running around, demanding things every five minutes while the potential domestic workers did their best to appease them even if it meant allowing them to jump all over their bodies or pull their hair. The mothers watched closely as they sipped on tea and fanned themselves, quietly pointing out their choice of help, like it was a horse show. Milagros didn’t want one of those jobs, even though she had to give her personal information along with the other women on the condition of employment. It was becoming clearer by the day this other world of ownership and leisure would never be offered or open to her. Your dream could only be a dream that fits within the dream of another more worthy than you.

  The seemingly constant onslaught of daylight during the summer months also made sleep just a dream, because the sun didn’t truly set until after nine o’clock at night. An old bandana fixed around her eyes served as a sleep mask to block out the light so that her mind would know it was time to turn off. She imagined lying in a dark room without windows, devoid of light, somewhere she could enjoy a short reprieve from the world outside. But tonight, there were fingers of sunlight creeping in from the edges of the bandana, taunting her. A burst of laughter cut through her anxious thoughts. She shifted to her left side. Besides the sunlight and the smell, there was the noise of the camp. Workers stayed up squatting around fires, or played sad songs on the guitar about heartbreak, cooked what little food they had, laughed about things she couldn’t fathom. She guessed they still needed to live even if life sometimes felt like a slow walk towards death with a single coin in your hand.

  There would be no easy rest tonight after her encounter with Billy.

  His advances were becoming more frequent, and bold. There had to be a way to become invisible without losing her job. Or she could hit the road. For weeks there were whispers about a man, not a curandero or a priest – a field worker. This Mexicano in California wanted to change things for them. He was a man of dreams; perhaps magic he didn’t fully understand, but it worked through him for a greater purpose. Combined power is strong. A bucket full of sea water on a wound might sting, but the dark waters of the ocean swell. It has the power to drown and knock you off your feet.

  Maybe it was her destiny to join this fight. Forcing change always took a touch of the will of the gods, or God. Did it matter if it was one or many? Milagros didn’t believe so. An innate belief told her human eyes were only as perceptive, or open, as the brain that controls them. Our minds were small compared to the night sky when she looked up.

  Tomorrow she would write to her twin and ask for her advice. Concepcion’s knowledge of the old ways was astounding. It was as if their great grandmother, Josefina, originally from Chiapas, had somehow transferred her soul to her twin upon delivery. It was Concepcion who almost died at birth. Josefina had the look of a warrior when she pulled out Concepcion with her strong forearms of lean brown rope. The look in her eyes said, You will live, even if I have to give my life. The baby was feet first with a cord around her neck. The scene was reminiscent of the founding of Tenochtitlan, or Mexico City as we call it now. When the wandering Aztecs saw an eagle perched on a Nopal cactus with a snake in its beak, they took it as a sign from their god, Huitzilopochtli, to build a great city there. Josefina was the eagle and the cord that had the potential to harm little Concepcion the snake. When her chest rose and fell from Josefina’s breath, and the silence of the room cracked wide open with her wailing, she was declared a miracle. Some of the church ladies said it was the Devil who had hold of her. That is why she wasn’t breathing and had a large strawberry birthmark on her face. The Devil’s touch.

  Yes, Concepcion would know a way.

  * * *

  The sound of the cock. A death knell every morning. Had she slept at all or just tossed and turned all night? The field filled her bones with dread and sorrow, but she would have to begin early if she wanted to make her quota so she could write a letter and get to the post office before closing. Milagros ripped off the bandana and groaned before rising from her spot. Her mouth felt dry and the slime against her teeth was a gross reminder she hadn’t bothered to brush the night before. Other bunkmates moaned and moved around on their rectangular bed rolls, knowing it was time for them to rise.

  Milagros quickly washed with a frigid wet rag in the ladies’ so-called showers, which only sputtered cold water with negligible pressure and left enough room above and below each stall for Peeping Toms. She scrubbed her teeth extra hard. Then it was time to enter the empty fields. The red truck. Her feet refused to move any further. Was Billy here to lay claim to her? She wanted to scream for help, but there was no one around. What would she say? She tried to silence the pulse riptiding throughout her body. The sound of heavy footfalls breaking gravel and twigs behind her brought her back to the reality she didn’t want to face. Before she could turn, a sharp point gnawed into the base of her skull.

  Milagros shifted her eyes far enough to see Tanya and her friend, the one with pink spiderlike blotches on her cheeks and nose, closing in on her, their sour breath at each ear.

