The Butterfly’s Daughter

by Mary Alice

  “We’ll be fine.”

  Mariposa resigned herself to her sister-in-law’s frostiness and quietly sipped more coffee. She could feel the adrenaline flowing stronger than the caffeine. Being home again invigorated her as she planned all that she had to accomplish today.

  Estella pounded the flour in her hand, left to right. “I’ll have tortillas made soon. There is some juice. Oranges. Sit down. Breakfast will be soon.”

  “I’m not hungry. I have to get going. I’ve got so much to do before tonight.”

  “You can’t work all day on an empty stomach.”

  “I’ll eat. Don’t worry. Where can I find the lumber and a hammer?”

  “Manolo gathered all that you need and put them in the pushcart. It’s in the shed out back. If you wait a few minutes he’ll be down to help you bring it to the cemetery.”

  “I’ve pushed a cart before. I can do it again. I’ll let you know if I need help.”

  “Manolo and Luz will not be happy you went without them.”

  “They will understand why I need to do this.”

  Estella harrumphed and pounded the masa flour on the table. “He had the hole dug for the ashes. It is ready.” She paused and looked at the box in Mariposa’s hands. “Is that them?”

  “Yes.”

  Estella made the sign of the cross. “God be with you today.”

  “My daughter . . .”

  “Do not worry. We will take care of her. You do what you must do.”

  “Thank you,” Mariposa said fervently, meaning it. She swallowed her sister-in-law’s shunning with her coffee. She was restless, determined to start her day. She rinsed her cup and headed out without delay.

  The sky was a soft gray and the air was damp and chilled. She wrapped her heavy shawl around her shoulders and headed across the yard. Though the building was in the heart of town, the yard was spacious and dominated by an enormous, spreading avocado tree. A few other fruit trees she couldn’t identify were scattered around the several older outbuildings that were in need of repairs. One was the chicken house. When the hens spied Mariposa they trotted in their straight-legged manner and scratched the earth, demanding a meal. She knew the hungry girls would follow her into the shed, so on finding the can of food, she tossed a handful of pellets to distract them. They skittered off and began pecking.

  Mariposa found the wood cart in the shed behind the building as Estella had promised. The shed was tilting with age but solid on the inside. Manolo had all the supplies she needed to build an ofrenda neatly piled into the pushcart. She mentally thanked her brother for this kindness. There was so much to be done by nightfall but she could do it on her own. She had to. It was the least she could do to honor her mother.

  The town was eerily quiet so early in the morning. The cart creaked loudly as she pushed it through the dimly lit streets. The only lights shone from the local mill, where the sound of constant chugging could be heard from machines grinding the corn. Pairs of women silently walked toward the mill for their day’s masa flour to make tortillas. They smiled and waved as they passed. From off in the distance she heard the crow of a rooster. Mariposa wondered about her extended family living on the farm outside town. They would be waking now, the women making tortillas, the children helping with chores before school. She felt a sudden, intense rush of love for them. They were her family—uncles, aunts, cousins. Good, honest people who loved her. She had to remember her connection with them and gain strength from it.

  Mariposa felt the whisperings of the past as she walked through the town that had been her playground as a child, and the birthplace of her mother and her mother’s mother. How many times had she walked down this very street with her mother holding her hand tight? Never as a child in braids and ribbons did she imagine how she would let go of her mother’s hand and run so far away. Or how desperate and depraved her life would become. Throughout the long, hard days of recovery she’d always believed that at the end of her trials, if she could just persevere, she would find forgiveness. She’d dreamed of holding her mother’s hand again and hearing her mother’s voice telling her once again that she loved her. This dream had filled the black hole of emptiness inside of her for so many years. And now it was gone.

  Her despair stopped her. She bent over and sucked in the cold air, the pain was still so fresh. Sam had told her how memories were stored in the body. To stir bad memories up was dangerous. He warned her not to let them pollute the new life she was creating for herself. Mariposa picked up the wood handles of the cart and concentrated on moving forward, one step after another, using all her strength to push the wobbly cart along the cobblestone street. Her hands felt raw but she continued to push up the hill.

