The Day of the Moon

by Graciela Limón

  “Because I went to nursing school?’

  “Sí.”

  “¡Ay! Abuela. I finished last in the class.”

  “You finished. That’s important.”

  “Hmm. Maybe. Anyway, the viejo doesn’t let me come close to him. ¡Chispas!”

  “I thought that school taught you not to mix your words.”

  “I try, Abuela, but sometimes they get jumbled up.”

  As she watched her grandmother move from stove to sink to table, Alondra reflected on questions that had been gnawing at her for years. As a child Alondra had been mystified by Doña Brígida’s last words that she would someday return to Mexico. As her grammar school and high school days passed, the longing to find out more about herself and her beginnings grew until it became an obsession.

  She had tried to quash the uneasiness that hounded her with nursing school. Although she had finished the program, nothing in it satisfied the drive inside of her. She decided to get a teaching credential. That ended with a leave of absence midway through the program. After that, Alondra decided to stay at home with Ursula for a while.

  During those years, Samuel had been drafted, had been posted to Korea, and returned. Some time after that he married a girl from San Francisco and moved out of the city. Alondra had felt lonelier than ever without him. Even the young men she dated could not put out the yearning inside of her.

  “Abuela, tell me about the llano.”

  Ursula stopped what she was doing, went over to Alondra and looked at her. She knew from long experience what was coming next.

  “Hija, please try to put that out of your head. Concentrate on your life. Think—”

  “I am concentrating on it. I can’t live mi vida and until I find out …”

  “Find out what?”

  This conversation was not following the usual pattern. Alondra’s voice and words were charged with anguish. Ursula wiped her hands on her apron, pulled out a chair and sat next to Alondra.

  “Hija …”

  “No, Abuela, you’re not going to put me off anymore. You know what Doña Brígida meant. But all you tell me are cute little details.”

  “Cute! ¿Qué es eso?”

  Alondra put her hand on Ursula’s shoulder and squeezed it. Her face had darkened and her eyes were bright.

  “Tell me, ¡por favor!”

  “Soon.” For the first time, Ursula made concession: “When Don Flavio dies.”

  “But he’s almost dead now! You know that. How can he make a difference?”

  Ursula rose to her feet, her mouth clamped so tightly that it was a straight line. She returned to the stove, shaking her head.

  “Perdóname, Abuela. I can’t help it. Look at me, please. I’m twenty-seven years old and I can’t find myself. Nothing I do helps. How many jobs have I had? You tell me. I drive the guys I date crazy. I drive myself crazy. I’m empty and I need someone to help me.”

  “Soon, niña. Very soon.”

  Dinner did not take place that evening. Soon after Alondra and Ursula spoke, Dr. Canseco emerged from the bedroom to let them know that Don Flavio’s death was imminent. The old man was now asking for them, he added.

  “What about Samuel, doctor? We have to call him.”

  “There’s no time now. You’ll have to call him after Don Flavio’s gone.”

  Although she had grown to womanhood in his house, Alondra had seen Don Flavio, and been in his company, only sporadically. This was the man who had imposed rules, who had kept her and Ursula almost always in the kitchen. This was the person who had prohibited them from sitting at the table with him, tacitly reminding them always that they were servants. Yet now, on the verge of death, he had sent for them.

  He was stretched out on the bed, lying on top of the covers because he couldn’t tolerate the weight of a sheet. His face, taut with pain, was turned to the window that overlooked the street.

  “Don Flavio, Ursula and Alondra are here. You asked for them.”

  The old man only fluttered his eyelids in response. His hands were on his chest, clutching at his nightshirt. His skin had yellowed since the previous night; it clung to his skull. Ursula was shaken by the deterioration that she saw. Don Flavio’s spirit was already on its path to the kingdom of the dead. She made the sign of the cross over him, then turned in every direction of the room, tracing the cross in mid-air. The doctor watched her impassively.

  Don Flavio’s lips moved, but his eyes remained focused on the window: El Rarámuri had returned. At last he turned his face away from the glass to look at Alondra. He tried to speak to her—she thought she heard words slip through his lips—but he was unable to talk.

