Under the Feet of Jesus

by Helena María Viramontes

  The dim headlights shot east to the 281 Exit and on to the signal light at the corner where the Dairy Queen was closed. Perfecto followed the “Hospital” sign down the main boulevard. The storefront shops were locked with grates of steel, and the streelights glowed with a dull luster. A few scattered cars were parked in the Pick ’n Save lot, and a man wearing plastic bags around his waist pulled a two-wheel cart full of crushed aluminum cans and crossed the street right in front of them. One car headed toward them in the opposite direction, and for a minute Perfecto thought it was the highway patrol, but when it drove by, it was only a Chevy with a dented door, and he continued looking out for the signs which led to the Corazón Community Hospital. The twins, having napped, were wide awake and had trouble keeping still. They fogged their breaths on the windows and made finger faces.

  They reached the parking lot by nightfall, and Perfecto kept the motor on. The headlights dimmed. He was afraid the battery would die and so dared not turn off the ignition.

  —Leave him there.

  —Just leave him?

  —They’ll take care of him, believe me.

  —Just leave him?

  —Trust me.

  -Thanks.

  —What?

  —Thank you, Perfecto Flores, she repeated, and opened the door. Estrella put Alejo’s arm around her shoulder. Perfecto sat behind the steering wheel, the warm hum of engine under his feet. He had given this country his all, and in this land that used his bones for kindling, in this land that never once in the thirty years he lived and worked, never once said thank you, this young woman who could be his granddaughter had said the words with such honest gratitude, he was struck by how deeply these words touched him.

  —Hurry.

  Estrella emerged from the glass doors of the hospital not knowing quite what to do with the emptiness in her hands. The twins saw her stand there, from the rearview window, just like that, without Alejo. Through the glass, Estrella smiled a small smile when she saw her sisters looking. Then she lifted her arms, her palms up and then spread them wide and the twins watched as she stepped forward and the glass doors split open before her as if obeying her command. Perla turned to Cookie and Cookie turned to Perla. Estrella parted the doors like a sea of glass and walked through and the glass shut behind her and they couldn’t for a minute believe what they saw. When Estrella returned to the backseat of the station wagon, the twins fought to sit near her and the mother scolded them and Estrella moved to the middle. The twins nuzzled under her arms. Soon, they were on the main boulevard again and the twins slowly fell into snowlike quiet, shielded and warm and amazed that their big sister had the magic and the power in her hands to split glass in two.

  Five

  The headlights swerved over the table which stood as they had left it that morning, the cold coffee still in the chipped enamel cup, the stack of plates smeared with hardened egg yolk. The kettle lay on the grate, its base blackened. The car pitched forward and halted. Over the treeline of eucalyptus, transient clouds obscured the moonlight making silhouettes of their faces. Perfecto turned off the ignition and the headlights burned out and the wagon knocked and pinged and was finally silent. They sat in the dark until clouds crossed and the moonlight reappeared again.

  The children slept while the mother moved sluggishly to the bungalow. She stopped at the step of the porch to rub the back of her leg, then opened the door and went in. She lit the lantern and the glow of yellow hands appeared to snap the blankets and banish the spiders which hid in abandoned places. The mother stomped on an insect, and scraped it over the edge of the porch with her sandal. She waved Estrella in and Estrella bundled up Perla and carried her into the bungalow while Perfecto carried Arnulfo because Ricky was too heavy for him now, and the mother carried Ricky, heavy or not. Estrella returned to bundle Cookie, and the mother went over to get the stick.

  Perfecto slammed the doors of the station wagon one by one. He stared at Petra. Her black wiry hair was undone and it bristled against her neck as she dug the stick into the dirt to retrace the oval ring around the bungalow. She struck the dried stone-packed earth with such force, he could hear the scratch scratch scratch of the stick clawing against the earth.

  This was not a time for words; he had to think. He was relieved when she had finished the circle and went back inside and he leaned against the hot hood. He could feel the warmth penetrate the small of his back. He folded his arms over his chest, and clamped his armpits down on his hands to think.

