Under the Feet of Jesus

by Helena María Viramontes

  Her bare toes were blue against the gray garlic, and for a moment, it looked like she stood amidst the clouds. It was only by chance and the right angle of the sunlight that she saw with her own eyes bulbous clouds carrying her, until a big brown hand clamped a bunch of bulbs and the hand brought her back. She followed the hand up his wiry body so thin he needed a good meal. His work pants were cuffed above his boots, large cuffs deep enough to be pockets, and from under the thick smell of incense, she saw a cap of baldness rising to the surface. Moments passed between them like years because it seemed like forever before she saw his face.

  Gray stubble lingered in the deep canyons of his cheeks. He looked old, but the nature of their lives had a way of putting twenty years on a face, so that a man of fifty looked like he was seventy, and perhaps she looked fifty herself, though she was only thirty-three at the time.

  He clamped another handful and raised it to his flattened nose and closed his eyes and inhaled with great concentration. The glowing Christmas lights danced against his bifocals. He opened his eyes and picked a bulb from the bunch and held his selection up to her. The smell was distinct, strong, but under its pungency she detected the rosewater fragrance which made the bulb particularly powerful. Petra turned to Estrella.

  —See? You can smell it in this one, the roses, see, and you don’t believe me! Look, she said, holding up the bulb, it’s even blessed by La Virgen! but Estrella shrugged her shoulders not yet able to see the flower in the bulb. She placed it near the Spam.

  —They never believe you, the man said.

  —Gracias. Muy amable, Petra said after they finally cleared the floor of garlic. She extended her hand. He clasped it and his hand had the texture of tree bark and when he released her hand, she felt as if splinters had remained in her fingers.

  His boots weighed loud on the floorboards for such a thin man. The red tool chest he carried seemed heavy; one shoulder dipped as he walked to the counter. He put his tool chest down and rested one shoe on the box.

  —It had to do with the wires, the man said. He pulled some tangled wire threads from his pocket to explain but the proprietor dismissed the details with a wave of his kerchief and then tucked it into a cauliflower peeking from his pocket.

  —Perfecto! the proprietor said in a shout. Your bill is paid up then.

  —Can I have some ice?

  —Of course, of course, the proprietor replied, slapping Perfecto’s shoulder.

  Petra split the bulging cloves of the clouds, smelled them, made sure their scent pricked her nose, felt the crinkly paper skin. These would be good crushed and boiled with milk for stomachache tonics, these would be pickled with a little vinegar and stored in the shade and would ease the knots of her veins, and these had cloves big enough for dicing and adding to hot chile.

  The man carried a burlap bag over his shoulder and the bag trickled down his back and to the floor and Petra smiled and he smiled back. With his free hand, his branch fingers clamped onto the metal handle of the tool chest, and Petra hurried to the door and pulled the screen door open and the Christmas bells drummed against the door like knuckles and the propietor said,

  —Don’t let the flies out! and guffawed again.

  Perfecto said, You’re very kind, Miss, and he walked away, water dotting behind him.

  The proprietor breathed through his mouth, his breathing loud and dry. He snapped two bags open and placed the cans of Spam at the bottom, and garlic and onions at the top. Petra wondered why he bothered with a mustache at all; his bigotes were so thin, it looked as straight as the dash he penciled after every credit.

  —Making garlic soup? He asked in a tone which, if one were cynical, could be taken as sarcasm.

  —I’ll sell you a pot, Petra replied.

  —For some eggs, Estrella added.

  —I don’t have any, he said.

  —I didn’t think so, Petra said, handing a bag to Estrella.

  The proprietor opened the ledger to a page darkened at the right-hand corner by the moist tips of his finger and turned it around for Petra to sign. The freezer buzzed off and the two followed the drops of water out.

  —Whatta you got in your mouth? Petra raised Cookie’s chin, inspecting her daughter’s face suspiciously. The twin sat on the porch crunching. What are you eating?

  —Ice, Ricky replied, a jagged piece melting from between his fingers, A nice man, he gave us ice. He chewed like a chipmunk. The melting ice streaked down his hand and dribbled to the porch step.

