There are black-and-white pictures of my great-grandparents in several rooms of the house. They look serious in each one, as if they’re ready to stab the photographer. Maybe it wasn’t customary to smile for portraits back then. I know people used to believe photographs would steal their souls, which makes sense to me.
I never paid attention to Amá’s old bedroom when I was a kid. She and tía Estela used to share a cramped, dusty room all the way in the back of the house. They even had to sleep in the same lumpy bed, which has never been replaced. I can’t imagine having to sleep next to my sister my whole life. We’ve always been poor, and I’ve never had much privacy, but at least I’ve always had my own room. When my grandfather was alive, he kept making additions whenever they had more children, but he was never able to keep up. There were eight of them.
I hate when Amá goes through my things, and here I am, doing it to her. I don’t find much, though, just a wooden chest with faded flowered dresses and tarnished bracelets. In the corner of the room, I see a framed drawing I never noticed before. It’s up high, way past eye level. I take it down and look at it closely. It’s Amá wearing a long dress, standing in front of the fountain in the town square. She looks exactly like Olga. Or Olga looked exactly like her. I wonder who drew this.
I find Mamá Jacinta cleaning the kitchen table. “Mamá Jacinta, who drew this picture of Amá?”
“Your father.”
“What do you mean, my father? My father doesn’t draw.”
“Who said he doesn’t?”
“I’ve never heard anything about this.” I don’t know why, but this almost makes me angry. How didn’t I know this about my own dad?
“You didn’t know Rafael could draw? He was the town artist. He drew everyone, even the mayor. Haven’t you seen that drawing of your tía Fermina hanging in her living room? Your father drew that, too.”
Not once in my whole life have I ever seen my dad draw. When I think of Apá, I picture him soaking his feet in front of the TV. “But how could he stop? I mean, if that’s what he loved to do, why wouldn’t he do it?”
“He probably got too busy with all the responsibilities of being a husband and father. You know how that is. You know how hard he works.” Mamá Jacinta takes off her apron and hangs it on a rusty hook near the fridge.
“But he could have made time. If I don’t write, I feel like I’m going to die. How could he stop just like that?”
“I don’t know, but it’s a shame because he was famous around here.”
—
I wonder how much longer until Amá sends for me. Sometimes I lie awake, thinking of what I’ll do when I get home. How am I going to find Olga’s boyfriend? Or should I call him her “lover”? That word sounds ridiculous, though. I can go to her old office, but I have no idea who he is. Two things are clear, though: he wanted to make sure no one would ever find out, and he’s the kind of person who could afford an expensive hotel almost every week. He has to be a doctor.
The nights are usually quiet, except for the meowing cats or the rooster next door that never knows what time it is. I like it when it rains because the soft pitter-patter on the tin roof is soothing, but it never lasts more than a few minutes.
I twist under the scratchy blankets, thinking about Olga and worrying about what will happen to me if I miss too many days of school. I write notes to myself about what to do when I leave: 1) Read all of Olga’s emails; 2) Talk to Mr. Ingman about what to do about my absences; 3) Find a summer job so I can pay for my trip to college. When I’m lucky, I fall asleep before the sun comes up.
—
My cousin Belén, tía Fermina’s youngest daughter, is the town hot girl. She’s dark, blue-eyed, and about a foot taller than I am. Her waist is impossibly small, and she loves to show it off in half shirts and skintight dresses. Wherever we go, every living creature eyes her up and down. I swear to God, I even saw a stray dog check her out. She gets marriage proposals when we walk down the street, and all she does is laugh and flip her hair. I feel kind of ugly next to her.
Belén has decided that she’s going to show me around and introduce me to anyone we see. She comes over to Mamá Jacinta’s house after school and drags me out, though I’d rather stay in the yard reading. My cousin doesn’t understand that I can be very awkward and that I don’t like talking to strangers. Today we say hello to a pair of twins nicknamed Gorduras and Mantecas—literally, “Fats” and “Lards”—in front of the supermarket. Mexican nicknames are as cruel as they are hilarious.
