The Queen of the Cicadas

by V. Castro

  * * *

  A week passed before the farm returned to its usual everyday routine. All of Milagros’s belongings were packed in a brown box by Billy and left in the front of the bunkhouse for people to take what they wanted. But no one dared touch or look in the brown cardboard box. It sat under the sun and rain until all the contents became one under mildew and dust. Then one day the box was disposed of by an unseen hand. Everyone was silently happy to see it gone. There was an unspoken sense that if you did take something, you might pay dearly later for dishonoring the dead. Milagros might even come back to retrieve her possessions. The rectangular spot where she had slept remained bare. No one wanted to sleep in the last place in the world where Milagros had laid her head. The fires that burned to the tune of the guitar now jumped with sparks from the whispers of the workers about the tragedy of Milagros. No one said it out loud; however, there was a sense she was not gone. Every screech and howl seemed to form the sound of her name. The fear of one of them being next soiled the hearts of every worker. No one wanted to be made an example of the way she had been. Their suffering would not be in body, but in silence.

  It was a Sunday evening, exactly a week to the hour later, that the farm fell into the clutches of a curse not seen before.

  Tiffany was first.

  * * *

  The thought of the Mexican woman was a stain on her memory that could not be scrubbed clean. She struggled to sleep after an officer, Grady Boone, her junior high crush, showed up on her doorstep in his tan uniform, which fit nicely on his lean body. A single dimple on the side of his cheek winked at her when she opened the door.

  “It has been some years, Tiffany. May I come in?”

  She looked away in shyness from her wanton heart. There was also that unrelenting nervousness that their crime would be discovered.

  “Sure. What brings you here today? Not a date, I hope. You know I’m a married woman now.” Charm. She would use her charm to hide her fear.

  He stepped into the house, looking around until his eyes landed on a wedding photo. “Nothing really. Sheriff is tying up loose ends for the necessary paperwork before he officially closes the investigation. You spend a lot of time at the Perkins farm with Tanya. Just want to know if you heard anything. Tanya mentioned that you were all together since the men were occupied with the ball game.”

  A feeling of relief allowed her to enjoy this moment alone with her old flame, her first flame. The investigation would be closed. Prayers answered.

  “I mean, we don’t mix with the farm workers. Too many came through not even speaking English. Haven’t heard anything from the domestics either. Sorry. A terrible thing to happen to a woman.”

  Grady and Tiffany stood in an awkward silence because she was no longer available, as much as they both wished she was. With nothing to keep him there and no signal telling him she wanted him to stay, he thought it best to leave.

  “I guess I’ll be going. Thank you.”

  “Anytime.” Tiffany was disappointed to see him go, but it was for the best. Infidelity was a sin she didn’t want to commit, and although it seemed the law wouldn’t be giving them trouble, she still wanted reassurances from Tanya that no one was about to snitch. She set a time and date to meet Tanya as soon as Grady could be seen driving away.

  * * *

  The Perkins house always looked grand from whatever direction you approached it. It was a Victorian masterpiece in Texas, showing the locals what the American dream looked like. The single spire on the corner was straight out of tales of Cinderella or Rapunzel.

  Tiffany parked at the edge of the property as instructed by the sign. The grass and flowerbeds were not to be tarnished by tire treads. Tanya answered the door with a goofy smile, her teeth clenching over her bottom lip. “Come on. Let’s go talk in the barn,” she said in a low voice, glancing back before stepping out and closing the door with as little sound as possible.

  Tanya pulled Tiffany by the hand to the barn. As soon as they were alone, Tanya let out malicious laughter. Not a blush of shame or paranoia.

  “Can you believe the fuss everyone is making over that girl? I listened to the whole thing at the top of the stairs. After the sheriff came back from seeing the bitch, he questioned us. I should be a Hollywood star by the way I told them tales of those dark men whistling and harassing me! But I was too scared to say anything. At least they think it’s one of their own. A sex-mad Mexican!” Tanya grabbed at Tiffany’s breasts with her tongue hanging from her mouth before folding over in a fit of red-faced laughter.

  Tiffany tried to mask her horror at this reaction. The smell of horse manure turned her stomach. What did they do? There was actual pride, almost a sensual tone in Tanya’s voice as she spoke of the act. The coldness in her eyes was a temperature that was not felt this far south, even on a winter’s day. Tiffany couldn’t see what lived behind Tanya’s hard, dead eyes, but she knew Tanya was reliving every second like a picture show as she spoke of the way Milagros sputtered and gagged on the cicada shells in her desperation to breathe. It made Tiffany want to run in terror in case that bloodlust suddenly shifted to her. Why Tanya loved that no-good husband, who would fuck around with a discarded glove if he fancied it, was beyond Tiffany, but they had to stay with Tanya on this. They grew up together; they did this terrible thing together. “You sure no one’s about to talk? Grady was over at mine two nights ago. But don’t worry, I took care of him with the story we agreed on. Case will be closed.”

  Tanya stopped her laughter. A dead, flat expression matched her steely eyes. “Of course, the case is closed. Because we tell the stories for them. It’s the way it has to be.”

