Something shattered on the other side of the sheet, a thud no louder than her own shoe when she pounded it softly on the floor to make sure a spider had not crawled into it.
—You okay, Mama? she asked, opening up her laces and slipping one foot in. She sat near Ricky’s pillow to strap on her shoes, tying the laces in double bows. The mother’s voice ordered her to sleep and her silhouette moved to snuff out the candle flames with pinches of her fingers. The sheet went blank.
Estrella zippered her work trousers and buttoned up a clean flannel shirt. She stood and took hold of the lantern, and flipped the corner of the sheet and stepped onto the porch. The mother was already there, staring at Perfecto.
—Where do you think you’re going? the mother asked. She held tight to Estrella’s wrist. Estrella didn’t know and didn’t answer.
Then the mother embraced Estrella so firmly, Estrella felt as if the mother was trying to hide her back in her body.
When her eyes became accustomed to the dark and the moonlight paved a worn pathway toward the barn, Estrella knew what to do. The weight of night did not affect her eyesight; her eyes grew like the pupils of a cat to absorb every particle of light.
—Careful with the lantern, the mother yelled to her, The grass is real dry. She cupped her hand around her mouth and called louder to her: It can catch fire! but Estrella did not turn and the mother saw her figure walking unafraid into the darkness, a ball of gold ochre bouncing in the night.
The moon lay flat. Estrella’s pace quickened until she realized she was running. She halted abruptly and held up her lantern. A gopher whipped by and disappeared with a rustle into the dry grasses. She could hear the howling of a coyote in the distance, the dogs responding with vicious barks and she continued at a slower pace. The barn loomed before her with its tall shadows and dented weathervane pointing downward. She heard the vane barely squeaking in the whispering breeze, then heard the hinges of the door.
She entered the barn. The inside was dark and dank like the cork of a wine bottle the men passed around on a Saturday night. The light of the lantern wrapped closely around her. At first she was startled by the ticking of the owls’ claws above her, then by the sound of fluttering wings and nervous chirping of the swallows. She spoke to her shadow as if she were not alone.
—It’s over there, she said and she directed her lantern for a better view of the chain. She tilted her head back. Way above her head, past the loft where some of the birds nested, was a trapdoor to the roof. She could barely see the lines of the moonlight squaring it.
She sat down in the small circle of yellow lantern light and removed her shoes, balled her socks, and tucked them in her shoes as the mother had taught them to do. She was about to turn off the lantern when she realized she had not brought the matchbook with her. She lowered its flame instead, enough to keep the kerosene burning. The blue pilot flame hesitated on its wick, until it wavered reassuringly. Estrella stood up. From her back pocket, she pulled out her bandanna and tied her long hair back with two knots. She spit into her palms, then rubbed her hands against the thighs of her trousers.
—Okay, she said to her other self.
Estrella clasped the chain and hoisted herself up. There was no turning back now. She pulled her arms to raise her shoulders up until her feet could brace the chain better. The wood above her croaked and cracked slightly from her weight. Bits of splinter wood and dust as fine as ash showered on her and she closed her eyes before it was too late. For a moment the chain swung lightly and chinked against its hook and her grip tightened around the thick links. The taste of soil rolled in her mouth, and a speck watered her eye and she spit. The large thick loops of rust tinkled. The biceps in her arms strained until she was able to wrap her legs around the chain which gave her added support. Her ears hummed.
Her hands were callused and her grip became strong, but her bare feet seemed so vulnerable against the cool, wavering iron. There was no looking down. The coolness tickled her toes. She wrapped the chain between her thighs now and jerked down to raise herself up as if she were tugging on a cord of a bell. She stopped to release one hand and wipe her sweaty palm against her trousers while she hugged tight the chain against her chest with her other. She glanced at the flicks of glow light below, then steered her attention upward to see the door square expanding much larger than she could have imagined it. The intensity of the climb soaked the back of her shirt collar with sweat.
