by V. Castro
Janice climbed briskly through the overgrown grass to appease her growing dread. There were noises all around she didn’t recognize. The parting image of the woman was etched into her corneas. Clouds floated over the light of the moon and stars, stealing the little illumination that guided her to the truck. She walked faster, ignoring her stinging legs as bushes and nettles scraped deep into her flesh. Then all the hair on her body rose. It felt like someone lingered behind her, ready to strike. The clouds shifted again, allowing her truck to come into view. Something flew past her face, scratching her forehead as it dipped in flight. She screamed and ran as hard as her legs would move until she reached her vehicle. Without hesitation she jumped into the driver’s seat then locked all the doors. With the headlights on, she could see an owl flying towards the tree. She craned her neck to reverse. A face stared at her through the rear window for just a second, but it was enough to cause her to scream until her voice box ignited in painful flames.
It was the bloody grimace of a woman with eyes like an oil slick that threatened to pull Janice to a place where she would never find peace or escape. Worse than that, Janice had the feeling the creature knew what she had done. Chunks of muscle on the skinless countenance twitched, bulging veins and capillaries throbbed like larvae. Yet her hair fell smoothly past her shoulders with the sheen of a black cat. The window fogged from the creature’s hot breath as a thin tongue licked the glass. Then it was gone within a blink. Janice pulled away from the field, not caring if she damaged the car as the wheels screeched and sprayed dirt in every direction. She prayed for a miracle to erase this night from her mind as she reached the main road, but she was happy she made the wise decision to leave that unfolding nightmare at the tree.
* * *
Tanya shoved a handful of cicada shells into Milagros’s mouth before gagging her with a red handkerchief. Milagros’s throat was as tight as her panic as it continued to swell, leaving her lightheaded as she struggled to breathe. The little moisture left in her mouth was absorbed by dry cicada bodies stuck at the back of her throat.
Tanya held up a compact mirror to Milagros’s face. “Not so fucking pretty at all.”
Milagros could only see shadow through puffy eyes, but what she could make out was a reflection she didn’t recognize. Large, circular red welts from the ant bites deformed her features. Blood oozed from beneath the rope around her neck. She closed one eye, not wanting to believe this was her fate. So close to sprouting wings.
Milagros didn’t notice when the women left, without bothering to untie her. The hum of cicadas was a symphony in her ears as small legs scuttled across her scalp and shoulders. Miniscule mouths kissed her flesh. It couldn’t be more ants because there was no longer any pain, only song. The chicharras formed a cocoon to take away her agony as they removed the venom from the ant bites. Relief at last. She gave in to their lullaby, trying to picture her home in Mexico, her sister’s laughter, her mother’s cooking, the songs they were taught as small children that felt more like spells than nursery rhymes – why couldn’t she remember a single word when she needed them most? Mariposa kneeling in church and the natural curl of her eyelashes, butterfly wings. Her kisses just as soft. Lastly, she remembered that tearful goodbye filled with excitement at the prospect of making a bit of money for her family in the United States, making something of herself that wasn’t dependant on a gold band. A small chicharra rested in the crook of her neck, its fluttering wings brushing her cheek and its song in her ear as she fell into a forever sleep.
I will see you soon, my daughter. We have so much work to do. Your power will not be wasted. You are the embodiment of their hate and they shall choke on it. It was the same voice in the wind from earlier that day. Why didn’t her guardian angel help her win this fight?
Milagros’s dead body was found at dawn.
* * *
The dining table was silent when I finished my story. Veronica had tears in her eyes as she still held Stewart’s hand. The white guests could not hide their discomfort.
Stewart, being the nice guy, cleared his throat. “And that concludes the entertainment portion of the wedding.” The table laughed and resumed their small talk.
“Sorry,” I said.
Veronica gave me a smile. “I asked. Don’t apologize. But let us agree never to talk about that again. Things are different now.”
Someone said, “Absolutely.”
This was her day, so I let it go. But something inside of me didn’t want to let it go. I washed these thoughts down with another refill of my champagne glass. Mind your manners. Be the fun girl, I told myself. Just get through another day.
As I watched Veronica and Stewart leave, I thought of them walking the white beaches of Turks and Caicos followed by sweaty sex every afternoon. I wanted to feel loved whether that meant for the night or a few years. Conveniently, I’d often forget the restlessness I wrestled with when it came to male companionship. I’d ignore little things that were not exactly right until those little things either grated on my nerves like a tick digging beneath my skin, sucking and sucking away, or those things hurt so bad I feared my heart would collapse in on itself as I cried into a mascara-stained pillow. I’ve always liked new things since I was a child, although I never had many new things. There is also that initial crackle of electricity when you meet someone new that is euphoric, until that newness wears off. That bad habit always had a way of creeping up on me. Everyone said their goodbyes to each other, promising to stay in touch through whatever social media accounts they used most frequently. I was the last one to leave.
My body melted into a rocking chair while I listened to the chicharras sing their song. With my eyes closed, the sun bore a hole through my forehead like it was creating a third eye. The Texas sun always felt good to me when coming out of the long East Coast winters. The bottomless mimosas rocked me to sleep until the last thing I remembered was the clanging of the champagne flute falling from my red manicured hand.
