The Day of the Moon

by Graciela Limón

  The old woman paused and turned toward Alondra; her expression was still sad, but the girl thought she saw something different in Doña Brígida’s eyes. Her expression was soft, and gentle, and it confused Alondra because the words Isadora, your mother, were aimed at her.

  “Then Velia Carmelita died.”

  Doña Brígida suddenly stopped speaking. Samuel and Alondra looked up, startled. This was the first time she had told the story this way. They looked at each other in expectation, but nothing more came out.

  “But, Tía Grande, how could my grandmother have died before she had her next daughter? You’ve always said that Abuelo Flavio had two daughters, one good, the other bad …”

  Doña Brígida, startled by Samuel’s words, slipped back into anger, dispelling the melancholy that had prompted her to relive the moment of Velia Carmelita’s death.

  “Get out of my sight!” she shouted as she raised her arm, stick in hand. Her body shook so much that the children expected to hear the rattle of bones. They were frightened. Samuel leaped out of his chair and dashed out the door; Alondra followed closely. They did not stop until they had run down the corridor, through the kitchen and service porch. They tripped down the wooden stairs. Once out in the yard they kept running until they reached the shade of the avocado tree. There they fell on the ground, gasping and laughing.

  “She really stuck her foot in it this time. She forgot all about the she-goat and all that craziness.”

  Out of breath, Samuel struggled to speak. Alondra was breathing hard. She was frightened.

  “I think, Samuel …”

  She broke off. The boy got closer to her.

  “What do you think?”

  “I think that the cabra is me.”

  The boy’s head whipped toward Alondra. He secretly agreed with her, but he did not want her to know.

  “You’re nuts! You’re a girl, not a goat. Besides, you’re too little to be my mother’s other sister. How can you even think such a dumb thing?” He paused for a moment as he slumped against the tree trunk. “Tía Grande just gets mixed up. That’s all. Anyway, Alondra, you don’t even belong to our crazy family.”

  After a while, they decided to go back into the kitchen, where they found Ursula by the stove. When the children walked in, she looked at Alondra, trying to discern a change, something that would alert her to what Doña Brígida had said to make them run away.

  “Ursula, do you remember my mother?” Samuel had gotten close to her, reaching into the pan she was stirring. He managed to pick a strand of the meat that was browning before she pulled his arm away from the heat. Hearing what she thought might be a signal, she turned off the burner and led the children to the table, where all three sat down.

  “Yes, I remember her. I took care of her from the time she was three years old. Just like I’ve taken care of you and Alondra.”

  Ursula looked at the girl and saw the question forming in her eyes. It was the same doubt that had come up recently.

  “Did she have a sister, Abuela?”

  Samuel looked at Ursula. Although he had laughed at the she-goat story, he had believed his great aunt: There must have been another sister. Ursula did not want to speak about this, fearing that something she said might trigger Alondra’s curiosity, or even her imagination. But she knew that if she evaded the question, it would be worse.

  “No, hija, Doña Isadora was the only daughter of Don Flavio. There was no other sister.”

  “J-e-e-e-z!” Samuel let out a long, whistling sound through his teeth. Then he looked at Ursula, disbelief stamped on his face.

  “Samuel, you know that Doña Brígida has her bad moments. The story of a second daughter has come out of a lonely, dark corner of her spirit; she cannot help it.”

  “Then what about the cabra?”

  “There was no she-goat, niña.”

  Ursula got to her feet and told the children to prepare for dinner. Samuel left the kitchen, heading upstairs to his room and Alondra went to the sink, where she began to wash her hands. When Ursula looked, she saw that the girl was rubbing her hands and muttering: “There was no cabra! There was no cabra!”

  Chapter 17

  The next day the children were nervous; they knew that the old woman had been so upset at Samuel’s question that she had not come down for dinner in the evening. As they waited, the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece seemed to be growing louder.

  Alondra looked at Samuel and blurted out, “Don’t you ever wish that you knew who your mamá was?”

  Samuel wondered what her question had to do with the terrible thing that was about to happen to them. He blinked, wrinkled his brow and tensely nibbled at his upper lip.