  Estrella saw Perfecto standing against the wagon from the bungalow window, the full moon a skin of burns above him.

  If Perfecto had a cigarette, he would have smoked it, inhaling the tobacco like a potent drug to tame the panic in the air. There would be no tomorrow, he knew. He was positive the nurse had called the police. They were probably searching the camps by now. One cigarette was all he craved, just one, but all he had in his pockets were crumbs and lint and half a roll of Certs and the receipt the nurse had given them for services rendered. Without checking his wallet, he made a mental calculation. When they began the day, he had in his pocket all of $9.07. Five dollars gave him a quarter of a tank, and he couldn’t decide whether four dollars and seven cents was enough cash to bail out.

  What was happening to his instincts? If he were sinking into quicksand, would he not want to save himself? If there was an arrow shot into his belly, would he not think to pull it out? Why had God given him these instincts if they were not intended to be used? Lord, he thought, how tired he was. He wanted to rest, to lay down and never get up, and he pressed his hands to his face.

  She thought he was crying.

  He rubbed his eyes under his bifocals and folded his arms again. He knew Petra would tell him tonight. Did he think himself fifty years younger to start another family? What a stupid and old man he had become. Stop it. Stop sniffling like a mocoso. Though he wore corrective lenses as thick as soda pop bottles, he was not blind. He knew. But the knowledge was not enough to unloosen himself from the rope of highway.

  The mother stood on the porch and glared at Perfecto, one hand fisted tightly.

  Perfecto kicked at some pebbles with the toe of his shoe. The maggots appeared and he hadn’t the energy to lift his boot and kill them. Think clearly. Remember, the nurse was not hurt, not really. Remember, they had taken only what belonged to them. If, in fact, she had called the authorities, they would’ve been hauled off to the police station by now. Of course. Of course.

  He looked upon the moon’s roundness like a quarter, bright as a new dime. Perhaps it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. Perhaps the nurse simply reapplied her blood-red lipstick, then drove off just in time to pick up her sons and her sons were probably asleep in their beds right now. Perhaps the nurse was stirring cream into her decaffeinated coffee, the spoon clinking on the cup while her husband watched the late night news. “You won’t believe what happened to me today ... ,” she would probably say to him while he lay on the couch, because that is how Perfecto imagined people who had couches and living rooms and television sets and who drank coffee even at night.

  Perfecto wanted to load up his tools, a few blankets, some peaches. He couldn’t tell whether it was love or simply fear that held him back. His arms folded tighter across his chest, and he dug his hands deeper into his armpits so that they wouldn’t move without his permission, so that they wouldn’t begin to pack even before his decision was final. He could not wait for the barn and the money and tomorrow. If he left right this minute, without even turning back, pulled the arrow of pain from his belly, he would have a second chance. With four dollars to his name, a chestful of tools, some gasoline, and this old station wagon with a battery ready to die, he couldn’t afford time.

  Think. Think. Think, Perfecto, you cabeza de burro chingado. The car had cooled and no longer warmed his back and he felt his skin goosebump. He had quit smoking in another life, when his hair was full and black and his children looked upon him as a man who could fix the axles of the world if
he wanted to. He looked down at the loose swaying maggots. Perfecto was glad to have given up tobacco. He would have foolishly spent the last few dollars on a package of cigarettes, his desire was such, so overwhelming.

  The planks of the floor creaked as they entered bearing the weight of children. The groan of their limp bodies, the comfort of sleeping in a reclining position, dusty blankets under their chins, muddied shoes slipped off their feet. Ricky’s ankle red from not having worn socks, Cookie’s toenails needed clipping. The buzz of children safely sleeping.

  How long would it be before they came to arouse the children? Unleash the dogs? The authorities would come as they did for years, and pull their hearts inside out like empty pockets. How long? Throughout the car ride back to the bungalow, she had asked herself why hadn’t she tried to stop Estrella or why hadn’t she let Perfecto stop her. It simply came down to this: there was no stopping Estrella, no harnessing the climate of circumstances, no holding back the will of her body. How many times had her own mother warned her, pleaded with her not to get involved with a man like Estrella’s real father?

