by V. Castro
I pull the bloody baby out with ease and a flutter of chicharras follow. The umbilical cord is a long snake that detaches at the rattle. The creature licks the infant’s foot and slithers away singing its rattle song of joy. This baby girl is perfect, with eyes as black as her mother’s. I feel like I am not holding a baby, but something from somewhere I can’t understand. What is the story that has created this creature? The Queen takes the baby from me and places her on her breast. She looks at me and bows her head. “Milagros is here, and nothing will ever be the same.” The shadow handmaidens crowd around her and I am pushed into the dark corner.
* * *
I opened my eyes. The need to vomit overwhelmed me. Pastor Rich held my hair as the black liquid forced itself from my body. Hector snored with his bucket in his hands and his mouth curled in a small smile. It appeared Pastor Rich had been taking good care of us, because the room wasn’t too messy. According to him, neither of us moved once, like statues in a church. It was the scariest experience of his life. I looked at the clock; eight hours had passed since we took the drugs.
I told Pastor Rich to rest in one of the rooms, as I felt well enough to sit and think about what I had experienced. It might not have been real here, but perhaps somewhere else. I didn’t want to talk about it just yet. Hector awoke half an hour later and vomited just as violently as I had.. I handed him water and a towel. “You want to talk?”
He finished most of the bottle in one drink, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in quick succession. “Not much to talk about. I was in this house the entire time, just doing normal things in a home; laundry, cooking, mowing the lawn, which I hate doing and pay someone to do, but I was doing it. I saw kids. I don’t know if they were mine or guests. I felt happy, not sad, not that permanent black mood that I usually wake up with. I don’t know. It wasn’t as clear as the first time I did it and knew without any doubt what I needed to do. It was like I was watching a movie of my life. It was a good life. My grandmother said she would be leaving me again and that I would no longer hear her voice.”
Chapter Twelve
“What do you believe, preacher?” Monica Cortez leaned forward in her chair, giving Pastor Rich a soft smile to make him feel like he was talking to an old friend instead of a television journalist.
Pastor Rich wore his best suit and what was left of his hair slicked to the side. He knew he looked old because his aging face was a mask when he looked in the mirror compared to the pile of photos of himself from his youth. The next Billy Graham had been his dream. Now his time was over; he could feel it. After the murder, his ambition faltered and never completely recovered.
“I saw that happen, and I don’t know. I’ve been blessed with a lot of years to serve God and people. But I’ve also listened to people’s hurts – what’s been done to them or what they have done. Is this really a plan? Is mysterious really a good thing? Now we’ve seen something that we can’t explain. There are altars cropping up everywhere to this Queen. We are seeing the Virgin Mary and this otherworldly being called upon to do miracles. I really, really do not know what I believe. But I am old and I’ll most probably die soon. If I can come back and tell you, I will. I’ll know soon enough.” He nodded, looking past Monica.
“This is Monica Cortez covering what we are all calling the miracle of La Reina de Las Chicharras.”
Pastor Rich felt exhausted by the time the crew cleared out. He dragged his feet to his bedroom to take off his tie and change out of his Sunday dress shoes, which he hadn’t worn in three weeks because there had been no services. No flock, no message. His thoughts strayed to Tanya as he sat on his bed, hands and back aching as he pulled off the shoes. The pressure from bending over brought on a coughing fit. He coughed a lot these days, but wasn’t that age? He didn’t want to end up in a bed, full of sores. He was sure Belinda and Hector would visit if he asked but he didn’t want that. He tried to keep watch on his remaining family in Kansas on Facebook, but it was all too much work, the loneliness. He should have moved back to Kansas years ago to be with his extended family, who he hardly knew.
With the soft slippers on his feet, he went to the fridge for a beer. There was one can of Coors left and not much else. It opened with a spray. He would sit in front of Jeopardy! not watching but liking the sound of different voices. Made the house feel less quiet. He sat in the recliner, feeling ready. When the last of his beer was gone, he looked to his left. There she was, but not like he last saw her.
“Milagros?” He squinted. Her hair lay flat against her head. Her white shirt was clean and neatly pressed, and the jeans without stains or tears, held up by a thick leather belt. The boots looked like they were the right size.
“Yes, Rich.” She walked closer to him. “Do you know why I am here?”
“Is it time?” He lifted his head towards her like a child.
She nodded.
He began to sob. His chest felt on fire with the overwhelming need to cough as he struggled to catch his breath. All his regret, his heartache, the way it made him feel to see death up close, and then hear death’s voice so many years later. But his God, the one he sacrificed it all for, remained silent. There was no time left for anything. The one life he was given was over.
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry for what they did to you. God, I hope I did enough!” He brought his hands to his face, scared of what came next.
“Shhh. You have nothing to fear.” Milagros sat on the armrest of the chair and cradled his head, giving his age-spotted forehead a kiss. “It is a privilege and a gift to go like this, in peace.”