  “I do know who she was. Isadora Betancourt.”

  “You see! That proves you don’t know who she was. If you really knew, you would say your papá’s family name. Shouldn’t she be called Isadora something-or-another? When a girl marries, she has to take her husband’s name, no?”

  Samuel’s eyes opened wide; he was stumped. He didn’t have the answer to Alondra’s questions. He swallowed a gulp of saliva and opened his mouth, hoping the right words would come out. “I don’t know why my name is Betancourt, but I do remember a little bit about her. I think it was a cave, on top of a mountain. I slept there, on the ground. And my mamá used to rub my forehead a lot and tell me stories.”

  “Is that all you remember?”

  “Yea.”

  “I know who my mamá and papá are, but only because Abuela Ursula has told me about them. She says that he ran faster than wind, and that she never died, even after they scraped her skin right off of her.” Alondra stopped talking to ponder what she had said. In a few seconds she spoke up again. “Do you know what I think?” “I think that Abuela Ursula is hiding something from me. Sí. I’ll bet you anything!”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because who can live after your skin has been pulled off? And who runs faster than the wind?”

  The boy began to giggle, imagining a roadrunner, its legs a blurred circle, running away from its enemy; just like in the cartoon. Samuel’s laughter was interrupted by the sound of Doña Brígida’s walking stick. Alondra also heard it and she jumped to retrieve her dust rag. Samuel froze into his usual place opposite his great aunt’s chair.

  Doña Brígida walked into the parlor. She stood erect and it seemed to the children that her cane struck the floor with more authority. They looked at each other in nervous anticipation, as she sat down on her chair, let out a loud, deep sigh, and began her chronicle without an introduction. Doña Brígida spoke quietly. Whenever Alondra thought that she would not be noticed, she looked steadily at the old woman’s face. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her voice was weak.

  “I will soon die, but it doesn’t matter because today we’ve come to the end. The end of our family history.”

  “Tía Grande, may I ask you something?” Samuel had left his place to kneel in front of Doña Brígida. “What was my father’s name? Why don’t I get to use it? Where did he go? What about my mother? Where is she? Did she—?”

  The old woman’s eyes snapped open and she stared at Samuel. He thought she was about to slap him, but instead she moved him aside and got to her feet. Wordlessly, she walked past him and Alondra. They saw that she shuffled more than ever; her feet seemed too heavy for her body. When she disappeared into the shadows of the dark corridor, the children looked at each other, baffled.

  After Ursula had finished serving Don Flavio and Samuel, she picked up the dishes and returned them to the kitchen sink. She sat down at the table to have her own dinner. Alondra was finishing what was on her plate, but her eyes were on Ursula.

  The older woman was silent, lost in thought as she tore small bits from a tortilla, slipped them into her mouth, and chewed absentmindedly. Alondra watched her, but soon began to fidget and squirm in her chair. She pushed her plate away, deliberately scraping the table top. She jangled a knife and fork against one anoth
er, then clinked a finger nail against the empty milk glass. Still, nothing pried Ursula away from her thoughts. Alondra finally cleared her throat and let out a loud, artificial cough.

  “Sí, hija. I know you’re there.”

  “Abuela, is there something wrong?”

  “Sí.”

  “Is it me?”

  “No, niña. It’s this family. ¡Ay! Virgen Santísima! So much suffering.”

  “Is Samuel suffering?”

  Ursula moved her plate away and looked at the girl. She had lately been listening in on what Doña Brígida was telling the children. Now she pushed her chair back and gestured to the girl to come to her. She sat her on her lap, took her in her arms and began rocking back and forth. Ursula yearned to tell her that she was not her grandmother, but her great aunt, like Doña Brígida. She longed to let Alondra know that Samuel was her brother, and Don Flavio her grandfather, and that this was her mother’s side of the family.

  “Come, hija,” she said at last. “Let’s go to bed. We’ll wash the dishes tomorrow.”

