Once it was done, I returned and pushed the fake body onto the floor, the purpose of it met, and there it was, just a dirty pile of laundry on the floor. Then it was just me, climbing into bed with my real body, and I fell asleep the moment I closed my eyes, this body of mine so good at pretending to be innocent.
I knew I would tell Papi, Yes, from the sweat of my brow…
Maybe if Papi was here then I wouldn’t have been stupid, I wouldn’t have believed everything that was said to me. When I got like this the only thing that helped was pulling out my little hinged mirror to look at my own face. I taunted myself. Look into the eyes of a true mentirosa. My two eyes. The pupils small. La Señora’s makeup all a magician’s trick. When I looked up close, I could still see hints of the gray of the bruise that I brought onto myself. It spotted through the paint. I stood. It was my turn to get in line and swallow the wafer.
21.
Glass Shards
There was the sound of a car alarm when I sat up and pulled the blanket to cover my shoulders. It was Monday. I couldn’t be late for school; it was close to the end of the year and we had finals. But then shards of glass rolled down the blanket and piled at the dip of my thighs.
A cold breeze came through the broken window. The sky was black. The wind carried the smell of smoke and the loud sound of the neighborhood. The screaming and the car alarms.
The door opened. Cassandra rushed in, kneeling by my bed, fanning her hands, repeating in a bewildered monotone, “Blood. Blood. Blood.” Her pink glasses were lopsided and hung from her ears down her chin.
Mamá rushed in, then after a second. “Chula! Cassandra! Are you okay?”
In the distance, after the empty lot and the highway, there was a black, thick braid of smoke billowing from a building. I stared at shards of glass sticking up from my palm. I plucked one. I felt a dull pain and then my palm was wet and alarmingly red, deep red like a rose petal, but warm as well.
I looked from Cassandra to Mamá, then I stared out the window. All around the window frame pieces of glass stood up like icicles. Black smoke tunneled up into the sky, turning and turning. I looked to the lot. Where were the cows?
“Este país de mierda!” Mamá threw my blanket to the side. I didn’t spot the cows. She took me up in her arms and then we were running. Running below the ceiling, through a door, into the bathroom, her fast breathing, and then I sat on the toilet crying. Hydrogen peroxide fizzled on my knee and hands and down my face and Mamá was screaming, “This is your father’s fault, how could he let this happen?” My forehead pulsed and I wondered about the cows and then I couldn’t understand what anybody was saying, so I listened instead to the pitch of the voices, Mamá and Cassandra speaking, yelling. I tried to get up, but they rose to their feet and placed their hands on me. “Chula, sit down! What’s wrong with you?”
Then Mamá cried into a red handkerchief and my hands shook. Everything vibrated with color. I was lying down. Cassandra held a wet towel to my forehead and Mamá gave me a glass of water and had me drink from a straw. I was very tired but still I asked Cassandra, “What happened to the cows?” and then I fell asleep.
When I awoke I stumbled down the hall. It was night. Everything was dark. Mamá was standing on my bed with her shoes on, and Cassandra trained the spot of a flashlight on Mamá’s hands. Mamá was stretching plastic over the windows. I stared at her shoes, sinking into my blankets with their dust, thinking how Petrona would now have to wash everything before I could go to bed. Then I remembered Petrona was at home. I remembered her veil lifting in the wind in the middle of that orange hill. I remembered the snail shell cutting into my flesh. I remembered the glass shards sticking out of my palm.
The plastic was taped at two corners of the window, but the rest of it lifted up like a sail, catching the beam of Cassandra’s flashlight. I sneaked under Mamá and picked at the plastic to look out of the window.
“Mamá, look at Chula.”
It was dark and I couldn’t see the cows, but the chill of night was nice on my face, and the sound of traffic on the highway was nice too, constant and rumbling.
“What are you doing up, mi cielo?” Mamá carried me back to her bed, saying I was lucky I didn’t need to go to the hospital. I was the only one hurt because I slept by a window.