  —What man? asked Petra glancing, but all Ricky did was point towards the vacant highway.

  —It was gave to us, Cookie said. Her cheeks glowed red like a fever. She crunched the last of hers and stared at Ricky’s piece.

  Petra placed the paper sack down, then picked the bag up, crumbling the top of the bag so tight it sounded like fire. She looked down the long stretch of the road again. Trust me, he had said when she entered the store, and by chance, she would. The highway seemed endless and hot and dry and wet all at the same time: asphalt held down the heat of the day’s sun like her heart did with hope. Ice, what was in a piece of ice?

  —Vámonos, Petra said.

  The watchdog growled when they passed, and Petra kicked the fence and the fence wobbled and the dog retreated, then clawed an itch with a hind leg, his purple testicles shaking like coin purses. The twin Perla spit a piece of ice on the palm of her hand and flung it over the wire fence. The dog rolled his pink tongue on the ice.

  —Remember me, she instructed the dog, I love you.

  Petra stared at the day-blue sheet that divided the two rooms in the bungalow. The sheet was thinner than a minute and swayed with a hint of cool morning breeze. There was no light except for the expanding dawn and the sheet against the darkened morning fluttered like Perfecto’s whistling lips. He lay on his back, one arm bent over his head as if he were about to throw something, thin stray hairs in the valley of his armpit. He snored, loose skin collapsing around his Adam’s apple. Perfecto mumbled in his sleep, then turned his back to her, taking most of the quilt. His neck and shoulders had a permanent sunburn, so even though his back was bare, his belly as white and soft as cream, it seemed as if he still wore a T-shirt. She pulled at the quilt to regain a portion.

  Petra rubbed the heat of her stomach. To deny her body would be to deny the morning now rising, would be as useless as pressing her palms against her ears to silence the chattering of the birds who awakened at the first light of day. She heard Perfecto’s deep guttural snore. He was the only man she knew who made more noise in his sleep than in his waking hours. Then she heard them talking. Like the birds, they, too, awoke with the first light.

  —Star?

  —Yeah?

  —Pass me some water.

  —Feet better?

  —Yeah. Thanks.

  —A lot of us are getting it. Mama’s been throwing up a lot too.

  Petra heard this. She pulled the quilt and squeezed her breasts against Perfecto’s back, felt her heart pounding between them.

  —And you?

  —I’m okay. But I don’t want Ricky and Arnulfo out there. They can’t know how to work with the sun yet.

  —Like me?

  —Meaning like you or not like you?

  —You’re making my head hurt.

  —Your bruise looks better.

  —Do you think I’m handsome?

  —I better get up.

  —Wait, wait. I wish I could spend a whole day with you and talk about everything under the sky. I mean it.

  To Petra, Alejo’s voice seemed deeper now than when he first came. Perfecto murmured a response to something asked in his dream. She could not tell what he whispered and she wondered if it was another nightmare.

  —Did you have any dreams? Petra heard Estrella ask. She saw her daughter’s words come to her. She could swear the words forced the corner of the sheet up and obediently floated like a streamer to her. She loved her daughter very much.

  —I’ll remember by
tonight. It was strange though, like I was falling or something. And you?

  —I don’t have dreams.

  —Everyone does, you just don’t remember.

  —That’s not true.

  —Let me hold you.

  Petra heard the shifting of bodies. Was Estrella squeezing against Alejo, as she was doing with Perfecto? Petra stared at the sheet. How blind could she have been? Hadn’t she learned something in her thirty-five years? Is this what it was all about, healing Alejo so that he could take Estrella? She urged her hips against Perfecto’s buttocks, then ran her arm under his and let it rest over the breadth of his belly. She felt as if she held nothing, his body like a phantom of a man once made of hearty flesh. She was amazed at the thickness of his ribs, though his skin was tissue loose and soft. She flipped her leg over his hip.

  —What grade are you in?

  —I don’t know.

  —You always gonna work in the fields?