* * *
In my dream I was in the second-floor bathroom, except the bathroom was as it must have been years ago. Soft light penetrated a frosted glass window that was no longer there. I could see nothing but my shaded, haggard silhouette and the bathtub behind me in the mirror. A sharp point pierced the curtain. The sound of a slow rip pricked my ears as something effortlessly glided through the thin material. My heart pounded within my chest as I watched the tear become bigger. It was as if something was about to be birthed into our world through some perfectly formed slit in space and time. Whatever it was took its time creating a hole big enough to burst through. I couldn’t move with the sensation of sleep paralysis holding my body still, but I couldn’t look away either.
Then she came into view. Her flayed face was all muscle and blood, with eyelashes as thick as moth wings above completely black eyes that resembled shiny obsidian mirrors. A string of jade stones hung around her neck, covering the lobules, ducts and fat of her breasts. Beads of milk clung to her nipples. Her face and torso were followed by a distended belly. Through separated muscles I could see her uterus filled with amniotic fluid. A child floated weightlessly asleep inside of her, sucking its thumb.
A voice so tender but full of rage scratched at my eardrums. “Feed her.”
* * *
I awoke to a sky of pink and orange sherbet sinking below the blue. My throat was so dry I could have been guzzling dirt instead of champagne all morning. The stabbing sensation of heartburn sat between my stomach and breastbone, a true sign I was drinking way too much. I ventured inside for water and Tums. There would be no more alcohol.
Hector sat on the sofa, looking at a photo album, when I entered the house. “You’ve been out for a long time.” He motioned for me to sit next to him.
I grabbed one of the water bottles neatly lining a credenza at the entrance. My thirst was satiated for the time being. “What you got there?”
“It’s my
family. All this La Reina talk has me thinking more and more of my grandmother. My family is from Catemaco, Mexico. It’s known for its beauty and as a center for witchcraft, or more accurately, its sorcerers. My grandparents started with one little market stall that turned into a shop, and now my parents own a string of botánicas selling everything you might need for life or magic. I lived there until I went to Harvard for business school…. The disappointment on their faces when I got that letter of acceptance. Not that they weren’t proud of me, but the family business needed an heir. My sister was much more into all that supernatural stuff anyway. I told them to give her everything.”
I sat next to him, smiling at the photos of children at play near a lake, all of them excited to be there except one. A man had a hand on the unhappy child’s shoulder. I pointed to the photo. “You?”
Hector nodded and chuckled. “That would be me with my dad, a ‘very powerful’ – whatever that means – curandero. Since I was a boy, I’ve been told about the ways of curandismo in past generations in my family.”
He flipped the page and tapped on a black-and-white photo of a woman by the same lake, leaning against a tree, barefoot, smoking a cigarette. She looked away from the camera with a relaxed expression. One hand slightly pulled up the hem of her dress.
“I don’t want to believe any of it, except sometimes I’m visited by my grandmother. She seems to speak to me in my dreams. I don’t know why, but I listen, and at times obey. I stopped trying to talk to my grandmother when she told me I would have a child. When Tom left, I couldn’t see another way. God, I was so heartbroken. Still am in some ways. I didn’t want to hear her voice. But I don’t have the power to not hear her either.” He closed the photo album. “You probably think I’m full of shit.”
I told Hector about my dream. I didn’t think he was full of shit, just superstitious, and probably lonely. Hell, I was ready to jump him before I learned that I was not his type. I was feeling so alone, desperate for a single touch to remind me I’m not a ghost just yet. Loneliness and misery are themselves curses. “How about we go look where it happened.” Hector seemed happy to put away his memories that left a bittersweet smile on his face. I still had a few hours before my red-eye flight. I quickly changed into jeans and sneakers.
* * *
We walked for about fifteen minutes through dry, overgrown brown and yellow weeds until we stopped in front of a giant ceiba tree. The sound of insects was louder on the approach, then silent when we were just below its branches. The patch of parched soil surrounding the tree was littered with chicharra shells and nothing else. The grass as far as I could see resembled jaundiced skin. The only thing that appeared to have any remaining health or life was the tree and the creatures that scurried nearby.
“Here’s the spot.” Hector placed his hand on the trunk that was scarred from people carving their names in its bark. The words ‘La Reina de Las Chicharras’ were crudely cut and looked like the title of a slasher film. This angered me, the dismissiveness of it all. Her memory was not of her as a victim or a woman, but as a horror. My hands scraped against the bark as if I hoped remnants of her could be felt. I felt like a real asshole feeling sorry for myself, considering I had lived more life than her and the life she did live was infinitely more difficult. There was nothing here with her real name. I squeezed my eyes shut, picturing the scene. My heart filled with grief for the woman on the tree.
Chapter Four
Guadalupe rubbed her eyes once, still groggy from sleep. She’d stayed up late with her father and brother discussing their journey to California. That morning she wanted to fill Milagros in with their plan. Milagros wasn’t in her bunk; only a discarded bandana lay in her spot. Guadalupe didn’t ask anyone else because they groaned with the light entering the doorway. She knew sometimes Milagros stayed in the back field to be alone. Still no sign of her at the toilets or anywhere else. She would go to the place Milagros had confided to her.