  Alondra knelt by his side, pulled by a strange energy. Don Flavio’s eyes rolled toward a corner of the room. Alondra saw nothing except a wooden chair, a desk, a photograph. She rose to her feet: It was a man dressed in black, wearing a bowler hat. Edmundo Betancourt. 1896. Arandas, Jalisco. The script was flowery, written in white ink against the dark background of the daguerreotype.

  She brought it to Don Flavio and put it by his side. The old man seemed not to notice. His breathing began to grow shallow as he again glared at the window. When Don Flavio’s congested chest began to hitch in ragged, shallow breaths, Doctor Canseco looked at Alondra and Ursula. It was time. In a few minutes, the breathing had stopped.

  Alondra stared at the old man’s face: It had become a yellow mask. When the doctor covered the corpse, both women left the room.

  Alondra waited, listening to the telephone ring at the other end of the line. After the fourth ring, a thin voice piped, “Hello.”

  “Is Samuel there?”

  There was no answer, just a pause. She heard the receiver being put down, then a brief shuffle.

  “Hi, Alondra. How’s—”

  “Don Flavio died this morning.”

  Samuel was quiet, but Alondra waited.

  “I guess he went fast.”

  “He was very sick, but he died here because he didn’t want to be taken to the hospital.”

  “That figures.” Samuel stopped for a moment. “They’re gone now, Alondra, the old ones. It’s hard to believe, don’t you think?”

  “Yes.” When he didn’t say anything, Alondra went on: “His body is on the way to the mortuary, but you’re the one with the final say about where he’s to be buried and how much money you want to spend.”

  “It’s not going to be that way. The old man left a will. I have it. He wanted to be cremated and that’s the way it’ll have to be.”

  “Just like that, Samuel? No prayers, no ceremony, nada?”

  “That’s the way he wanted it. I’ll make the arrangement from this side.” Again he paused. “I’ll try to come down as soon as I can. I’ll let you know when I’m coming.” Then he said, “Alondra, you and Ursula can stay in the house, if you want.”

  “I can’t pay rent right now, but I’ll get a job soon.”

  “Take your time. It doesn’t matter. Do you want to live there?”

  “Sí.”

  “With all the memories?”

  “Sí, and with Abuela. Samuel?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What’s going to happen to his ashes?”

  “He made me promise to throw them in the ocean.”

  “ ¿Qué?”

  “In the ocean, Alondra. He said he didn’t want the fuss … more than likely because he knew that no one would come to his funeral.”

  “Don’t say that!”

  “It’s true.”

  “Okay. I hope you can come soon.”

  “I’ll try.”

  Alondra walked over to the kitchen: It was early afternoon; the sun shone through the large windows, flooding the room with pale November light. She found Ursula sitting at her usual place, but when she looked up, her eyes were red and her face swollen and blotched. Ursula sprang to her feet when she recognized Alondra by her side.

  “Niña, let me get you something to eat.”

  “Gracias, but I’m n
ot hungry. Maybe a cafecito.”

  While Ursula rattled the kettle on the stove, Alondra slumped over the table. She felt sorry for Samuel for his not having been with his grandfather during those last hours.

  It struck her how she and Samuel were alike. Like her, Samuel was an orphan. Alondra reminded herself that she at least knew some things about her mother and father. Samuel never knew who his father was—not even his name. Most of Samuel’s questions, too, were unanswered. Yet he did not let his heart be troubled with these thoughts. Alondra wished to be like him and accept that if some things had been kept from her, it was probably for the best.

  The two women were quiet. Only the soft clinking of spoons stirring coffee broke the silence. Alondra kept her eyes on Ursula, remembering that it was she who had brought her up, she who had cared for her. Why, despite Ursula’s love, had she always been hounded by the desire to know more about her mother and father?

  “I’ll get a job and we can both live off what I earn. This time I’ll hang onto it. Samuel says we can stay here, but maybe we can find another house. What do you think?”