The stench of bird droppings gave the loft a sharp acid smell which cut through the damp hay and alfalfa and dusty nests. The loft was leveled and she tenderly walked across the droppings and fodder which felt almost as brittle and sharp as specks of broken glass hidden under the soft feather down. Her fingers floated in midair and she searched for walls blindly, until she tore into a gossamer cobweb. Something scurried near her foot and she kicked it. By the way it sounded, a lopsided roll, it may have been a wine or Coke bottle, which rolled and flipped over the loft and fell straight down. It took some time before it shattered below, and she realized how high she had climbed. She looked down to see the specks of shattered glass just inches away from the lantern, and for a moment she imagined golden flaming eels dangerously nipping at the straw on the ground. It was so hot up in the loft, her breath struggling against the thin, stale air and she felt her flannel blouse damp and sticky. Her shoes sat near the broken glass with their tongues hanging to the side like dogs panting. She did not stir. Her heart tolled in her chest. She waited for her eyes to become accustomed to the dark. Only after the outlines of walls and floors and ceilings surfaced, did she move toward the trapdoor.
Estrella tried pushing, palms up, but the door only moaned, and she heard the birds somewhere in the barn nervously protesting with incessant chirping. She felt around the edge of the square door to make sure there was no bolt to push out of its notch, no hook that had to be slipped out from its eye. She pressed her back like a shovel against the door and pushed up once again. Again and again until whatever resistance there was gave way to her back. She turned and pushed with her hands and the door swung open against the roof and the swallows flew out from under eaves of the cedar shakes like angry words spewing out of a mouth. Estrella stood bathed in a flood of gray light. The light broke through and the cool evening air pierced the stifling heat of the loft.
She was stunned by the diamonds. The sparkle of stars cut the night—almost violently sharp. Estrella braced her fingers over the rim of the door frame, then heaved herself up into the panorama of the skies as if she were climbing out of a box. The birds pumped their wings in the skies furiously like debris whirling in a tornado, and it amazed her that they never once collided with one another. Over the eucalyptus and behind the moon, the stars like silver pomegranates glimmered before an infinity of darkness. No wonder the angels had picked a place like this to exist.
The roof tilted downward and she felt gravity pulling but did not lose her footing. The termite-softened shakes crunched beneath her bare feet like the serpent under the feet of Jesus, and a few pieces tumbled down and over the edge of the barn. No longer did she feel her blouse damp with sweat. No longer did she stumble blindly. She had to trust the soles of her feet, her hands, the shovel of her back, and the pounding bells of her heart. Her feet brushed close to the edge of the roof and it was there that she stopped. A breeze fluttered a few loose strands of hair on her face and nothing had ever seemed as pleasing to her as this. Some of the birds began descending, cautiously at first, then in groups, and finally a few swallows flapped to their nests not far from where she stood. Estrella remained as immobile as an angel standing on the verge of faith. Like the chiming bells of the great cathedrals, she believed her heart powerful enough to summon home all those who strayed.
Acknowledgements
When I think about the journey to get a novel completed, I can’t help but recall all those people throughout the years that have influenced and helped me. It’s amazing to remember the times I wrote with Pilar strapped to my back
or nursed Francisco while typing. The frustrations and pains of not having the time to let all the stories come out. The absolute realization that I would never complete a project. I think of the years which passed so rapidly.
All this goes up in smoke. Little by little I chipped away at my days until enough time was put aside for the stories. Now I look at my lovely son and beautiful daughter and I wonder where I tucked away all this thing called time.
The food on the table: Thanks to the piscadores, who, with weary bones and hard labor, feed me and you daily. To the U.C. Irvine Chicano Literary Contest; winning first place in the contest and receiving $400 were instrumental in motivating my confidence as a writer. To the National Endowment for the Arts, for granting me the monies to continue my writing, and to Ms. Mabel Richardson, whose scholarship for “underprivileged girls” helped pay for my undergraduate education at Immaculate Heart College. To my older sister Becky, who never asked—just slipped me a twenty, or took me out to eat during my starving student days. And finally to Eloy, for financially supporting me even during those years we couldn’t afford it.