In the distance, Guadalupe noticed a bulky shape attached to a tree. The brightness of the sunrise behind the silhouette made it difficult to see even when she squinted her eyes and blocked the sun with her palm. The sounds of crickets and cicadas rose the closer she came to the tree. Guadalupe gasped when she could see the figure clearly. Just last night. It couldn’t be. But she could recognize those boots and dungarees anywhere. Her open mouth wanted to scream as she fell to her knees, but the cry that caught in her throat was a clenched fist blocking the sound. The terror of the bloated corpse covered with crawling insects made her explode from the inside out. Why? Why her? Why bring anyone here then treat them worse than animals? Guadalupe looked to the broken yolk of the fucsia and orange sunrise because she could not bear the sight of the atrocity. There truly was no God. Then panic hit. What should she do? Who should she tell? Her father or brother? No. Leave them out of it because, knowing this cursed place, they would be blamed. Guadalupe lifted her eyes to see something moving on the body of Milagros. A small square of white by her pocket. Guadalupe wiped her face and tried to stop the hitching of her chest. She rose and tenuously stepped closer. One unsteady step in front of the other until she was close enough to see a piece of paper. Slowly she reached out a fearful hand. A cricket popped out of the pocket, making her jump and scream. Guadalupe snatched the paper before shoving it into her own. The white paper made her think of where she should go.
She ran straight to the preacher. The discovery would be better coming from a white man of standing rather than her, unable to speak English and working there illegally. She ran past the fields, the bunkhouses with workers eating outside or waiting for the bathrooms, past the main house and down the dirt road to the small white church she had only been to once, but the man there was kind enough and spoke some Spanish. Her insides pounded against her bones and skin. The leather strap of her straw hat cut into her throat as it flapped behind her. Without thought, and hoping by some miracle he would be there, she pushed the doors open.
* * *
Pastor Rich was always an early riser. When he was growing up on a farm in Kansas, it became habit. In the stillness of the front pew at the feet of Jesus was the place and time he had his best ideas for a sermon. He sat next to a hot mug of coffee, pencil and pad of paper in hand. ‘Crown of Thorns’, was all he had written before a burst of light flooded the church. As he turned around he saw a young woman running down the middle aisle, her face bright red from what he imagined was running hard for a distance. Tears and snot ran down her face. He could only understand part of what she said in Spanish; however, he understood the fear in the woman’s face. She crumpled to the ground, lifting her head to the cross that hung at the front of the vestibule. A bleak rancor radiated from her gaze. Rich kneeled to speak. “Are you okay?”
She did not look at him. Instead she muttered, “Muerte,” to the cross before looking at him and rising to her feet.
“Dime,” he pressed.
She shook her head and began to walk out. She stopped in front of the car outside the church. He nodded and ran back inside to grab his keys. Guadalupe stared at the ground shaking when he returned. Her mind’s eye fixed on whatever she wanted to show him. Once the engine roared to life, she said, “Perkins Farm. My name is Guadalupe.”
* * *
The sound of insects was always a background murmur around those parts, but as they clamored through tall, dry grass, the noise became deafening, with all variations of insect fluttering out of their way rising into the air like flocks of birds. They stopped before a large tree that was the epicenter of the chittering of insects. The young woman fell to her knees to pray in Spanish between sobs. She pulled out tufts of grass and weeds, pounded her fists against the earth. All Rich could do was stare and try to stop his entire body from plunging to the ground next to her. Every hair on his body pulled towards the heavens, trying to fly away like the insects to avoid being in this unholy place. His stomach dropped to his balls, pushing breakfast towards
his esophagus. He wanted to be sick.
The papers covered news about the lynching of colored folks in other parts of the country, unrest and such. You think in your mind it’s wrong but then you turn the page, not wanting to subject yourself to such animosity. He never expected murder here, or to see something he couldn’t flip past. This was a real person on this tree, and a woman. The cruelty of the scene made him want to cry, but he also wanted to know what kind of evil lived in someone to carry out such an act. What would prompt such a horror? It was a small comfort that her dignity was intact, her body still fully dressed. His faith was wavering as of late; he was falling in love for the first time in his life with someone who was unavailable, and now this. Why did God put these two women in his life? In his heart he knew he would be forever haunted by both. He escorted the young, inconsolable worker named Guadalupe back to the main house of the farm to alert the owner, Ray Perkins, and call the police.
Betty Perkins opened the door with her usual smile, which most considered pure sunshine. There was nothing disagreeable about Betty. She was friends with everyone as long as they were friendly in return. Her figure was still that of a woman in her thirties despite being in her late fifties, and the gray in her hair only complemented her tanned skin and blue eyes.
“Good morning, preacher,” she said jovially, until her eyes dipped to the young woman with swollen red eyes who stared at the floor sniffling. The sunshine she tried to exude eclipsed into the black of night without him saying a word about the crime. Maybe she could read the alarm on his face. There also wasn’t a quick invitation in. Not time to ponder silly things.