We usually get ice cream or aguas frescas from the town square and then take a “tour” of Los Ojos, even though I’ve been here before. When we go up and down the hills, I study all the colorful houses and try to peer inside, since everyone leaves their doors open during the day. Usually, I don’t see anything interesting, but yesterday I saw a woman in a towel dancing to Juan Gabriel in her living room. I like taking these walks during dinnertime because of the dinner smells wafting from the houses—toasted chiles, stewed meat, boiled beans.
Belén gossips about everyone in town, even when I have no idea who they are. The latest dirt is that the lady who owns the most popular burger stand is having sex with her second cousin. She also tells me the story of a man named Santos who left Los Ojos many years ago with the dream of becoming a dancer in Los Angeles. He tried crossing the border several times before he gave up and stayed in Tijuana. The rumor was that he began dressing like a woman and became a prostitute. When he returned to Los Ojos several years later, he was practically a living skeleton. Toward the very end, the sores all over his face and mouth attracted flies. His mother would sit next to him and shoo them away with a rag. Some of the townspeople said that it was his own fault for being gay, for bending over for all of Tijuana. I keep trying to interrupt and explain to Belén that AIDS isn’t a gay disease, that anyone can get it, but she doesn’t listen. She never seems to listen to anything I say.
I feel a longing in my chest when we pass Apá’s abandoned childhood home. Mamá Jacinta points it out every time I’m here. No one has lived there in a long, long time, and it’s about to fall apart. All of my father’s brothers and sisters are scattered across the United States—Texas, Los Angeles, North Carolina, and Chicago. His parents died right after he and Amá left Los Ojos. My grandfather got a tumor that ate away his lungs, and my grandma followed him a few months later. They say she died of sadness. Can I miss people I’ve never met? Because I think I do.
Belén tries to get me to talk to boys from her school, but I’m never interested in any of them. Maybe it’s because of the medication, but sex—anything related to it—is not really on my mind.
“That’s where the narcos beheaded the mayor,” Belén says casually, after we pass a group of her friends. She nods toward a depressing park made of metal and concrete.
“What?” I’m not sure if I heard her correctly.
“You didn’t know? They used to shoot each other in the streets and blow up houses. It hasn’t happened in a while, though. See?” she says, pointing to a charred house in the distance. “A Molotov cocktail.”
I shudder as I think of the mayor’s head rolling down the concrete and onto the street. Why would Amá send me here?
“Are we safe? Would they murder us, too?” I feel hot and cold at the same time. I jump when I hear a bird squawk.
Belén laughs. “No, tonta. Why would they care about you? Unless you’re trafficking drugs and didn’t tell me about it.”
I shrug, feeling stupid.
“Oh, but never, ever stay out late, especially alone. No one does anymore.”
TWENTY-ONE
My cousin Paulina is turning three, so I can’t imagine that slaughtering and frying an animal would be very exciting for her, but that’s how parties always are. Every milestone or accomplishment leads to alcohol and obscene amounts of fried meat.
That afternoon, Belén, Mamá Jacinta, and I walk over to the venue where the rest of the family has been preparing all mor
ning. When we cross the town square, the Indian ladies, with long black braids that look like rope, try to sell us nopales. Their thick hair reminds me of Amá. Strangers on the street have offered her money in exchange for her shiny braids.
The women sit on the ground, with a large wicker basket full of peeled and sliced cactus in little plastic bags. How poor do you have to be to sell something that’s free? I can literally walk up to any nopal in town and cut off a paddle. I see Mamá Jacinta do it all the time. The worst part is not even peeling them; it’s getting rid of all the slime.
I’ve always wondered why the bottoms of tree trunks here were painted white, but I’ve never asked about it. I stare at the sad, rusted fountain and wonder if they’ll ever turn the water back on. A girl, with a baby strapped to her back with an embroidered orange cloth, stands up and puts her hand in front of me. “Por favor, señorita,” she pleads. “Una limosna.” She looks about thirteen, so small and bony, I can’t imagine that baby coming out of her. I pray it’s not hers.
“Don’t listen to them,” Belén says. “They’re here begging every day. She should work like everyone else. Typical indias.” Belén practically spits out the words. I don’t understand why she thinks she’s so much better than they are. She’s just as dark and wears the same frayed red dress every other day.