  The church was at the end of the road, and the cemetery just beyond. She swerved to the side as a truck ambled past. Inside were two men in jean jackets holding farm tools, and a large, mangy dog sat in the back. They lifted a hand in greeting. She responded in kind.

  Last night Manolo told her that Maria had telephoned as soon as she’d learned of Esperanza’s death. He’d wept as he told Mariposa how they’d all grieved. Their mother’s death had come so unexpectedly for everyone. Too many years of silence could not be reclaimed.

  Manolo and Estella had already created a fine ofrenda for their mother in their home. Knowing they would, Mariposa had telephoned before she’d left San Antonio and begged her brother to allow her to build an altar at the gravesite alone. At first Manolo had refused, stating that it was the right of all the family to do this together. But Mariposa had explained in tears how she needed to do this as repentance for all the years of suffering she’d caused their mother. Manolo at last relented.

  In her heart, Mariposa knew that the altar was only a symbol of her despair and regret. She was not fooled into believing it would earn her forgiveness. But this gesture was all she had to offer.

  Mariposa arrived at the deserted cemetery. She pushed the cart to her family site and found the grave prepared for Esperanza. Manolo had spared no expense and placed a tall stone cross to mark the grave. The black dirt was freshly dug, waiting for her ashes.

  Mariposa was unprepared for the shock of seeing the gravesite. The reality of her mother’s death chilled her to the bone. She stared at the grave and felt the blackness of the earth open up to drag her down into its depths. She dropped to her knees and dug her hands into the cool soil, breathing deep and gathering her self-control.

  Then she began to build.

  Twenty-Three

  Female monarchs are capable of producing and laying more than five hundred eggs in a lifetime. The eggs’ expected survival rate is as low as 1 percent, which would mean only five of the five hundred eggs survive to become a butterfly.

  Luz awoke on the morning of the Day of the Dead groggy from all the cervezas she’d enjoyed the night before. She lay in bed for a moment, capturing images of the party.

  After most of the guests had left, Tía Estella and Tías Marisela and Rosa had clustered around the table and discussed the extensive family festivities for the holiday while the men sat at another table and played cards. Luz had watched Mariposa especially. She’d never seen her so animated. From the moment she’d set foot in Angangueo her reserve dissipated and she was a different person. She talked with animation, laughing and opinionated, giving Luz a peek at the flirtatious, flighty young woman she once was. The family treated her with the respect afforded to the child of the deceased. Especially her brother. She and Manolo shared a bond that she didn’t have with Estella. There the ties were strained. Yet it didn’t mar the evening. Mariposa didn’t drink alcohol but her eyes glittered and her face was flushed. In retrospect, Luz wondered at the dramatic swing of Mariposa’s emotions. The excitement seemed to be burning at too high a pitch.

  Luz yawned and looked to her mother’s bed. It was empty. She was surprised to find it already made. She’d had a hard time falling asleep, but once she did she must’ve slept soundly, because she hadn’t heard Mariposa dress or stir
about the room. Luz pushed back the blankets, seeing that the heavy shawl was gone as well. Then, shivering, she dressed quickly in jeans, a new red sweater she’d purchased in San Antonio at Margaret’s urging, and matching thick socks.

  She made her way down the narrow stairs to the kitchen. She paused at the threshold. Her three aunts were working in the kitchen preparing mountains of food before a small clay stove. The room smelled of burning wood and spices. The women dressed alike in dark skirts and sweaters, with their hair pulled back into braids. Their hands were busy as they spoke, intent on their work, but all talking stopped when she walked in.

  “Buenos días,” Luz said with an awkward smile.

  “Luz! Come in! Did you sleep well?” her aunt Estella exclaimed in Spanish. She hurried to grab a cup and poured steaming coffee into it, then offered it to Luz.

  “Gracias,” Luz said, keeping her promise to try to speak in Spanish.

  Her aunt muttered something to the other women and they giggled. Luz felt her cheeks color.