  “Yeah, ’course. You’re always right, Tanya. Anyway, I better go so I can make the supermarket before supper.” Tiffany returned home, knowing she would take this secret to her death. She didn’t need to go to the supermarket, but nothing could keep her alone with Tanya. Not to save her life.

  * * *

  After fidgeting and squirming around in bed to find a comfortable position while listening to the sound of her husband’s snores, Tiffany decided to get up. It would be morning soon. She would sit on the porch with a cup of coffee and maybe watch the sunrise, and ask God for forgiveness. Thank Jesus they got away with it.

  Tiffany slipped out of bed and walked quietly into the darkened kitchen. She had lived in that house for two years now and knew every corner without turning on a single light. Gordon hated being disturbed while he slept. The cupboards were meticulously organized, so she could cook an entire meal blindfolded with little to no noise. Gordon hated having his ball games disrupted by the clattering of pots and pans. As she waited for the coffee to percolate, she placed one foot in a slipper tucked beneath a chair. When she thrust the other foot into its slipper, she felt a hard pinch in the center of her foot. “Fuck!” she screamed, loud enough to probably rouse her husband. With one hand she covered her mouth while she tried to inspect the source of pain by lifting the injured foot. Momentarily her body wobbled as it tried to regain balance. She winced, bringing the foot higher to see the injury in the dim light. A shadow crossed the room. Thinking it was Gordon, she jerked her head up. The sudden movement threw her off-balance again. Another shadow. She stretched her head towards the first signs of gurgling, boiling water where the shadow moved. As she lowered her foot, heart palpitations quickened the pulsing veins in her neck. She lost all control of her legs in an instant. One arm pinwheeled, searching for anything to prevent a fall. Fingertips grazed the back of a chair before the base of her skull crashed against the edge of the thick wooden table made from the trees in that part of Texas, a wedding gift from her parents. A crack that reminded her of jointing a chicken filled her ears, followed by a ringing. She lay on the floor feeling a wave of warmth travel from her foot, to her leg, and continuing the length of her body. It could have been the first steps into a hot bath if not for the paralyzing effects seizing her m
uscles. The ringing became louder as her face went numb until it traveled to her throat, which was now a sinkhole of sand closing tightly around breath. The memory of Milagros trying to take her last gasps with one pleading eye that begged for mercy she did not receive veiled Tiffany’s mind. Tiffany knew she was about to die. Something wet trickled against her face, like molasses oozing out of an overturned jar. Red liquid jam that surrounded her brain created a small creek on her linoleum floor. Breaths shortened, her head throbbed with the ringing. Eyelids began to sink, but before they shut, she saw the smallest brown spider crawl in front of her eyes into the puddle of her blood. It paused as if it meant to say, “Here I am,” before continuing its journey, leaving bloody dots as it scuttled away. Tiffany Borden was dead within minutes.

  Gordon slept through her initial scream and didn’t stop howling in terror after he found his wife’s body.

  * * *

  Tanya, Daisy and Janice clung to each other during the funeral, crying over the random, senseless death of their friend. Tanya remained silently confident despite her exaggerated, fake show of grief. One less set of loose lips. She made a mental note of how shaken Tiffany was when they talked in the barn. As she watched Tiffany leave that day, she thought a murdering pervert might have to return to shut her stupid trap. Lucky for her it didn’t come to that. Tanya now watched her friend’s body being lowered into the ground, the wails of her family filling the cemetery. She felt nothing but relief when the first shovel full of dirt was cast over her casket.

  * * *

  Only one day passed before another woman in the murdering pack also met her end.

  Daisy Matthews sat at the table for supper with her parents, like she did most nights.

  “It smells magical, Momma, as always,” she said. Daisy scanned the table, feeling her hunger rumble. Biscuits smothered in a rich gravy with chicken-fried steak, mashed potatoes and fried okra lay in the middle of the table, the heat rising with the aroma of the freshly cooked meal. She inhaled deeply. As soon as “Amen” was said by her father, Abraham, Daisy greedily heaped her plate with the first helping of chicken and mash, her tongue between her teeth before anyone had a chance to get there first. This became habit when she’d had to fight for seconds against her five siblings growing up. Now, as the last to leave home, she had her parents all to herself. Daisy could eat as much as she wanted, as if she were an only child. To cheer her up after the awful events, Momma even made a pecan pie. Daisy felt terrible about Tiffany’s death, couldn’t stop crying when she found out, but in her heart, she loved all the fuss that was being made over her. People went out of their way to say hello and ask how she was doing. Even Gordon asked her to come over to help him pack away his deceased wife’s clothing because he didn’t have the heart to be so close to her scent. They shared a few beers and she could swear there was something in his eyes that wanted her to stay for one more. Momma and Daddy were making sure she had everything she needed before she even asked for it. It was a terrible thing her friend was gone, but this felt like a new life beginning for her, starting with that pecan pie right after supper.

