The Queen of the Cicadas

by V. Castro

  “What will happen to me if I call her?”

  “I don’t know. I never wanted to try. She needs to rest. Don’t worry about it, mija.” She gave me a warm smile and pulled out a pink concha from a white bag. We sat at the table eating to Tejano music and the aroma of tamales.

  “How’s your mother? You have enough? If not, I know a few people that buy food stamps.” I looked down, feeling ashamed. I knew she meant well, and we weren’t the only ones on government money, receiving free breakfast and lunch at school. Two solid meals during the day and a fried bologna sandwich for dinner were more than enough. My mother was a recent college graduate earning pennies while trying to raise me.

  “Yeah, she’s okay. We get by. Sometimes she has to bounce a check for extra groceries or clothes, but we manage.”

  “And your Auntie Laura? How’s her son?”

  More heat on my cheeks. But we weren’t the only ones with family locked up either. “Good. She’s been getting extra hours at Pizza Hut. Carlos is still in juvie until they decide whether to try him as an adult or not.” No one would tell me what he had done to get himself locked up. I only knew I wouldn’t see him for a very long time. As it turned out, I’d be a woman before he was released.

  “Your daddy?” That word was the same as if she had asked me how my potato was doing. I couldn’t say he was finally gone after another affair. It was me who found the love letters stuffed underneath the front seat of the car. There was a photo of another small child that made me feel like I was somehow not good enough to stick around for. There was another one – smarter, prettier, who knows. I think her name was Clarissa. At least now my mother cried over how to make life better for us rather than over a man who only loved her enough to get what he might need at that moment. I wanted to forget the stench of marijuana and alcohol in our house at all hours and his army buddies coming in and out. I didn’t know where he was or who he was with.

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know.”

  She grabbed my hand and smiled at me again with a look of sadness and defiance. Growing up, that was the Latina way. A mask I grew accustomed to seeing. There were whiskers on the corners of her mouth and on her chin, like my auntie, except my auntie plucked hers every few days, leaving her skin looking raw. My auntie did the same to her eyebrows, which were perfectly shaped arches that she filled in with a black Maybelline pencil. After a day she looked just like the women on the covers of her magazine collections. Cindy Crawford was her favorite. I wondered if I would have whiskers too when I was a woman. This was our last year of childhood, for next year we were all turning thirteen. We would wear wet n wild until we were old enough for Maybelline.

  “Here, take this.” She reached into the pocket of her apron and handed me a twenty-dollar bill.

  “I can’t.”

  “Yes, you will, Belinda!”

  I took it and placed it in my sock. When I got home, I would hide it under a sofa cushion and pretend to find it. It would make my mother’s day better, thinking God was answering a prayer. I had to believe something was out there, even if it didn’t look like us. I sat at the table until the rest of the girls made their way to the kitchen for breakfast, followed by unwrapping our bangs for teasing and more hairspraying.

  The party was a blast. Texas summers were meant to take away all your worries. We played outside until midnight without a care in the world as we still held on to our childhood innocence before venturing into the weird place of female puberty. I hoped that year I would finally bloom breasts after being the shortest and scrawniest of my grade.

  * * *

  Veronica stayed in Texas while I left as soon as I turned eighteen with three hundred dollars in my purse, which I accidently lost in a taxi while in search of a place where I could forget where I came from and be someone else. You do what you must do to survive. Abuelita Carmen lived to be ninety-eight years old. To this day my greatest regret was not going to her funeral. I was too busy trying to keep hold of love that didn’t last, afraid to disrupt the precarious equilibrium in what I thought was my first healthy relationship.

  Chapter Three

  La Virgen greeted me with her passive sad look. Her dark countenance was gone with the morning light. I felt like shit. With all the energy left in my body, I pulled myself from bed, slightly hungover. The dull ache in my head was as thick as the film of red wine that coated my tongue and teeth. Who would want to wake up next to that? As exhausted as I was, I reminded myself that today was not about me. Be like an ant and stay small. Be happy. I would have to put on my makeup and smile big for my newly married friend, then post an envy-inducing photo on Instagram so everyone would know how happy I was, so I could be reminded how happy I should be. This weekend was about Veronica, despite the fact all I could focus on was my own pain. A coffee followed by a mimosa would do the trick. An upper followed by a downer, the chemical yin and yang of life.