  “We been waiting for you to come out. Teach you a lesson. I caught you looking at my man again, spic bitch. You know I don’t like that,” said Tanya through gritted teeth.

  “Yeah, she don’t like it. We don’t like you, or your kind,”
chimed in the one Milagros had seen giggle with Billy whenever he was around while touching his arms at every opportunity. Once, he wiggled his tongue at this woman like a scavenged piece of roadkill hanging from the beak of a buzzard, followed by slyly touching her backside. After, she whispered something in his ear. Milagros thought she should recount this tale to shift the blame to the real culprit, but she already knew what the outcome would be. This woman would call her a liar. There was no one to hear her, to believe her or to help her. She was alone. Faceless. Given no name.

  The sharp point was replaced by a four-handed shove that pummeled her to the ground violently. Dust sprayed into her eyes and mouth from the impact that scraped her knees and palms. These injuries would make work torture today. With the strength given to her by some unseen will, she turned to face the women who stood over her.

  “Look at you. Like a damn cockroach. I don’t want to see you looking at my man. We married. Now get to fucking work and make us some money.” The women giggled at each other.

  Kneecaps throbbed. Exposed flesh burned. Dots of blood where the skin peeled away seeped to the surface, little bubbles of pain and rage. It was a wonder her entire body wasn’t a rash of blood bubbles of hate that if pooled together might create a monster that would rip the innards from both women, tie their bowels around their necks like jewelry. Maybe one day. There would be no tears for them. Milagros lassoed them back in. Hold it together, mujer, because not a one will ever cry for you.

  “Here, cunt. Since you won’t cry, let me wet your face.” Both took turns spitting on her, a final act of humiliation before laughing with each other as they walked away.

  When they were gone, Milagros sat with bloody palms flat against the earth, allowing blood and soil to mingle, like her ancestors. Her hands trembled. She couldn’t tell if it was her seething anger or the ground threatening to rip at the seams, tremors signaling the start of something ready to break forth. If only that were true. In reality, it was only the start of another day of work. She pushed herself to her feet, fighting self-pity. As she began to walk away, a flutter of wind caught her hair and pebbles rolled past her feet. She could swear she heard a female voice whisper, “I taste you.”

  Only a few more hours beneath the sun radiating its hot smile on their backs. Instead of her hands clenching in enmity, they curled in torment. The scrapes against her palms made picking nearly impossible as the pain increased when the digits flexed to pluck a soft ball of white. Every time she bent her knees, the skin tore a little more. Every movement cut deeper and deeper. All of this from a single shove. She would get through this and she would find the strength to write to her sister even if she had to hold the pencil between her toes or teeth.

  The day ended with her picking significantly less, which she was reminded of by a foreman scowling at her. But in those hours that swung from hatred to despair, she made up her mind to leave that place before it ended her, and she was sure that it would.

  At five p.m. Milagros trudged on weak legs back to her thin bed to write a letter to Concepcion.

  Dearest Sister,

  Life is no longer worth living if I have no prospect of living freely. I want to be free from abuse, free from fear, a little freedom to be happy. Is that not why I left in the first place? The dark nature of men’s hearts has no border and God seems to have no heart, or ears. I am happy I have you to write to because you were always there for me, unlike the silent God who never seems to hear our prayers. When I seek hope, he rewards me with indifference. This is clear to me now. If I stay here, I will surely die. I have made the decision to leave this place and travel to California. I hear there is a man, Cesar is his name. I want to find his farm to join the fight. He is not a healer the way we define it, but it sounds like he is healing our people by making them stronger, their voices louder. I will leave in one week. As soon as I am settled, I will let you know where I am.

  Any news of Mariposa? Mama and Papa? Take care of yourself and know I love you.

  Your loving sister,

  Milagros

  With the letter complete, Milagros tucked it in her front pocket for mailing the next day, then made her way to the camp to find supper. Having come to a decision about her future, and written it down, gave her a sense of levity. Her intention expressed in word. It would not be easy. The idea was hardly a concrete plan. Perhaps the hidden, gods or the universe would help guide her path. This thought made her want to visit Guadalupe, see a friendly face to forget the day.

  Guadalupe stood with a group of older women, chatting. Her face brightened when she saw Milagros. “My friend! It has been too long since you joined us. You know you are always welcome.” Milagros and Guadalupe hugged each other. Guadalupe had short hair she could tuck behind her ears to make work easier. Milagros always knew it was her by the wide-brimmed sun hat she wore, which her mother had given her as a gift before she left.

  “I know. But I have made the decision to leave. I can’t take it anymore. Billy….”