  Together they headed toward the service porch. They were almost at the door when they heard a long, deep moan. It had been loud enough to cut through a closed door, make its way along the hall down the staircase, and to the rear of the house:

  “¡Ayyyyy, Dios!”

  “¡Santísima! It’s Doña Brígida!”

  Ursula let go of Alondra’s hand to run to the old woman. She was fast, but the girl was faster. Alondra was ahead by the time Ursula sped through the parlor, up the staircase, and to the closed door of Doña Brígida’s bedroom.

  Ursula rapped at the door. Silence. When a second knock went unanswered, she slowly opened the door. Alondra and Ursula caught sight of Doña Brígida stretched out on her bed, fully clothed; she even had her shoes on. She held her arms crossed peacefully on her breast.

  “Por favor, entren.”

  Doña Brígida had not moved nor turned her face. Her voice was calm, light; Alondra hardly recognized it. Ursula moved toward the bed, holding Alondra’s hand. The girl had never before been in the room, so she was taken by its high ceiling, heavy wooden furniture, carved cabinets and wardrobe. Even in the dark, she could see that one wall was covered by aged, purple-tinted photographs. As she was led by Ursula, the girl’s head swiveled, looking from side to side, up and down.

  When they were by the bed, Doña Brígida raised an arm and gestured to Alondra to come to the other side. Alondra obeyed and the old woman held out her hand wordlessly. Then Doña Brígida smiled. She seemed content as she held Alondra’s hand.

  Alondra looked from Ursula to Doña Brígida, but there was only silence. The passing of cars in the street and the ticking of a clock on the nightstand were the only sounds. Alondra became aware of Doña Brígida’s hand, of its warmth and softness, and she was surprised. She had imagined that the old lady must have been made of something hard.

  “Ursula, take my hand.” Doña Brígida stretched her other hand toward Ursula. Alondra stared at the women and for the first time wondered if they were the same age. She had never thought of how old her grandmother might be, and as for Doña Brígida, Alondra had thought that she had been born old.

  “ ¿Qué pasa, Doña?”

  “Me muero.”

  “¡Santo Dios! I’ll call Doctor Canseco.”

  Doña Brígida held onto her hand. She pulled Alondra and Ursula closer to her. “No. Stay with me.”

  She smiled first at Alondra, then at Ursula. The girl was struck by the beauty of Doña Brígida’s face. Why had she never smiled like that before?

  “Take care of my pictures, Ursula. It’s all there.”

  Ursula nodded. The old woman turned to look at Alondra. Their faces were so close to one another they nearly touched.

  “Niña, one day you will return to the llano and ride in a carriage and see the sierras that tower over the barranca. One day you will sing songs, write poems, and walk through corridors of Casa Miraflores with the one you love. You will do that, just as I did.” Doña Brígida smiled at Alondra, pulled her hand from Ursula and stroked the girl’s cheeks and forehead. She traced her hairline with an index finger. Her eyes roamed Alondra’s face, looking at her forehead, nose, mouth. “Your grandmother was my soul.”

  Doña Brígida closed her eyes and drifted away. Outside, the flow of cars had lessened and the ticking of the clock seemed to grow louder. Alondra looked at Ursula, who had tears on her cheeks. She had not known until then that Ursula loved Doña Brígida.

  Ursula covered Doña Brígida’s face and made the sign of the cross many times over. Alondra could not make out the prayers her grandmother was reciting, but she knew that they were uttered in her own language as well as in Spanish. Then Ursula took Alondra by the hand and led her out of the room.

  “What are we going to do now, Abuela?”

  “I have to tell Don Flavio that his sister has begun her journey to the other side of the sierra.”

  “Will he cry?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “And then?

  “Then I must bathe and clothe Doña Brígida so that she will not feel uncomfortable when she meets the others.”

  “What others?”

  “Those who have gone before her and are waiting for her on the other side.”

  “Samuel’s grandmother?”

  “Sí. I’m sure of that.”

  In the kitchen, Ursula and Alondra prepared chocolate and pan dulce for the mourners, who sat in the parlor. Alondra was layering the different pieces of bread in a pattern, being careful that the cuernitos did not crush the conchas.