The food of the soul: I want to thank my sincere soul sisters like Sandra Cisneros, who never lost faith in me. What can I say to you, sister, who kept me going in and out of my pregnancies, kept me out of the kitchen, kept my heart still and kept me writing? Terri de la Peña, Mary Helen Ponce, Lucha Corpi, Ana Castillo, Denise Chavez. To Ana Maria Garcia, who gave up her space for a month so that I might write. Ginger Varney, who is honest and critical. Y tambien a la Elizabeth Gonzales Towers, my comadre de Canada, y la Genet Chavez Gomez de Nueva Mexico, and my home-girls de E.L.A., Irene Hernandez and Suzie Rodríguez, who always have time for me. To my children, Pilar and Francisco. On days when I wake with great fear, they come to me and settle my nerves with a laugh, a kiss, a demand. After that, how could I possibly be afraid of a world they look upon so boldly?
The field of food: Gracias to Las Mujeres de Teoría like Maria Herrera Sobek (for the long phone and car dialogues), Sonia Saldivar-Hull (Sonia, thanks for your pep talks and advice—You always make me feel my work is very important), Norma Alarcon, Yvonne Yarbo Bejarano, Tey Diana Rebolledo and Debra Castillo. To Raul Villa and Rita Alcala. To Oba, unas gracias fuertes, primo, and a special thank you to my bro, Gary O. To Robert Cantu, who is always so excited to talk about Chicana writers. To my friend D.C., who provided me with my first mountain view. It really was my first and one I will always remember. With gratitude, to my thesis advisors: Judith Grossman, Thomas Keneally, and Gabrielle Schwab. I also gratefully acknowledge Ethan Canin, who encouraged the story, and to my fellow colleagues in the M.F.A. class of 1993, with special thanks to Andrew Tonkovich and Ilene Durst for their careful re-reading of the manuscript, and to Manuel Gomez, my wise compadre and lover of books.
To the blood-red pomegranate seeds of my familia, who always made room in their lives for me: Gilbert, Mary Ann y Alex, Becky y Phil, Serafin y Terry, Frances y Jim, Frank, Ruthie, Barbara y Memo, Carmen and Jack. The Trevino familia—La Señora, y Maria y Don y Betty y Tony—thanks.
To the oranges and palm dates: the members of the former L.A. Latino Writers Association and/or XhismeArte staff: Victor Manuel Valle, Luis Rodriguez, Marisela Norte, Naomi Quinonez, Barbara Carrasco, Frank Sifuentes, Joe L. Navarro, and Jesus Mena (a friend to whom I owe tons of love); and to the current members of the Southern California Latino/a Writers and Filmmakers, Inc., my sincere thanks. I also want to extend my love to the Puente students, who have developed intensive workshops in creative writing and see the beauty in themselves and the word.
To leaves, trees, and peaches: To Gabriel Garcia Márquez, who tried in every way to accommodate me after I initially declined the invitation to his storytelling workshop at the Sundance Institute. ¿Qué loca, no? Fortunately, I came to my senses at his insistence.
To the branches that home the birds: To Marie Brown, my agent, who took me on and waited patiently after I broke deadline after deadline promise. To Susan Bergholz, who is a true supporter of our work. To my editor, Rosemary Ahern, who recognized the importance of this story, and kept its integrity intact. To la Marta Treviño, my dear friend, my former roommate, and second mother to my children—many times you took over for me when I felt overwhelmed by parenthood. Gratitude is too small a word to offer you, Marta. Now you have been repaid with your own special gift, José Manuel.
To all the Spirits of my ancestors, of the earth’s making, of the heavens which protect and love me, my humble gratitude. To the generosity of mi raza, who love to tell me stories of their lives.
And, of course, to you, Eloy, my gratefulness again. I am always moved and inspired by your love of our people, and your fearless struggles against injustices. Your spirit wraps around me like a lantern light.
We did it. This novel I offer to all of you.
Under the Feet of Jesus Page 13