“Did you see the cows?”
“What cows?” Mamá said. She took my temperature with her hand on my forehead. I went to scratch my cheek and realized it was covered in gauze. My hand was covered in gauze too.
Mamá got the snail shell Petrona’s uncle put on my hand from her purse where she had left it the night before. She didn’t have to say that the shell was to blame for me getting hurt—it was clear she thought this because she knelt in her bathroom and broke the shell with a hammer and then doused it with alcohol and set it on fire. I didn’t want to smell it. I pulled Mamá’s blanket over my nose. Cassandra asked Mamá if she thought she was overreacting and Mamá said there was no overreaction when it came to witches. The burning shell left a dark stain on the tile.
I didn’t want to stay in bed anymore. I was wide awake. Mamá gave me permission to sleep with Cassandra in her bed. I went to the attic and when Cassandra fell asleep, I got up and practiced my kicks and worked on my splits. I shone my flashlight out on the garden. Finally I shook Cassandra awake. “Cassandra, did you see what happened to the cows?” Cassandra kept her eyes closed and grumbled, “Chula, I’m sleeping.”
“Can’t you wake up and tell me? Are they dead?”
Cassandra reached blindly to the floor, palming the carpet for her glasses. She lay down on her back and put her glasses on, but kept her eyes closed. “They’re not dead. I saw them. They were hiding in one end of the lot.”
“Nothing happened to them?” I was ecstatic. Cows were amazing. I got in bed next to Cassandra. “Did you know cows have eight stomachs? They’re superhuman.”
Cassandra laughed. “They’re actually not human.” I offered Cassandra my cuts.
“Do you want to touch them? It doesn’t hurt at all.” She pressed her finger on the cut on my arm and then lifted it quickly, grimacing.
“Oh, it’s soft like an egg yolk.” She stuck her tongue out, disgusted.
“Cassandra. Can you believe glass exploded over me? Not just anyone can survive glass exploding over them.”
“Chula, you were all covered by a blanket.”
“Well, not everyone can sleep and keep their blanket in place covering everything in case of car bombs, and they wouldn’t make it out alive when glass exploded over them—you wouldn’t: you kick your blankets to the floor.”
“I don’t sleep by the window.”
“Cassandra, what if, this night, a man is able to climb to the roof and what if at night he watches us sleep?”
“What dumb questions you ask, Chula. No one can climb our roof, it’s too steep, haven’t you seen? Besides, who would want to watch your ugly face through the window?”
I hit her with a pillow and then we lay quietly. “We forgot all about our emergency backpacks,” I said.
“I know,” Cassandra said. “It’s funny that we forgot.” We hadn’t packed an emergency backpack for months. After a few moments I felt scared again, like there might be another bombing. I pushed up on my elbows and looked across the dark attic. “Cassandra, do you think we’re safe?”
“Yes,” she said, yawning. “Very safe. I’ll protect you. Now go to sleep.”
22.
The Dream
When Mamá woke up the next day to collect our water, she opened the faucets but nothing came out. Mamá told us not to get ready for school—then she went out into the street in her pajamas. While Mamá was gone, Cassandra and I knelt on my bed to see what was happening at the bombsite. It was the only place in the house where we could see. Past the roof of our indoor patio, across the empty lot and the highway, amidst
the half-there, half-not-there buildings there were rows of police cars and fire trucks and their flashing lights. Through the thin film of plastic we heard echoing motors and sirens.
I spotted my cows in a corner. They were lying together, very still. They seemed peaceful. I smiled looking at them. There was always enough grass for them to eat, but I wondered who supplied their water. I had never seen a person approach them. It only made the cows more special. They were my cows, Teresa and Antonio, my companions through all. In some minutes Mamá entered into the bedroom. She knelt by us and said she found out from a neighbor that the car bomb of the day before had ruptured the pipes that brought water to our neighborhood. Mamá gazed toward the bombsite and said the street over there was probably flooding with the water meant for us. I said we would be smart to drive over and collect it, but Cassandra said it would be contaminated. I said it wouldn’t be if you could put your cup right up to the source. Nobody agreed this was a good plan.