  Using her hands to indicate the food, Tía Estella spoke with exaggerated slowness so that Luz could understand that she was offering her breakfast.

  “Sí. Yo comprendo. Gracias,” she replied, and inwardly groaned. It was going to be a long day.

  After a hearty breakfast of beans, rice, and eggs, Luz went alone into the living room. It was empty now, scrubbed clean in preparation for the Day of the Dead festival. She prowled listlessly, stopping to admire the bright green pineapple pottery on the side table, feeling a bittersweet twinge in her heart as she remembered the one just like it that Abuela had so carefully pieced back together. Paintings of calla lilies, photographs of the family, and an icon of the Blessed Virgin filled the walls.

  Dominating the room was an elaborate altar under a wooden arch completely covered with the big orange marigold heads that Ofelia had told her were called cempasuchitl. There were more of them in vases surrounding the altar. Bananas, apples, pumpkins, and candy filled pottery bowls. Several sugar skulls lined the back of the table; to the right was a metal incense burner, to the left were tall, white candles. The altar table was covered in a white tablecloth, and under a large, brightly painted crucifix was a gilt-framed photograph of Abuela.

  Luz walked closer and admired the beautiful young Esperanza photographed looking like a plumed bird in her colorful native dress, standing against a white stucco wall. Her glossy black hair fell down over her shoulder in a braid. It was a young woman’s face, full of hope and confidence. Luz reached out to touch it.

  “You look like her,” said a voice behind her.

  Luz turned to see a young woman about her age standing at the door. She was a beautiful girl with large eyes and the family’s sharp cheekbones. Her dark hair was cut short and tucked around ears studded in gold. Her eyes shone with warmth as she smiled beneath thick bangs. She was slight in build and carefully dressed in pressed jeans and a black sweater under a leather jacket. Luz remembered meeting her the night before, but couldn’t remember her name.

  “I’m Yadira,” she said, coming closer. “Your cousin.”

  Luz felt a rush of relief that she’d met someone her age who spoke English. “I’m Luz.”

  “I know. My mother, she is your mother . . .” She paused in thought. “Half cousin,” she said in careful English. “¿Comprendes? I think that make me your half cousin. Or something.” She laughed. “¡Yo no sé!”

  “I never had any cousins of any kind before so I’ll take what I can get.”

  “We live at a farm. Not far. I come to say hello. I can practice English, no? It is not so good.”

  “It’s great,” Luz said, grateful for her attempt.

  Yadira smiled with relief. “Today is busy,” she began. “Many work to do.”

  “I know. I can see that. I tried to help. I kept asking Tía Estella over and over if I could help prepare food but she kept saying no. Finally she said to me”—she laughed—“and I think I translate this right, ‘You can help me by not asking me how to help!’”

  Yadira laughed and rolled her expressive eyes. “Sí. This is Tía Estella. She has big voice but, cómo se dice? She has big heart, too.”

  “It seems to run in the family,” Luz said with another laugh.

  Between Yadira’s broken English and Luz’s broken Spanish, they were able to patch together enough to carry on a conversation. Yadira pointed out the items on the altar and explained to Luz what they meant, giving Luz her first lesson in the traditions of the Day of the Dead. And there were many.

  “This year is special because Esperanza, she die. Everybody is very sad and want to make a present to the altar. Today many family they come to bring food or gift so that she feel welcome. My mother, she gave me this to bring.” She lifted a plastic bag and pulled out an intricately crocheted black shawl. She carefully laid the shawl across the base of the altar. The long fringe was showy against the white cloth.

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “It was made by your abuela for my mother on her wedding day. Tío Manolo he want everything to be good for his mother,” Yadira told her. “His heart it is broke, you know? Now come. Mami wants for us to bring tortillas to Mariposa. She is at the cemetery.”

  “What’s she doing there?”

  “She is making the ofrenda para tu abuela.”

  “Another one?”

  Yadira laughed. “Sí. We make ofrenda for the grave, too. Mariposa, tu mamá, she want to do this alone. She go to cemetery this morning very early.”