  What a stupid boy! Petra thought, her nose pressed against Perfecto’s neck. She smelled traces of Dixie peach pomade on his hair and the scent made her nauseous. What right did he have to ask that? If Estrella wasn’t working, there would be nothing for him to eat.

  —What’s wrong with picking the vegetables people’ ll be eating for dinner?

  —But you always wanna do it?

  —I sure hope not.

  Petra felt Perfecto touch her hand with his big parchment fingers and she found his gesture tender. Love, Petra knew, came and went. But it was loyalty that kept them on the tightrope together when it was gone, kept them from seeing the void beneath their feet and yes she had learned something in her thirty-five years. Hadn’t she learned that love would return if she were patient enough? Just keep your balance, tiptoe across the tightrope, one foot up one foot down, don’t look below. And wait. She felt Perfecto grab her hand if only for a moment, then push it away, in a gesture that was not mean, just definite.

  —Let me hold you. Petra heard the young man Alejo whisper to her daughter. She finally sat up and punched her fists through a T-shirt, then through her sweater sleeves. Her feet slipped into her rubber sandals. She pulled her skirt up over her nylon slip and she tried twice to clamp the waist with a safety pin, but it pressed too tight against her belly. She opened the door to the morning, the door creaking in its hinges, and a sharp slap of breeze stung her cheek. As she stood on the porch, the gray morning filtered through the black trees and they reminded her of papel picado. She sighed, a deep exhale of cool air. Each morning she held nothing back. But the day bloomed and time became a tight squeeze of a belt upon a belly. Petra forced herself down the steps. Hadn’t she learned anything in her thirty-five years? That her two hands couldn’t hold anything back, including time?

  When it perched on the branch to rest, the crow eyed the woman’s head near the smoking fire. The wind disturbed the branch under its claws and the bird glided downward. It pecked on the stable ground not far from the smoke.

  Three fingers of Clabber Girl baking powder, sprinkle of salt (a little salt over the left shoulder for luck), a few handfuls of La Pina flour, Rex lard, and warm water from the aluminum coffeepot. Knead. Let the white mound stand with a dishcloth over it. Boil. Put the coffee grinds in the pot. Saute the papas with diced onion and tomato and lard. Remove the dishcloth, begin rolling the tortillas.

  Petra stopped to look at the bird which pumped its wide wings upward, a twig in its beak. The smell of woodsmoke brought Petra back to her place and she took another small mound of kneaded dough, dusted it with flour and began to roll it on an oval cutting board. She did this like awakening without a clock, like taking a drink when she was thirsty, sometimes singing under her breath, sometimes thinking about too many things at once.

  Starting in the middle, she rolled from north to south, flipped the dough, sprinkled flour, turned to remove the tortilla already baking on the comal, returned to roll from east to west until the tortilla was perfectly round, then place it on the comal, get more dough, sprinkled flour, turned to remove the baked tortilla from the comal and stack it on top of the others. Spoon the potatoes in the flour tortilla, so nothing would spill. Fold the bottom of the tortilla, then the top, then the sides so that the burrito was a perfect envelope, then rewrap the burritos in foil for the lunches. She could do this in the dark, ill or healthy, near some trees, by a road, on a door made into a table or while birds flew past her with twigs between their beaks because tortillas filled her children’s stomachs and made their stomachs hungry for more.

  Her eldest daughter emerged from the bungalow barefooted, carrying her shoes in one hand, socks in the other, walking gingerly on the splintering floor planks of the porch. How tall she had gotten within a matter of months. Estrella would be fourteen soon. Soon? Soon Estrella would begin menstruation, and Petra thought of blood in the glow of the fire, the amber red of molten wood, and in the absence of her own menstruation. Was she waiting as well?

  When she was Estrella’s age, Petra feared many things. Crooked backs, cancer, evil eye. Petra took a clove of garlic and ground it in the molcajete, and then added another when she thought of bewitchment. The first time she saw her own undergarment darkened with purple blood, she swore she was bleeding to death because no one had told her otherwise. The crow flew away with another and longer twig between its beak and Petra studied its flight until it disappeared among the eucalyptus. When it was time, it was time and not even Petra’s glare at her eldest daughter was enough to halt the weather of what was to come, halt the flesh and blood pieces of Estrella’s heart from falling to the ground. Petra ground deeper into the garlic.