  The bridal party met at eleven a.m. for brunch. I teetered in three-inch, red-bottomed, wedged heels to the dining room in search of coffee. Hector arranged elegant plates and cutlery with eyes as darkly ringed as mine.

  “Morning. Can I get some coffee?” I asked.

  He smiled, trying to appear the perfect host. “Of course, let’s go to the kitchen.”

  He had one of those fancy Italian coffee machines that required too much effort. However, he expertly navigated the nozzles and bean crushing of a barista.

  “Why don’t you join me?” I offered.

  “Do I look that bad? I didn’t sleep at all. How about you?” He handed me a perfect macchiato.

  I was so tired, filter coffee with vanilla creamer would have sufficed. “I didn’t sleep at all either. I look worse than I did last night. Kept thinking about the farmer’s wife, then La Reina. How about you? La Reina spook you?”

  He gulped a shot of espresso. “No, my grandmother. She scolded me for opening that bathroom. It was like I was a kid again in her kitchen making tortillas. She was always scolding me for not washing my hands before helping her. My dough resembled a gray mass full of grit because they were filthy. I miss that woman. She’s the reason for everything. I’m just happy I could give her a really comfortable life for her final year with us. When she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, she said she wanted no treatment, just let her smoke weed and die happy. That’s what I did.”

  I liked Hector. I felt disappointed to leave the following day because he seemed like the kind of person who could be a true friend. No hidden agenda. Perhaps this was one person I could reveal the secret sadness I went great lengths to hide to not be perceived as a burden. People don’t like Debbie Downers, and I wanted everyone to like me. I was the one you came to when you needed cheering up, the life of the party with bright lipstick and clothes always perfect, not the sad girl. With Hector, I saw the same melancholy in his eyes, heard it in his voice. I knew now why he doted on the flower girls, nearly in tears as he took their photos. I ached for him and his desire to be a father. I asked, “What can I do to help with this brunch?”

  We ate and drank into the late afternoon until the bride and groom needed to leave for the airport. After every mimosa was emptied, I tried to gain the courage to mention to Veronica the long-forgotten birthday party and the story of La Reina de Las Chicharras. About halfway through, the conversation moved from private schools and music lessons to only the clinking of forks, knives and the cork popping from champagne. What else do you talk about with other adults with children?

  “Hey, Veronica, remember that story your grandmother told us at your birthday party? Well, more like urban legend.” I kept my smile pasted to my face. The table went dead silent. The six other guests darted their heads between Veronica and me.

  She frowned and cocked her head. “You mean the murdered woman?”

  “Yes! That’s the one. Milagros. Did you know this is the farm where it occurred?”

  The
silence of the table was broken by gasps and wide eyes.

  “What? No way. It wasn’t even real.” Her response was a dismissive chuckle as she placed her hand over Stewart’s. He looked enthralled.

  “But it did happen, and this is the farm.” Hector stood in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room with a basket of concha.

  “Okay, wait,” Stewart said. “Did we just get married in a haunted farmhouse? This is amazing. What a story! So, what happened?”

  Veronica squirmed in her seat, giving Stewart a sour, uncomfortable expression. “It’s an awful story. Completely inappropriate for children or adults. I don’t like it.”

  He wrapped his arm around his new wife, pulling her close enough to kiss her cheek. “C’mon, babe. Tell us.”

  “Ugh. A farmworker from Mexico, Milagros, was murdered. All this creepy supernatural stuff happens, like Bloody Mary. You know what, you tell them, Belinda.”

  “It’s true. Milagros was on this very farm. This house is where the owners lived like gilded folk while the farm workers had to endure terrible conditions for shit pay. She was planning to leave but never made it past that road just beyond the house.”