He nodded again and wiped the tears with the back of his hand. “I know, I know, and I’m ready. I did the best I could. I tried.”
“It is all any of us can do.”
“Will you take my heart now?”
“No, your heart belongs to another. You will see it all. I wanted to say goodbye and wish you well on your journey.”
He laid his head back against the recliner and closed his eyes to Milagros holding his hand.
The preacher passed away peacefully and was found a day later by the young man he employed to take care of the cleaning of the church and bring him groceries. He had no children or wife and only his small congregation and few remaining friends attended the funeral. He would rest peacefully four plots away from Milagros. Belinda could visit them together, cry for people she didn’t really know, but loved anyway.
* * *
On what felt like the shortest day of the year, I declared at happy hour in a bar to my Philadelphian friends, “Ladies, I am going home.”
“But you are home. One minute you were just leaving for a wedding, and then you were on TV.” My friend Nicole poured me another glass of wine that I pushed away.
I hugged her, knowing I could never explain the toll of not being in a place where all my extended family lived and where my ancestors found their way to. All that time I wasted trying to fit in and be like those I deemed to be more successful than me. There was never any space for me there.
Veronica squealed on the phone when I told her about my relocation because she had just found out she was expecting her first child. “You’ll have to give me all your advice! You’ve done this before.” The joy and excitement in her voice made me long to be there sooner and watch her belly grow.
My son accepted a place at a small liberal arts school in a suburb of Philadelphia the following year, which meant neither his father nor I would be needed much. He was my little chicharra ready to find a branch in the world. Our relationship was progressing, with a trip planned to Mexico during his first school break.
I found a job with a nonprofit helping battered women rebuild their lives. If I couldn’t find justice, then I could at least help women pick up the pieces of their dreams.
Another aspect of my life I decided to clean up was my relationship with my mother, who had begun to show her age. It scared me.
After Pastor Rich’s death, I decided to let go of my bitterness towards a woman who did the absolute best she could with the limited resources she had, even living with a man we both knew she never really loved but needed. I went through my teens being called a little bitch and feeling like a kick beneath the dining table was what I deserved. My mind didn’t want to forgive or forget. I chose to forgive because carrying the pain of feeling unlovable was a burden that was burying me for half my life, and I didn’t even realize it. Mothers suffer just as much as their children. I took the time to call her, ask about her life, but mostly let her know that I did love her, even those times I cursed her out so that my pain could be felt like a belt against her heart. I spit as much hurtful venom as I could scour from the pit of my damaged insides. With that wound healing slowly, I felt truly fulfilled without a man filling a space next to me.
After much deliberation, I said yes to being Hector’s surrogate. The egg came from a young twenty-something Chicana studying in San Antonio and the sperm from Hector.
I was just a vessel.
Hector and I lived a good, harmonious life together. During my free time I assisted with the farm business. I was sure we would move on with other people at some point, but being together without being together romantically was a relaxed comfort.
Benny and Hector visited each other regularly, splitting their time between Mexico and Texas. I didn’t pry, but I hoped it was the start of something special for them both. Hector was reluctant and scared to pursue anything serious with their lives in different countries and his desire to start a family. However, it was only a matter of time before they would become a family. I could feel that. As you can imagine, when the supernatural had been documented at the farmhouse, Hector received call after call for private tours and from people wanting to stay the night. Some offered ridiculous money. We regularly performed limpias to spiritually cleanse the house and also set up an altar dedicated to his family. Benny sent us the photo of Concepcion and Milagros when they were young for the altar. Also on the altar was a photo of Pastor Rich that we’d been given at his funeral.
Hector awoke one morning and declared, “It’s time to open up business again. My father left me a message in my dream. I can’t be afraid. I need to claim my power as a curandero and a businessman.” Within a week he’d booked the farm for a solid eight months. This required Hector to hire a full-time assistant, groundskeeper and housekeeping staff. He opened for fully vetted individuals who believed. She spoke to him, telling him who to allow in. Hector embraced his brujo blood and spent long hours in meditation, listening to the voices he never wanted to hear before. Like me, he’d searched in vain for fulfillment and validation out there. A degree on a sheet of white paper cannot change preconceived notions about your brown skin.
We found our own place. The farm is a sort of mecca for those looking for answers they haven’t found elsewhere. There are rows of benches surrounding the ceiba tree in a concentric circle. Ten feet around the tree there are offerings of prayers that people leave for themselves or loved ones. Tokens of remembrance for the life Milagros lived so she might never be forgotten. Newspaper clippings of things that worry people, prayer cards, anything that anyone wanted to lay at the feet of a deity who could be seen and heard, which made us feel the same. Globally, the Queen of the Dead is now as revered as La Virgen. Organized religions are not happy about it, but there is nothing they can do about it. They no longer control the narrative. A cult of nasty women, as some called it.