  Estrella crisscrossed her shoelaces over her trouser cuffs while the mother flipped a tortilla. Sweet Jesus how she wished it would rain and they wouldn’t have to go to the fields today. The mother poured coffee in a blue enamel cup, stirred in three heaping teaspoons of sugar from a Yuban coffee can, blew into it. The tortilla baking on top of the black cast-iron comal, the cawing of crows, the mother stirring sugar in the black coffee. This morning was no different. What would it take to get out of the fields? Her pants were stiff with dirt and felt scratchy against her legs. The day hadn’t even begun and already she felt tired.

  The creak of Perfecto Flores’ boots passed her without a word and he stepped down to where the mother delivered his cup of coffee. Estrella knew he would remain silent until she agreed to help tear down the barn. She rolled her head, her neck stiff, stood to stretch, rubbed the palm of her hand. Tomorrow was Sunday. She yawned, not wanting to move, but the scent of fried papas, red chile with crushed garlic boiling on the grate, and steaming coffee enticed her to the table where Perfecto sipped his coffee loudly. He sat on a crate, one hand flattened on his knee, his bifocals fogging from the steam of the hot coffee when he brought it to his lips.

  —You and Alejo are like birds that make too much noise, the mother said between rolls of the pin. Estrella knew Perfecto was angry but never counted on the mother being angry as well.

  —He likes to talk, Mama.

  —Well? This from Perfecto. Can I count on you?

  —Count on her for what? Petra asked.

  —What do you want me to say, Perfecto Flores?

  —¿Y tú, tú qué quieres? The mother said, pointing the rolling pin to her, then giving Estrella her back.

  —¿Yo? Mama. No más comida. Es todo. Estrella held a cup of coffee but hadn’t realized she had poured herself one.

  —And the next thing is ... the mother continued her rolling ... and the next thing is that’s how it all starts.

  —You going crazy again, Petra? Perfecto replied, tossing the rest of the coffee out, a black blot like fingers on the ground near the crows. They raised their wings in a threat of flight, but instead moved farther away and continued their pecking.

  —How you feeling, Mama?

  —Así comienza todo. The mother flipped a tortilla. That’s how it all starts. She singed her finger on the hot comal, and cried out so loud, the crows f
lew away a few more yards from the table.

  Petra guided Alejo to the porch and propped him on the crate. She was weary of battling sickness. His cheeks were sunken, pale, and she thought the sun might pull some blood into his skin. He leaned his head back and rested and looked at her in a way that she no longer recognized. She pressed a penny to his forehead not far from where his bruise had healed, until the penny engraved a red ring in his skin when she removed it. She studied the color of the ring, placed the penny in her pocket. Some days were better than others, but still he was too weak to work, too weak to stand, and only perked up, rinsed his mouth, rubbed the mucus from the corners of his eyes, when Estrella returned to the bungalow.

  The twins played not far from the porch, disrupting the flow of red ants. They followed the ants with dirt, delighted to see the ants dig themselves out of the pile they poured on top of them. Perla and Cookie scooped more dirt and let it slip between their fingers and giggled.

  Petra went back to cleaning nopales. She stripped away the spines of the beaver tail cactus with her butcher knife over a piece of paper bag torn open. How long could they afford to take care of him? The gummy sap of the nopal was making her own mouth salivate. She had tried everything to cure him. The egg for nausea, the glass of water placed above his head for sunstroke, espigas de maíz with sulfur matches, ground to an ash and mixed with boiled water for an elixir. But some days were better than others.

  Petra took care of Alejo, not because of who he was, but because she was a mother too, and if Estrella was sick, or Ricky and Arnulfo were sick in the piscas, she would want someone to take care of them. And of course, she did it for the love of God. This, however, was more than she had anticipated, and she just didn’t have the strength. Her legs were swelling with varicose veins which ruptured like earthquake fault lines. Remembering Perfecto’s withdrawal, she wondered if he thought she had failed somehow.