  Alondra was grateful for the surge of affection she felt for her grandmother. She looked at her, and saw that she had grown old. Ursula’s face and hands were wrinkled, and her shoulders were frail.

  “I think I like it very much, niña.” Suddenly, she looked up at Alondra. “What about Don Flavio? When are we going to bury him?”

  “We’re not. Samuel says that the viejo left orders to be cremated. There’s not going to be a service either—not even a rosary. “

  “No prayers! What will guide him to the other side? How will he know where to go?”

  “Don’t think about it, Abuela. He’s gone and we can’t help him.”

  “Yes, we can! We’ll recite rosaries for him. No one can stop us from praying, can they? Maybe he’ll find his way to the kingdom on his own, or maybe a friendly spirit will be waiting for him.”

  “Maybe, Abuela.”

  Ursula fell into silence, thinking of the old man who had lived in loneliness and had now chosen the same existence in the land of the dead. But as she looked at Alondra, she sensed a peacefulness in the young woman she had never seen. Perhaps, she told herself, there was no longer a reason to have the conversation she had so long dreaded. If Alondra did not press her, why should she tell what might only sadden her? Putting her thoughts aside, Ursula pulled a handful of keys out of her apron pocket.

  “I’ve cleaned his room and there were just a few things. Mostly old clothes and shoes. Besides his father’s picture, there was nothing, only these keys.”

  Alondra pushed the empty cup aside with her forearm as she took the keys: front door, back door, garage, tool shed, the old Ford. She did not recognize the one with masking tape wrapped around its top.

  “Do you know what this key is for?”

  Ursula took the key from Alondra, holding it at arm’s length. She squinted as she turned it over in her fingers.

  “I think that it’s the key to Doña Brígida’s room, but don’t even think of going in there. No one, not even Don Flavio, has gone in since she died. It must be filled with her spirit, and if you open the door, it might escape to roam the world on its own.”

  “I don’t believe in those things.”

  “Well, you should believe. A spirit can be a prisoner in a room or in a house for years. Once it has been set free, no one can tell what it will do in vengeance for having been kept captive.”

  Alondra slipped the key into the coin pocket of her jeans and smiled at her grandmother’s superstitions. Sometimes Ursula talked of spirits that went on to inhabit their own kingdom. Now it was one trapped in a room. But she decided not to say anything. Sometimes Alondra secretly hoped that Doña Brígida would reappear somewhere, sometime. Alondra would have liked to converse with her now that she was a woman. She yearned to ask if she was truly meant to return to Casa Miraflores with the person she loved.

  The next morning, Ursula awoke for the first time in her memory to the smell of brewing coffee. Light streamed from the kitchen, where Alondra sat quietly at the table.

  “Buenos días, hija.”

  “Buenos días, Abuela.”

  “I think you were restless last night.”

  “Sí. I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking of the old man and other things, until I remembered the key.”

  “What key?”

  “The one you found in Don Flavio’s room.”

  “Oh.”

  “I went up to Doña Brígida’s room to try it.”

  “¡Santísima Virgen del Cobre!How could you do such a thing?” Ursula appeared to be paralyzed, her face reflecting the dread that had taken hold of her.

  “Abuela, cuidado, sit down, you look like you’re going to have a heart attack. Sit here. Let’s have a cafecito. I never made it into the room. The key didn’t work. It must be to something else.”

  “¡Gracias a Tata Dios!”

  Ursula began to sip her coffee, making loud, slurping sounds. The rain had returned, drumming against the windowpanes. Both women held their mugs in both hands, trying to capture the heat radiating from the coffee.

  “I’m going to find the door that matches the key. I’ll begin up there—with the attic.”

  Ursula pinched her lips impatiently. There were other things that had to be done instead of trying to uncover what ought to be left alone.

  “I must, Abuela. We can’t live in this house without knowing what’s in it. Don Flavio had his ways. But now the place is ours, and I want to know what’s in it.”

  Ursula sat back, thinking. If Alondra’s attention were taken by the house, then she might forget her questions. For years, Ursula had been afraid of something that probably would never happen. This was a new project, and it would take up most of Alondra’s time. After that she would propose that together they paint and clean the entire house.