  An event horizon in the middle of Texas.

  * * *

  As Milagros tried to sleep, a new beginning was all she could think of. The conversation with Guadalupe and her family gave her joy, something she hadn’t felt in a while, and she wouldn’t have to travel to California alone. Perhaps this future would include love. That night, she turned in early so she could be at the post office as it opened its doors, followed by a full day of work. The excitement and anxiety of change caused her body to flop like a fish on a hook on the uncomfortable mattress. There were plans within plans that were waiting for her out there. So much for sleep. Milagros had enough of her own obsessive thoughts and the smelly overcrowded accommodation. She tossed the bandana on her bed and left without looking back or taking anything with her.

  Behind the camp lay scrubland where she would sit against a large ceiba tree while listening to the chicharras sing her to sleep. Besides home, this was her favorite spot. The monotonous tone was a white noise that distracted her from the ache of the day’s work, relentless worry about her family, and the unanswered question of how much of this migrant life she could endure. Not anymore. “La Causa,” she whispered to the tree.

  She settled at the base of the trunk, allowing her head to lean back to give her a view of the clear night sky and full moon. The distant stars could be home to anyone. A soft coo above her head and reflective owl eyes made her smile. Nocturnal creatures eased her loneliness because the language they spoke was universal. The flapping of wings, a scuttle of legs, even a distant howl of something that could probably eat her alive were all sounds she welcomed. They were all proof that things could thrive in the shadows. This gave her some hope. Her English was still a work in progress that she tried hard to perfect. Perhaps if she blended in, people would see her differently. Maybe she would feel differently about herself and have courage like that man in California.

  When she could feel herself slipping into a dream, a familiar, nasal voice awakened her.

  “If it isn’t the spic bitch that thinks she is so damn beautiful. Always tryin’ to get the attention of our men.” It was Tanya and three of her friends. Milagros ignored them, thinking they would call her names, maybe spit on her, then leave. Abuse wasn’t new and there was no use fighting something that no one cared enough to stop. It wasn’t until they rushed at her that she knew something was terribly wrong.

  The rope was an unanticipated burn, like hot oil popping from a frying pan, as two women pinned her to the tree by the neck. She thrashed with her arms and tried to kick one leg at a time, but the more she fought the deeper the rope dug into her throat. She had to swallow her cries as her voice was a broken thing, unable to carry. Tanya picked her up by the armpits so that Milagros was in a standing position. One of the women secured the rope that rested just below her chin with a tight knot on the opposite side of the tree. Milagros’s fingers dug into the crevice between her neck and the rope, trying to catch a little slack so she might scream or breathe. She scratched so hard, a few fingernails nearly broke off. The skin around her neck was a shredded collar of blood.

  “That’s gonna leave a terrible scar!” Tanya giggled like a young girl playing tea party. The two women that tied her neck to the tree then bound her hands behind her back. Her fingertips scraped against the tree. “How did you know I was here?” she managed to rasp.

  A smaller rope was used to tie her ankles together. She had no choice but to stand upright. Every movement was a fresh wound that left her feeling on the verge of falling unconscious. Tanya stood in front of Milagros.

  “Billy keeps all sorts of things in the back of the truck. Whenever I saw that rope, I imagined how good it would feel to teach you a lesson. It was only by some strange stroke of luck me and the girls were out here drinking. We usually change spots to avoid gossip from the old folks when the boys are occupied by the ball game. I promise, you fuckin’ spic bitch, none of our men will ever look at you again. Bring the buckets from the back of the truck, Janice. I just had an idea! Tiffany, go find a fire ant mound. Shouldn’t be hard because they’re everywhere.”

  The one called Tiffany giggled as she searched the ground. “Found one. And it’s big.”

  The woman named Janice paused with two buckets in her hands. It was the woman Milagros had seen with the preacher. “You sure you want to do this, Tanya? That’s enough now, she learned her lesson. Didn’t you, you brown bitch?”