“Have you looked at yourself?” I mumble.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
I turn back to the baby, who is crying now, his face covered with dirt and snot. I give the girl all the change in my pocket. Belén crosses her arms over her chest and shakes her head.
The party venue is owned by los Garzas, the richest family in Los Ojos. According to Belén, they got rich by selling drugs. When I ask her what kind of drugs, all she says is “the worst kind.”
I hear a violent squealing when we approach and look at Mamá Jacinta, my stomach sinking. “They’re killing it right now? I thought it would be dead already.”
“Sorry, mija. We can take a walk and come back if you want.”
“Don’t be a baby,” Belén says. “You eat meat, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but I’ve never seen my tacos killed before my very eyes.”
“Ay, Dios mío, you Americans are so delicate,” Belén says.
“Come on, let’s go for a walk,” Mamá Jacinta says, placing her warm hand on my arm.
“No. It’s okay. Let’s go.”
Tío Chucho and my cousin Andrés drag the writhing pig with a long red rope. Its desperate and brutal cries give me goose bumps. Once they get the poor thing onto a slab of concrete, Andrés stabs it in the heart.
“Good job, mijo,” tío says.
The pig squirms all over the ground, and its squeals become deeper and more anguishing. The blood gushes from its chest. I feel light-headed.
“Are you excited for the chicharrones, prima?” Andrés shouts to me.
“Oh yeah. Delicious. Can’t wait,” I yell back.
When the pig finally dies, Andrés and tío Chucho hang it by its hind legs and bleed it out into a bucket. Once it’s drained, they begin to cut it into pieces. I try not to look, but I can’t help it—my eyes are drawn to the blood.
After a while, I can hear the pop and crackle of the frying flesh. I’m sick to my stomach, but my mouth still waters. The human body is so weird sometimes. Once all the meat is cooked, tía Estela brings me a plate of rice, beans, and chicharrones.
“Ándale, mija,” she says, and squeezes my shoulder. “You need to put some weight back on.” It’s funny how in the United States I’m too fat, and in Mexico I’m too skinny. I know tía is worried about me. The Montenegro women are all excellent worriers.
I smile and say, “Thank you,” because the rudest thing you can do to a Mexican lady is refuse her food—might as well spit on a picture of La Virgen de Guadalupe or turn the TV off during Sábado Gigante.
I take a few chicharrones, put them in a soft tortilla, and drown them in dark red salsa. I eat them without much difficulty, but when I make my next taco, I see a few thick hairs jutting from the skin. I don’t want everyone to think I’m a spoiled American princess, so I close my eyes and inhale the taco as quickly as possible. I imagine my face a beautiful shade of putrid green when I’m finished, but I’m proud of my triumph.
The dance floor begins to get crowded once everyone is full of pig meat. The music is tinny and crackly—partly because of the cheap sound system—but I still like it. The accordions sound ridiculously joyful, even when the songs are about death. Tía Fermina and tío Raul dance cheek to cheek. Belén dances with Mamá Jacinta’s lanky next-door neighbor. I watch everyone’s jumpy little dances as the sun bakes me into a cocoon of laziness. I start to nod off in my chair when Andrés pokes me in the shoulder and tells me we’re going to ride horses.
“Come on, prima,” he says, pulling me up.
“I’m tired. I don’t feel like it.” I try to slump back down.
“It’ll be good for you.”
“How?”
“Trust me.”
Defeated, I follow Andrés to the field next to the venue, where two black horses are tied to a fence.
“This one is Isabela,” he says, pointing to the smaller one. “And this is Sebastián.” Andrés rubs the horse’s side and smiles.
“Nice to meet you.” I pretend to shake their hooves.
“They’re married, you know.”
“Married! What are you talking about?” Imagining Isabela in a wedding gown makes me laugh so hard I snort. “Did they have a wedding? Did they waltz? Did she throw a bouquet?”
“Obviously, they didn’t have a wedding, tonta, but they’re a real couple.” Andrés seems annoyed that I find it so funny, that I’m having a hard time believing in romantic love between two animals.