Hector allowed a team from the Vatican to stay in the house and observe. With nothing supernatural occurring, they stated the phenomenon was nothing except simple idolatry, a way of accepting things that are unacceptable and blasphemous. It was one big hoax to instill anarchy when order was needed. I looked at my own life, those who passed from here, and those caged, or those floundering behind an internal and external border. Sometimes blasphemy can be the impetus for necessary change.
Just when life cradled me in routine, a coin was flipped, and fate presented me with a door.
* * *
Pastor Rich’s church sat empty for months. The tiny congregation tried to find someone to fill the pastor position, but no one wanted it. Eventually the congregation was absorbed into the megachurches with the live bands and cameras. Their signs tower on the highway, always giving clear directions where to find them. The church, which was as old as Hector’s home, would be left to rot as a relic of a time passed until it was bought by a tech and robotics businessman from Mexico intent on taking humans to space.
* * *
Arie Fernandez showed up on a bike in head-to-toe cycling gear that made him look like he had just finished the Tour de France. A semi-retired billionaire, he spent his time exploring interests other than counting money. There was nothing pretentious or crass about him. It must have been his humble roots. His grandmother, Rebecca Shure, was a Jewish immigrant from Europe who fled to Mexico when they were denied safe haven in the United States as the rise of fascism threatened to exterminate their family. They escaped with their lives and very little else. Mexico was a safe option for sanctuary after landing in Cuba, where they were not really welcomed. Once settled in Mexico, she met a rancher. Together they built a business and a family that prospered. Arie started his venture capital business from the ground up, and with solid investments in tech throughout the years, he was on the cover of every business and news magazine as the genius who would change the world.
When I opened the door, I knew I was in trouble. A man at least six foot three with a solid body that could be clearly seen through his cycling gear stood on the front porch with a bike, the type you see professional cyclists use. The fitted Lycra top unzipped to the center of his chest showed enough muscle and hair to make me want to reach out and grab him by the waistband of his shorts, which were just as tight as his top. I couldn’t tell if his sea-colored eyes were blue or green against skin as brown as mine. Our nature never changes, and my lust would never be tamed. What made me think celibacy would ever be a viable option?
“It’s Belinda, right?”
I knew who he was, but I didn’t know why he was here.
“Hi. That’s me, can I help you?”
“I’m Arie.” He wiped the sweat off his hand on a towel tied to the handlebars of his bike before extending it to me. “I wanted to introduce myself because I just purchased the church. I’d love to talk to you about it. My plan is to dedicate it to Mictecacíhuatl when it’s refurbished.”
Hector was in Mexico introducing Benny to his family and my son had just left from a weekend here. I had the house all to myself, which was very bad because once Arie shook my hand, my thoughts were only of having him all over and inside my body. I cursed myself. He could be married or unavailable, or not interested in women. I took his hand so as not to appear rude.
“Come in. How about iced tea? You look…hot.” I immediately realized I was betraying my desire.
“Iced tea sounds great.” His hand still held mine as his eyes brightened. He laughed lightly when he answered, which told me he saw the discourse in my mind playing out on my face. The attraction was mutual. I knew that look, could feel the chemistry. The dampness of his skin made me think of the climate between my legs. I wanted my sheets to stink with our mingling saliva and lubrication. I’d happily roll over on the wet spot on the bed when we were finished. That is when you know you really love or want someone; you don’t give a fuck about the wet spot.
We talked through a few glasses of iced tea. Pleasantries mostly, before I prepared us a simple lunch of Parma ham, French mustard and melted cheese sandwiches. To my surprise, someone had moved the hands of the clocks to early evening.
“Have you been to the tree yet?” I asked while fighting the urge to wipe crumbs from his mouth. We weren’t at that point yet, and I told myself it was only the crumbs and not his lips that held my attention.
“I have, and it’
s a place that should be preserved. It’s one of the reasons I bought the church. The plaque is beautiful.”
I didn’t want to appear overeager, so I didn’t tell him it was my creation. “If you have time, we can go there now?”
“I’d love to. But I have to say you have a bit of mustard there. I’ve been staring for a while now. I wanted to tell you before we go out.” His hand brushed against the corner of my mouth and cheek, lingering. I was in trouble. He was in trouble. It was only due to my promise to myself to be less hasty that I didn’t maul him on the spot.
“Thanks, but so do you. Right here.” I stood before him with the bottom of my breasts at about mouth height. I would have paid good money to feel him wrap his hands around my hips and pull me close, his fingers sliding down to squeeze the bottom of my ass where it met my thighs. I wanted my fingers in his thick black wavy hair while his mouth explored my breasts, my erect nipples scraping against his stubble. Then he could soothe them with his tongue and mouth.