  Daisy lifted a forkful of potato and chicken to her mouth. A soft crunch was followed by something stringy moving against her palette. She stuck two fingers into her mouth to retrieve the foreign object. A large, winged cockroach with a smashed tail that oozed innards stared back at her. Its antennae twitched in confusion. She gasped, causing a leftover chunk of chicken-fried steak to lodge in her throat. She dropped the roach to clutch her neck, trying to gulp for air with undigested food twisting in her belly from fear. A memory of the woman on the tree unable to breathe and the way the moonlight illuminated her contorted death mask was all she could see. Daisy hadn’t taken the time to think about the dead woman since that night. She was drunk and angry that Billy had moved his eye from her to this woman who was nothing but a dirty farmhand who didn’t pay him no mind. How quickly he forgot the hand job she had given him not two weeks before in his truck as he drove her to work at the bowling alley. She missed the flutter of nerves when Billy would give her a wink or brush up against her behind Tanya’s back. The excitement of a secret admirer was a small promise it wasn’t too late for her, because there were very few available men her age left unmarried. The gall that he would find this raisin-colored bitch stinking of beans prettier than her fueled participation in the prank gone right that night. She wanted Milagros to suffer for taking away Billy’s attention. Now she felt guilty.

  Daisy squeezed her eyes shut and prayed, Jesus, please! She could feel her consciousness blinking on and off like a broken light bulb. She screamed in her mind so that the heavens would take notice. She promised God, if he saved her, she would never commit any more heinous sins and even go to the law to tell them it was Tanya who wanted to teach the young Mexican a lesson.

  A vision of the woman on the tree, Milagros, was the only response Daisy received. The malformed, ant-bitten figure broke free from the ropes, howling in laughter at Daisy. Cockroaches with wings flew from her shoulder-length brown hair. Her open mouth spewed ants, crickets and worms with viscous blood dribbling down her chin as the laughter became louder, more maniacal, until Daisy feared her eardrums might burst. Gashed fingertips pointed at her. The laughter now took the form of words: “La Reina de Las Chicharras.”

  Abraham and Sally watched, thinking their daughter would eject whatever was caught in her throat. “Drink some of this,” Abraham said with confidence as he slid his beer towards Daisy. He was sure the carbonation would wash it down or bring it up.

  “Do something!” Sally screamed at her husband. She jumped from her seat, twisting her apron, unable to move any further from the shock of the moment. Daisy’s face was changing color, her eyes not in the room but somewhere far off. It wasn’t until her face went beet red that Abraham dashed behind his daughter to smack her hard against her back with a palm that stretched across her shoulder blades.

  Every slap was a ray of hope for Daisy. Milagros continued to stare at her in the middle of Daisy’s mind. She wiped the blood off her chin with the back of her hand and smirked. “Adios. And enjoy hell.” She waved a hand of broken fingernails and continued to shriek with laughter.

  Daisy’s bloodshot eyes bulged before her face went purple and then cold blue. Daisy Matthews collapsed in her father’s arms.

  “Daisy. Daisy!” Abraham screamed, shaking his daughter’s limp body.

  The roach crawled along the table by its few remaining legs until it fell to the floor. It continued to crawl slowly on its belly across the floorboards and out of sight through a crack in the wall.

  * * *

  Texas thunderstorms can be sudden and violent. During one such storm the sky cracked loudly with peals of thunder, sounding like the universe itself was being shaken. Janice Pritchard and Tanya Peyton held fast to each other beneath an umbrella at Daisy’s funeral. Neither wanted to admit something was very wrong since the night they murdered the Mexican woman, Milagros. They had finally learned her name.

  Raindrops and tears wet their faces. The chill of the storm and fear made their legs shiver. Janice could admit she was part of a murder. But it wasn’t just the two deaths in their little gang that startled her and added to her declining mental stability. Large patches of crop had withered without cause. Locusts ravaged the cotton, and what the locusts didn’t eat, a fungus destroyed without pity. When Janice tried to sleep, the cicadas seemed to perch right against her window, whispering, “La Reina de Las Chicharras”, over and over again, like the sound of a typewriter that never ceased to pound against her skull. At this point there would be encyclopedia-sized volumes of that name repeated without punctuation. Tanya showed no signs of worry or fear, which reminded Janice not to trust her. The tears Tanya cried were for one person only: herself.

  * * *

  After two days of torment and the previous night of no sleep, Janice shuffled in groggy awareness into the bathroom to
splash water on her face, with the words ‘La Reina de Las Chicharras’ still on loop. Perhaps if she said them out loud, they would go away. Janice wanted to confess, anything to make that stupid Spanish name, or phrase, or whatever it was, go away. She stared in the mirror, dark circles beneath her eyes from this extended lack of sleep. Her middle-school acne returned from the stress of the secret she carried. Janice said the words, “La Reina de Las Chicharras”, while looking at her reflection as she gripped the edge of the sink.

  There was only silence until her skin began to feel like jumping hot popcorn just beneath the surface. The pustules of acne grew until they resembled swollen purple bites with tubes of pus oozing from the center. Her throat tightened; the itching caused her chest to hitch and she struggled to breathe. This left no room for screams to escape the horror in the mirror. Janice clawed at her neck as if she could release the invisible thing choking her. She wanted to turn and run, but her feet were solidly rooted to the ground, like that ceiba tree, or like in one of those dreams that you can’t wake from where you lose the ability to move.