  Petra saw Perfecto slamming each car door. One. She stepped down the porch when she saw the stick leaning against the cooking pit and she clasped it like a weapon. She could bare’ see Estrella’s tracings on the ground. Two. In several places, the circle had opened; trampled footsteps had left gaps. All the warnings in the world could not stop her. Three. The scorpions were known to be methodical predators and she scratched the ring with urgency until the ring was at least two inches deep in the soil. Four. When she first became pregnant with Estrella, her own mother blessed her with a kiss on her forehead, then slammed the door shut so final, it never opened again.

  Perfecto’s back was to her. He leaned on the hood of the car and she wanted to see his eyes. Trust me, she remembered Perfecto saying, but the only trust she had now was in Jesucristo. She palmed her coal black hair back. As she walked up the porch stairs, she let the stick slip from her fingers and fall to the ground. She would make an offering.

  Petra had felt eyes all over her. The knot of eyes on the paneled wall glared at her as she slipped the shoes off her children. Then it was the tigereye stones of Jesucristo’s eyes which followed her as she kneeled before the statue and lit each candle with a matchbook she kept near its base. The statue, draped in blue robes and crushing a green serpent with bare feet, stood on the elevated middle crate of the Holy Trinity. His removable hands were held out to display the red wounds of crucifixion and the two eyes, surrounded by the half moon of seven candles, gazed through the flames at her. The smoke rose and blackened the ceiling above her candles. Someone sneezed behind the day-blue sheet.

  It was no use. She straightened the doily scarf bumpy from the envelope beneath it. The doily had been crocheted by Petra’s grandmother and given to her as a gift. The doily was so special, Petra rested Jesucristo on it. She followed the diamond pattern of knotted thread with the tips of her fingers as if caressing a child’s face, a jawbone and chin, as if she touched the doily for comfort.

  They had whispered among them, las mujeres de la familia, about grandmother and how much of a nervous viejita she was. A curious little sparrow of a woman, with sharp jittery eyes that cut ice. The only thing which calmed her nerves was to sit by the lantern and crochet. When Petra’s father was sick, tomorrow came and went and came and went until her father died and tomorrow still came and went and grandmother had crocheted perfect little diamonds through it all. What thoughts had gone through her grandmother’s mind as she crocheted, what threads looped and knotted and disguised themselves as prayers? And what had Petra learned from the trembling fingers which pulled a fine thread into the hook of the crocheting needle with such patience that the stitching was as intricate and as weather resistant as a spider’s web? If only Petra was capable of crocheting, if only she could feel the threads slip in and out of her fingers like her grandmother once did, she wouldn’t feel as if her own prayers turned into soot above her.

  Under the doily lay the documents in the manilla envelope. She slipped the envelope out gingerly and poured out the contents onto her palm. Black ink feet on the birth certificates, five perfect circular toes on each foot, a topography print of her children recorded, dated, legal, for future use to establish age to enter school, when applying for working papers, establish legal age for rights of franchise, for jury or military service, to prove citizenship, to obtain passports, to prove right to inheritance of property. Certificado de Bautismos—five of them; a torn and mended Social Security card; Identification card—NOT A LICENSE—She had walked fourteen blocks to get to the DMV, and her picture looked flat and dull and pale as concrete, but the ID was a great relief. Petra often feared that she would die and no one would know who she was. “Remembrance of First Holy Communion” certificate (where was Ricky’s—had she lost it?); a thick certificate award given to Estrella for an essay she wrote titled My Blue Fat Cat; “Authorization and Certificate of Confidential Marriage”—Personal Data of Husband: He tired quickly. Personal Data of Wife: She was four months pregnant and wanted to change the date, but the man behind the counter said not to worry, he would change it on the record. Married in the town of Santa Ana, county of Orange, state of California. They had to transfer buses twice. They got there five minutes before the office closed, and he held the door open while she went to the bathroom. All the warnings in the world could not stop her.