Mamá said the government was sending an emergency truck to supply us with water, so we went to the attic to watch for it. The three of us stood on various chairs to see out the little window. Holding on to the sill I asked Mamá if Petrona was coming to work. Mamá said Petrona had a few days off because of her First Communion, and I told Mamá I just wanted Petrona to know I was okay. Mamá patted my back and said we could try and call later.
The truck arrived, parking at the neighborhood gate three blocks away. There was no doubt it was the government truck. It was white and had a behind that globed out like a bee’s with Agua printed on it in blue. Long hoses came out of it like legs. Mamá jumped off the chair and told me she was going to get water with Cassandra. She had me lie down on Cassandra’s bed and peeled back the gauze on my face. When she was satisfied my cuts were not infected, she gathered five-liter plastic bottles and buckets for her and Cassandra to carry and they went out.
As soon as they left I stood on a chair again. From the little window, I saw them, making their way into the street, their hands full with containers. Then, in a second, families all along the block came out, house by house, and the street flooded with a river of people. Out of their hands dangled watering cans, cups, pots, bowls, toy water guns, large tubs, flower vases, milk jugs. A large crowd merged from a side street. I lost sight of Mamá and Cassandra, and then someone broke into a run.
The river of people rushed the water truck like a startled herd, and once they reached it, they boiled and pushed against one another to get water first. The truck tossed like a boat at sea. Two men in jumpsuits jogged on the running boards trying to stay balanced. The men unhooked hoses from the truck and dashed back and forth aiming their hoses at the containers held up for them.
I felt so dizzy from watching the tumult of the crowd I had to go lie down.
Mamá and Cassandra were not back for many hours. I found Mamá’s agenda and found a telephone number marked for Petrona. But when I called it, it was a pharmacy.
“Farmacia Aguilar, what can I do for you?”
I was lying down with both eyes closed. “Do you know a girl named Petrona?”
“You want to leave a message, or send word for her?”
I opened one eye, impressed. “Send word.” It was funny that the pharmacy screened Petrona’s phone calls. I thought to ask whether the pharmacy took the phone calls of all the people at the invasión, but then I thought better of it, and added, “Tell her it’s from la Señora Alma.”
I heard a soft thud, like the phone had been placed on a counter. I heard the muffled sounds of people talking, the dim sound of a cash register. I was in a daze, nearly falling asleep, when I heard Petrona’s voice. “Aló? Señora Alma?”
“It’s you!” I sat up.
“Chula!” Petrona was silent for a second. “How’d you get this number?”
“Petrona, listen: there was a car bomb and my window exploded.”
“What! Are you okay? Were you hurt? Who’s taking care of you?”
“No one,” I told her. “There is absolutely no one taking care of me. Mamá and Cassandra are out getting water.” Petrona sounded worried. I smiled. I felt better knowing I had passed the shock of my recent brush with death onto someone else. “It was a recent brush with death,” I continued out loud, like Petrona was privy to the conversation inside my head.
“Chula, when is your mother coming back?”
“I don’t know, I’m sleepy now, when are you coming to see us again?”
“Wednesday,” she said, and I took the receiver from my ear, saying, “Okay, bye bye, going to sleep now,” and replaced the phone on the receiver.
When Mamá and Cassandra returned I learned we had enough water for a day. Cassandra inhaled. “How long until they fix the pipes?” Mamá bit her lip.
Mamá called Papá in San Juan de Rioseco and told him what had happened and asked what she should do. Papá seemed to be yelling at Mamá. From what I could hear, Papá was on his way to Bogotá and he wanted Mamá to go to the grocery store and buy water. Papá talked to me on the phone—“Are you…kay, mi…?” “Are you,” the second Papá said. I twirled the telephone cord around my finger. “I’m okay, Papá.” “I’ll be home s…Chula.” “I’ll be.” I fell asleep again. When I awoke, it was night and Mamá said the grocery store had been impossible. Everyone in the area was without water and people were getting violent. “I only got that much—” There was a gallon on the table.