  “Abuela, what did Doña Brígida mean when she said that my grandmother had been her soul?”

  “I don’t know, niña. Maybe she was just confused.”

  “You’re my abuela, but you’re on my papá’s side. Do you think that she was talking of the abuela on my mamá’s side?”

  Ursula stopped stirring the milk. In one hand she held a wooden mill; in the other, the chocolate patty that she would put in before the milk came to a head.

  “Only Tata Dios knows. I think it was someone that Doña Brígida loved and who made her happy.”

  “Where is Casa Miraflores?”

  “In Chihuahua.”

  “Doña Brígida said that I would go there to sing songs.”

  Ursula returned to stirring the milk and began to add the chocolate. She had to concentrate, so that the contents of the pot would not boil over.

  “And the pictures, Abuela? She said that it was all there. What did she mean by that?”

  “I remember some of them. There were pictures of her and Don Flavio taken even before they came to Chihuahua. Others were of people and friends they made at Hacienda Miraflores. Some were of special days like Don Flavio’s wedding and Niña Isadora’s baptism.”

  “She was Samuel’s mamá. Was there a picture of the bad daughter?”

  Ursula pointed the wooden mill toward Alondra and wagged her head impatiently. She had momentarily forgotten about the pot, so she flinched when she heard the sizzling of spilled milk on the burner. After she lowered the flame on the burner, she again looked at Alondra.

  “I have told you many times that there was no bad daughter. That was something that came out of Doña Brígida’s mouth during her moments of illness.”

  “Abuela, do you think that I’ll—”

  “Niña, the chocolate and pan dulce must be ready now, not mañana.” With that, Ursula carefully poured the steaming chocolate into a pitcher and headed for the parlor. Alondra followed, carrying the platter of sweet rolls.

  Two days later, the sky was a gray and chilly current swirling around the tombstones of Calvary Cemetery. Alondra and Samuel, in dark clothing, stood shivering on the fringe of the acquaintances of the Betancourts. Snippets of the priest’s high-pitched voice floated over to Alondra as he recited the prayers for the dead.

  “Absolve, Domine, animas omnium fidelium defunctorum, ab omni vinculo delictorum �
��”

  Alondra wondered of what sins the priest begged that Doña Brígida be cleansed. She shuddered as the cold wind cut through her short dress and coat. She looked up to the sky and saw gray clouds skittering across the wide expanse. Then she looked around, peering at the gathering of people. In the center was Don Flavio, dressed in black. She was afraid of him, having seen him only a few times in her life. The only person crying was Ursula.

  “In paradisum deducant te angeli …”

  “Tía Grande is not going to Heaven. I think that she’s going to the other place. You know, Hell.”

  Alondra, jerked out of her thoughts, did not answer Samuel’s whisper in her ear; she only wagged her head in disagreement. She looked over to the priest and saw that he was sprinkling holy water on the coffin and into the grave. At the priest’s signal, four men lowered the box into the hole. Alondra stretched her neck to watch them as they filled in the dirt. She could hear the hollow thud as each shovelful of earth was piled above Doña Brígida’s head. When Alondra tired of watching, she turned to Samuel.

  “No. She’s going to the other side of the sierra, where she’ll meet the others.”

  Alondra Santiago

  Chapter 18

  Los Angeles, 1965

  Alondra sat at the table, unmoving. Even the kitchen noises did not intrude on her thoughts. Both women were tired from a sleepless night spent tending to Don Flavio, but Ursula moved about the business of preparing dinner.

  “Abuela, it’s been a long time since the death of Doña Brígida, hasn’t it?” At twenty-seven, Alondra felt that her childhood was a lifetime ago.

  “Yes,” Ursula answered without looking up, as she mashed a clove of garlic. When she put the pulpy dab into the skillet, it sizzled loudly, and the kitchen filled with its fragrance.

  “And now it looks like the old man is going, too. He was really in bad shape last night.”

  “Doctor Canseco is with him now. Niña, you should help him. You know what you’re doing.”