  Petra folded the creases of the documents with the same care she folded a Phillips 66 map, and slipped the papers back into the envelope and placed it back on the altar. She raised herself but couldn’t stand without struggling to brace her legs and so she leaned on the crate to support her weight, and the statue of Jesucristo wavered. Her reflexes were no longer fast enough to catch a falling statue; she could almost see the head splitting away from the body before it even hit the wood planks of the floor. The head of Jesucristo broke from His neck and when His eyes stared up at her like pools of dark ominous water, she felt a wave of anger swelling against her chest.

  —You okay, Mama? Estrella whispered from the other side of the sheet.

  —Go to sleep, she responded curtly.

  Petra lifted the head and body of Jesucristo from chips of white plaster on the ground. She was surprised by the lightness of the head, like a walnut in the palm of her hand, and nervously fumbled it upon the neck of the body. Unsuccessful, she replaced the headless statue on the long tread of crocheted doily, crossed herself and kissed Jerucristo’s feet. She held onto the head.

  Petra licked two fingers and sizzled out the wicks of each candle. She would have liked to keep the vigil burning but was afraid for her children. If one of the candles fell, the blankets would catch, as hungry as fire was, and her children would be incinerated like blazing piñon trees.

  She walked to the porch and saw Perfecto leaning against the wagon with his arms folded. As usual, he had his back to her, and he looked into the distance, where the road intersected with the trees. She stared up at the cluster of clouds inching across the moon. The leaves of the top branches had the sheen of polished armor. If only she could crochet a row of diamonds to help her get through to tomorrow. She stared out into the beyond of the moonlight, where the darkness hung like a black sheet. The lima bean in her stomach felt like mesquite burning.

  She glanced at the stick cast near the ground scrub. Was it too late to protect the children from the scorpions? Had they already entered the bungalow? Once a weapon, the stick now looked slight and feeble. How could she possibly think to protect her children if such a little clawing insect could inspire a whole midnight of fear? What made her believe that a circle drawn in the earth would keep the predators away? That was all she had: papers and sticks and broken faith and Perfecto, and at this moment all of this seemed as weightless against the massive darkness, as the head she held.

  Petra’s grasp tightened around the head of Jesucristo. Perfecto stood as quiet as the clouds drifting and she wanted to go see his
eyes. If anyone could fix it, Perfecto could.

  The smoke of the burning candles made Estrella sneeze and she forced open the window of the bungalow. With all her strength she loosened the swollen pane and the wood scraped against the pulley and she was able to sneak her fingers under and pry it open. The nocturnal air was brisk and welcome after the smothering mesquitelike incense of the room and she inhaled deeply. Not far from the cooking pit, from the unpaved road, she saw Perfecto hide his face with his hands, and his shoulders trembled as if he were crying.

  In the hospital room where the vinyl couches were worn and darkened with the weight of people’s hours, Alejo’s lower lip had trembled and his eyes began to well and his tears caught her by surprise. Please, he begged. Just stay with me for a while. He was frightened beyond her capacity to comfort him. But the car ran outside, the white fumes rising from the exhaust pipe and the precious gasoline burned and her family waited, and he was where he should be. Alejo, she said sternly, everything’s gonna turn out all right. Just tell the doctors, she said in a voice filled with a combination of tenderness and irritation. She believed it. He would be healed and return to work. It only now occurred to her that perhaps she would never see him alive again, that perhaps he would die.

  She felt filthy, the coils of her neck etched with dirt and sweat. Estrella took off the muddied dress as if she wanted to discard the whole day like dirty laundry. Her muscles strained with every body movement and when she had reached for the hem of her dress or pulled her arms out of the sleeves of her muslin undershirt, she felt as if her body had been beaten into a pulp of ligaments and cartilage. She threw the dress in the corner of the room where the children were taught to put their clothes. In the distance, a dog barked then howled. There was a crate in the corner where she had placed her work trousers and she slowly slipped one foot then the other into the pants. The candlelights glimmered a garland of light rays on the sheet which seemed as thin and as transparent as the ears of a desert jackrabbit.