  Milagros opened her mouth as wide as she could to capture every wisp of air that might keep her alive through this ordeal. She screamed for her sister in her mind, wondering if unbearable pain had the power to echo. She took mental snapshots of the women so that her sister might see. Every breath was a spark trying to light a match that could possibly reach someone – anyone – for help. What did she do to deserve any of this except show up to work and keep to herself? All she wanted was a better life. Why were her dreams rewarded with hate? But it was beyond hate. The fear manifests before the hate. Her bewilderment and sadness of an already hard life ending like this was erupting to rage. The rage was so great it felt like it possessed the power to swallow the sun and bring an end to everything. If only one of those stars would fall from the sky now. She wanted a rain of lava to burn this farm to the ground. Her belly growled in hunger to eat and digest their wicked hearts then shit them out to fertilize her own land, to reap rewards for her own and those like her. Did God see or hear? Where was he? Through tears she mouthed the word ‘yes’ to answer Janice’s question. Milagros stared as best she could through the dark into the eyes of the woman who seemed to be hesitant about this prank.

  In her spite, Tanya was not going to back down. “If you too chicken shit, Janice, then I’ll do it.” She snatched both of the buckets from Janice and held one of them out for Tiffany. She then turned her attention to Milagros, coming nose to nose with the bound woman, her eyes just as pale as Billy’s, but narrower from the tightness of her ponytail and her inebriation. Milagros could smell the alcohol on her breath that could have easily been sulphur. She was so close even the tiny whiteheads in the creases around her nose were visible. Tiffany stood next to Tanya with a bucket teeming with fire ant dirt. Thin lips formed an air kiss as Tanya took the bucket from Tiffany, then dumped it over Milagros’s head. Little legs and pincers cascaded down her body. Milagros tried to focus on the cicadas overhead, their hum, their song that always had the power to drown out everything that was bad. At first, the pain was a breeze brushing against her skin, until it turned to wildfire. The tiny beasts found every crack and crevice on her body to burrow into. Her veins no longer carried blood, only liquid torture.

  The women all laughed except Janice, who stood there dumbly watching her feet as if trying to ignore the strangled cries coming from t
he woman on the tree. Tanya gathered cicada shells wild- eyed in the dirt.

  Milagros felt herself seizing, as if she would forever become part of this tree. Hair, skin, nails and flesh morphed into solid bark of hate and anguish. Perhaps now they would cut her down and leave. Someone was bound to find her. Some of the older workers began picking before dawn to avoid the heat. Maybe she would have just enough strength to pull herself to the edge of the field. Ever so slowly the inside of her throat constricted, her lungs two deflated balloons with thousands of tiny pinpricks. Tanya approached her with another bucket.

  “Here you go, beaner. Since we found you sitting with the dead cicadas, how about you eat them?”

  “Can we stop this, Tanya? It’s enough! I’m bored!”

  Tanya ignored Janice’s protestations, bringing her face close enough to kiss her friend. Then hitting the side of Janice’s right leg with the bucket, causing her to recoil and wince in pain.. “If you don’t shut the fuck up, I might go telling everyone who you’re fucking behind your husband’s back. And what would the preacher think of his saintly lamb doing something like this?”

  * * *

  Janice could detect a hiss in Tanya’s voice that bordered on the demonic. Tanya’s eyes looked like empty dark wells of all that was evil in the world. This was not a friend or a woman who stood before her. Janice walked away. She would find an excuse to come out this way in the morning to check on the girl if Tanya decided to leave her on that tree. She prayed to God Tanya would have a little mercy in her heart. Come to think of it, Tanya was never kind; even as a young girl, she enjoyed torturing vulnerable things. Even caught her smacking a baby they babysat once. Janice glanced back momentarily at the woman against the tree and the living blanket of ants devouring her slowly, her face ballooning. It was too violent to watch. And at this moment, Janice feared Tanya, feared what she might do to her if she intervened. Better try to help tomorrow.