  “Yes! I think it’s a good idea!”

  Alondra was startled by the reversal in attitude. As she sipped more coffee, she cocked her head to one side, narrowing her eyes as she studied her grandmother.

  The attic had fascinated Alondra when she was a child, but neither she nor Samuel had ever dared go into it: Don Flavio had laid down the law against it. He was even stricter about the prohibition after Doña Brígida’s death. Now that she was about to enter it, she wished that Samuel were with her.

  She had wrapped her head in a red bandana and had put on gardening gloves and boots; it would be dusty. When she reached the door at the head of the narrow stairway, she inserted the key in the rusty latch. With a scraping sound, the lock resisted, but with some pressure, she heard it click open. The catch disengaged easily, but the door made loud, creaking sounds as it began to slowly open; its hinges were rusted, and litter on the floor blocked its path. The attic was dark except for one shaft of light that filtered through the dirty panes of a small window facing the street. Alondra’s fingers groped up and down the wall for a light switch, but there was none. She then shuffled toward the center of the room, holding one of her arms outstretched before her and the other stuck rigidly upward—in hopes of finding a string dangling from a ceiling light. As she walked, Alondra felt her boots slipping and crunching against the floor.

  Suddenly, she was surrounded by the whir of flapping wings. From the darkness, a nest of birds, a cloud of pigeons, descended on her, whipping around her head and body, scraping her face and hands, pecking at her eyes. She tried not to scream, but terror gripped her throat. She fell to her knees and wrapped her arms around her head, trying to shelter herself against the claws and beaks. Groveling on her elbows and knees, she began to crawl, in circles, searching for something with which to defend herself. With one arm still protecting her head, she fumbled with her other hand until it landed on something that felt like a broomstick.

  Alondra grabbed the broom with both hands and began to swing it in broad circles above her head. As the momentum of the paddling increased, she rose to her feet, whe
re she was able to whack the birds until they backed away. The room filled with the sound of her stick cracking and thudding indiscriminately against the attic walls, followed by weak chirping. She kept up the assault until she was certain that the birds had retreated. Her eyes had become used to the gloom by then, and she saw the last of them as they fled through the same hole in the wall through which they had first invaded the place.

  Sweating, panting, and exhausted, she had to hold onto an upright beam. She would fall if she did not hang onto something. When she finally made out the dangling light cord, the sudden flood of brightness made her blink and squint. As her vision adjusted, she saw that the floor was piled high with the white crust of pigeon droppings. Her eyes opened wide, pupils dilated. The entire room was smeared with bird excrement.

  Alondra’s stomach turned, forcing her mouth open as she gagged. She gasped foul air through her mouth and aching chest. She sloshed her way to the window and forced its rusted, creaking hinges open. Hanging her head out the window, she vomited until her stomach emptied completely. She stayed slumped over the windowsill for several minutes until the damp November chill revived her. Taking long, deep gulps of air, she peered into the mist hovering over the rooftops.

  When she finally pushed herself away from the window, she yanked the bandana off her head, wrapped it around her nose and mouth, and forced herself back into the room. The attic was huge, and she knew that it would take hours, if not days, for her to scrape away the blanket of excrement covering everything. There were certain things that Alondra could make out despite the filth. Piled high in one corner were several broken chairs; one had a leg missing, others had splintered backs. In another nook, she saw the remains of several of Samuel’s childhood toys.

  Alondra stood under the circle of light cast by the bulb, turning slowly, taking in shapes and containers. She shuffled towards a wall. When she got close enough, her eyes made out the shape of an old-fashioned upright wardrobe, its spindly legs visible through the caked slime. She grasped the handle, but it was locked. The doors were solid hardwood, and they would not give way.

  Alondra backed away from the cabinet. After a while she found a piece of metal which she forced into one of the handles. She pulled sharply, and the panels snapped apart with a dull crunch. She flung the doors open and a black figure threw itself upon her. Alondra let out a muffled scream as she fell to the floor.