  Guadalupe sneered. “He is a beast. Only once did he look at me too long until he noticed my brother next to me, giving him the eyes of murder. Jose doesn’t leave my side because of that disgusting man. His woman is just as bad…. Enough about them. Where will you go? You are all alone.”

  That word, alone, stung. “California. There is a man I want to meet. Cesar.”

  Guadalupe’s demeanor changed. There was an excitement in her voice. “I hope you aren’t talking about romance. Please say his last name is Chavez.”

  Milagros’s eyes blazed in the firelight of a small outdoor grill. “Yes. Do you know him?”

  Guadalupe grabbed Milagros’s hand, dragging her closer to where her father served food.

  “Papa, Milagros wants to go to California too. Maybe she can travel with us?”

  The man, who looked to be in his late forties, stirred a stew in a cast-iron pot on a small card table before ladling it into bowls. The sun left deep grooves around his mouth and eyes and the calluses on his hands were visible. The patch of skin where his gold cross lay on his chest was lighter than the rest of him. His hair was combed to the side and his shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbows. He looked fresh from the showers.

  “Well, we will be leaving soon. I don’t feel safe here. And there is ‘La Causa’. We all have a cause, a purpose. Even those who want to take that away or extinguish the very thing that makes us special, our cause. You are most welcome, Milagros, to share our dinner and travel with us. Guadalupe will give you the details.”

  Butterflies filled all the empty spaces inside of Milagros. “Thank you. And the stew smells delicious. I cannot wait to taste it.”

  What I heard next frayed my young psyche to the nerve endings.

  * * *

  “Mamá! Stop it!” Veronica’s mother said. “They are little girls! I don’t want anyone’s parents calling me about nightmares.” We sat in silence as Veronica’s grandmother scraped the bottom of the large aluminium pot for the last of the pork, the caramelized, oily, burned bits that tasted the best.

  “It’s okay, Mamá, we aren’t scared. Are we?” Veronica scanned our faces. We didn’t know what to think or say. The story terrified me as much as it excited something inside of me.

  “What should we do now?” Mona asked in a loud voice, trying to shake off the tale that was above our understanding yet scared the shit out of us. Living in a predominately Mexican neighborhood, we were too young for the burden of our skin to take root yet.

  “How about light as a feather, stiff as a board?” Luz suggested. We giggled and ran to Veronica’s room with a bag of Fritos, wanting to forget the story.

  That night the three of us squeezed into Veronica’s bed. Luz camped on a sleeping bag on the right side of the bed. I lay between two of my friends, thinking about Milagros. I stared at my feet, not wanting to see the closet or the darkest corner of the room. As sleep was finally regulatin
g my breathing, a shadow that wasn’t there before sat at the foot of the bed. A dome the shape of a head remained firmly in front of me. I rubbed my eyes, then pinched my stomach. I was awake. I became frantic, hoping this was one of Veronica’s brothers, but I would have seen the door open. It was right in front of me. I looked to my left and right and saw both friends in a deep sleep. Luz had her back turned and snored softly, still on the floor. An exhalation came from the direction of the shadow. I sat up in bed, trying to wake both of my friends to no avail. They were like floppy dolls rolling back and forth with eyes shut. As the shadow drew taller, I lay back down and closed my eyes. “No,” I whispered.

  The hiss stopped immediately, and I knew it was gone. I made the sign of the cross on my thumping chest and prayed for sleep.

  The following morning, I awoke to the smell that could drag the dead from heaven: fresh tamales. Both of my friends were still sleeping peacefully. I survived the night and today was another party. Since it was Veronica’s real birthday that day, there would be a barbecue in the backyard, and everyone would be invited. This meant sprinklers on, food to feed the armies of multiple nations, the boys grabbing empty beer cans to sneak the remnants of or shake over our heads, and music loud enough to cause neighbors to complain, but they would be over, so it really didn’t matter.

  The entire house was quiet when I crawled out of bed to use the bathroom, except for Veronica’s grandmother singing low in the kitchen to her Tejano favorite, Emilio. I needed to know more about the story after the experience in bed. I knew it had happened and it wasn’t a nightmare.

  “Is it true?”

  She was sitting at the table with her coffee and concha. Knee-high circulation stockings covered bulging blue and purple varicose veins. It was early, so her hair was still in a hairnet. She clacked her dentures before speaking. “I’m only telling you this because you will not always be a girl and us women are told too many lies in our lifetime, and mostly nothing good comes from those lies. Yes, the story is true.”