I was afraid to sleep alone and Cassandra said I could come to her room again. In the attic, we lay on her bed and Cassandra pointed the beam of her flashlight up. I followed the cracks along the ceiling as Cassandra told me that she had been separated from Mamá when they got to the gate, where the water truck was. Getting water on her own was the most adult thing she had ever done. “You know, like a rite of passage?” The cracks on the ceiling looked like thin thunder. They divided in threes then divided again. “I’m a different person now,” Cassandra continued. “Do you understand? I went through something.” She waited, then said, “You don’t know what it’s like.”
“What do you mean.” I turned to her. “I had glass explode over me.”
Cassandra turned off her light. “It’s not the same.”
She shifted in bed and my eyes slowly adjusted; I was beginning to see the silhouettes in the room. I turned on my light and pointed the beam at the wall.
“Cassandra—”
“What.”
“After I woke up from my nap I thought of something.”
“What.”
“You know how the Oligarch is the richest person in the neighborhood?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, what if the car bomb was meant for her. You know on the television they’re always saying the guerrillas left a car bomb in front of this country club, and this building because that’s where rich people go? What if all of this happened because of the Oligarch?”
Cassandra was quiet for a moment. She sat up. “Chula, that is the least idiotic thing I have ever heard you say.”
“Really?”
* * *
When Mamá left early the next day to buy water at more distant grocery stores, Cassanda and I dialed Isa and Lala and invited them to come over. Isa and Lala were also staying home from school because of the car bomb. The glass of their window had shattered as well, and the exploding glass had barely missed their dog. We told them we had business to attend to and asked them to bring their own water to drink. In the attic, we built a tent out of baby-blue sheets and living room cushions and we sat inside in the aquarium-like light cast through the sheets and discussed what we were going to do about the Oligarch. She was clearly to blame.
“It’s all the same story,” Isa said.
“It’s just the rich getting richer,” Lala said.
“It’s just unfair,” Cassandra joined.
“She has no respect for any o
f us,” Isa said.
“Because she’s a witch,” I said.
The twins and Cassandra looked at me. I knew I had spoken out of turn. To make up for it, I lifted the gauze from my cheek to show the cut I knew was there. I ran my finger along the gash. “This will be a scar because of her.” I taped the gauze back, and then Isa said, “We have to take something of the Oligarch’s that’s of equal value to Chula’s scar.”
“Yes,” Lala said. “An eye for an eye.” The three of them turned to gaze intently at me, but I had no ideas. I stared at the lap of my shorts.
Cassandra said we needed to clear our heads. She took us on a house tour where she pointed out where house flies gathered. Hunting flies was a pastime Cassandra had invented, and she was showing us how it was done. In the kitchen, we clapped the air until we caught one fly; then Cassandra held it between her fingers. We crowded around her as she took Mamá’s tweezers and plucked a limb off. The leg came off easily, like pulling a blade of grass, but the fly’s other five legs flailed in wild abandon, consumed in panic.
Cassandra plucked limb by limb off until the fly was round like a planet.
It vibrated and buzzed in her fingers.
The last thing she plucked was the head.
I looked on at this new side of Cassandra—her detached concentration, cold and clinical.
When she was finished she laid each limb and the head in a line on the windowsill where she said they would grow dry and crackly with the sun. It occurred to Isa we could pluck the wings off too. The wings were pretty and silver-veined. Within some hours, we arranged thirty-six legs on the windowsill, twelve wings, six heads. We displayed them before the sun.
We chewed into cold bits of chicken Mamá had left in the fridge. Mamá did not return when the apagón came, so we decided to go straight to the Oligarch’s house. We walked in the dark on that familiar journey, silently pondering what we would take.
Fruit of the Drunken Tree Page 20