“Really?”
“When they’re separated, Sebastián cries, I swear to God. Big, fat tears!” Andrés looks serious, so I stop laughing. He even crosses himself to make a point.
As Andrés gets the saddles from the shed, I pet Isabela’s back and run my fingers through her coarse black mane. Her coat is so dark it’s almost blue. Her muscles are tight and shimmer in the sunlight. I don’t think I’ve ever seen something so beautiful in my whole entire life. It’s almost bewildering.
I’m surprised by how much I love being on a horse again, to feel its tremendous strength under me. Andrés and I ride toward the river. It’s quiet except for the clacking hooves and buzzing insects in the yellowed grass. A flock of gray birds passes over us and settles in a giant tree. “Doves,” Andrés says. The river is nearly gone now because of the drought. The only water that remains is brownish green and full of garbage—plastic bags, bottles, wrappers, and even a solitary shoe. I shiver when I remember my dream about Olga as a mermaid; I can still see her glowing face so clearly.
The abandoned train station next to the river is boarded up now, the red paint peeling off in giant strips. The tracks are rusted, and the wood is worn. Andrés says the train has been gone for years now. It used to be bustling with people, but the company was crooked and couldn’t sustain itself. I remember Mamá Jacinta bringing me and Olga here when I was little. She bought us tiny wooden boxes of cajeta that was so sweet and sticky, it hurt my teeth for hours. I also know that Papá Feliciano used to take this train to sell pots and pans in other towns. He died before they closed the line. I guess, in a way, it’s good that he never saw it shut down. He loved that train.
Big fat flies begin biting Isabela’s face and neck when we approach a clearing. She shakes her head to get them off, but it’s no use; even if I swat them away, they come right back. My hand is smeared with blood when I rub her where the flies have landed. I kiss the back of her head when Andrés isn’t looking.
We ride along the river until the sun dips behind the trees and the crickets begin to sing. A field of corn in the distance looks dry and shriveled, and I wonder what would happen if someone flicked a match at it. I could ride Isabela forever, but
Andrés says we should get back to the party so Mamá Jacinta doesn’t worry. When I say goodbye to Isabela, I press my face against her side and run my hand over her back. I think I can hear her heartbeat. Suddenly, I remember the time Olga and I rode our great-uncle’s horses the second time we came to Los Ojos. At first, I was too scared, but Olga told me that the horses wouldn’t hurt me because they were magical creatures. And I believed her.
Andrés laughs. “What are you doing?”
I smile. “Nothing. Just giving her a hug.”
—
Tío Chucho walks toward me, holding a beer. “Ándale, mija, let’s dance.” He looks a little wobbly.
“No thanks, tío. I’m not much of a dancer.”
“Nonsense!” he says, and leads me to the dance floor. “The Montenegros are the best dancers in Los Ojos!”
The song is about three girls who drive to a carnival and plummet to their deaths when the truck flips over the side of a cliff. I’m not sure why anyone would want to dance to that. Tío Chucho smells like he’s sweating beer. His shirt is damp and his skin is sticky, but I keep dancing because I don’t want to hurt his feelings. He’s having a great time, spinning me around and singing along at the top of his lungs.
After the third song, a group of men wearing black masks and holding rifles walks toward the entrance of the venue. Tío lets go of my hand. His face slackens. “Chingue su madre,” he mutters.
“¿Qué, tío? What’s happening?”
“Nothing, mija. I’ll take care of it,” tío says, and walks toward them.
Everyone looks stiff and worried, but no one says a word. It’s suddenly a party full of statues. Andrés just keeps blinking. He looks like he might pass out.
Are they soldiers? Are they narcos? I have no idea.
One of the masked men stares at me the entire time, as if he’s drilling holes into my body with his eyes.
Tío Chucho pulls an envelope from his pocket and hands it to one of the men, who nods toward Andrés. Tío returns to the party looking pale and terrified. When the man finally turns away from me, I notice a faded Santa Muerte tattoo on his forearm.
I Am Not Your Perfect Mexican Daughter Page 19