  Luz held her tongue and stared at the photograph of Abuela on the altar. She felt a stab of betrayal that her mother would go to the cemetery to build an altar for Abuela without her. Wouldn’t it have been a bonding experience for them to do it together? Luz tried to tamp down her hurt. She didn’t want to judge. After all, she got to spend all of her life with Abuela. She was there the day she died. Mariposa had lost so many years. Maybe she just needed some time to be alone. She was Abuela’s daughter, after all.

  But, she thought as she glanced back at the photograph of Abuela on the altar, didn’t she realize that Abuela was a mother to her, as well?

  “Come. We go now?” asked Yadira.

  Luz buried these resentments as she told herself that everyone dealt with grief in her own way. One thing she’d learned about the Day of the Dead—it was not a mournful day. It was a day to remember the departed with a joyful spirit.

  She looked forward to nightfall. Today, November first, was the day the souls of the children returned. The vigil of adults would begin tonight and she was excited to participate in the festivities.

  Yadira and Luz walked side by side through the streets of town, already crammed with people in a festive mood buying last-minute food, candy, and trinkets for the holiday. Flowers were everywhere, especially the fat orange marigolds that Yadira told her the Aztecs had used to honor their dead.

  “My family grow these flowers on our farm especially for this holiday. It is good money for us, no?”

  Luz thought it had to be, seeing that everyone—men, women, and children alike, were carrying bunches of them. Luz bought a bunch, too, to freshen up her own ofrenda later before she presented the box of ashes to the family. She felt all her earlier resentment vanish as she remembered that she had this most important contribution to offer to the family altar tonight—the box of Abuela’s ashes that she’d carried all the way from Milwaukee to Michoacán.

  Yadira loved to laugh and, linking arms with Luz, she led her from one booth to the next, eating sweets and making jokes about all the humorous sugar skeletons they saw. Luz couldn’t resist and bought a toy skeleton that moved when she pulled the string.

  At the end of the road they reached the impressive Catholic church, the focal point of the town. Luz stared agog at the church’s entrance. It was completely covered in a dazzling display of fresh flowers. If she hadn’t known they were flowers, she’d think she was seeing a stained-glass window. Women wearing traditional dark shawls over thei
r heads were scurrying like ants carrying armfuls of even more flowers into the church. In the square before the church there were colorful stands selling fruit, pottery, arts and crafts, and flowers. Musicians performed while children danced and played games of hide-and-seek.

  “This way,” Yadira said, leading her through the throng in the square to the large black iron gate of the cemetery. Children were selling water from big, white buckets.

  “Why are they selling water?” Luz asked.

  “So visitors can wash the gravestones,” Yadira explained in a low voice. “We prepare the graves for the spirits’ return.”

  As they entered the cemetery, the mood was at once respectful. It was located on a dramatically high point overlooking the valley. Looking out, Luz felt that stirring of introspection she always did when faced with the majesty of a vista. A mist seemed to cloak the mountains in a somber shawl.

  Many locals were already gathered at the graves, preparing them for the long night’s vigil. Women wrapped in shawls and men in serapes carried their offerings with reverence to the graves of their deceased relatives. Others were busily scrubbing and cleaning the headstones. Luz smiled at a bored little boy sitting patiently beside a gravesite while his mother worked.

  “Wait till tonight when you see the candles lit. It is most beautiful then,” Yadira told her.

  Luz thought it was all so beautiful now. As she walked through the cemetery she admired the decorations on the graves. Each was different, yet unique. Some were elaborate and others simple Indian crosses. A mangy dog crept up to an ofrenda and stole a piece of bread from a basket. She chuckled and turned to tell Yadira but stopped short when she spotted Mariposa.

  Mariposa raced against the sunset. She’d worked at a feverish pace since dawn but her ofrenda was not quite finished. She’d kept her eye on the neighboring ofrendas as the families worked, checking out their scale and scope. Hers had to be the most impressive, the most beautiful altar. Nothing less would do to honor her mother.