The Day of the Moon

by Graciela Limón

  When she recovered from her fright, Alondra cursed: Her rear end was smeared with pigeon shit.

  She sat on the floor, legs sprawled apart, as she gawked. A row of long, black dresses hung from the wardrobe, and the first of these had fallen onto her at her violent yanking on the wardrobe door. When her terror passed, she realized that it was not the old woman, after all. She had not uncovered Doña Brígida’s body. It was only the dresses she used to wear.

  Alondra pulled her heels toward her and put her elbows on her knees while she giggled nervously. At last she cupped her face in her hands and let herself laugh until she felt the tension melt away. When she looked up again at the garments, she was struck by the realization that when she was a child, she had always thought that Doña Brígida had only one dress, which she wore always. The old woman had had many dresses: All identical, all cut from the same material, all in the same end-of-the-century fashion.

  Alondra flopped back on her elbows, indifferent to the crud that now clung to her. She did not know what she had hoped for, but it had to be more than old dresses.

  “Shit!”

  As she got back on her feet, Alondra wiped her hands and arms on her pants. When she moved closer to the cabinet, she noticed that there were two drawers at the bottom. She tried opening one and was surprised to discover that it slid out easily. There were several strings of pearls, a set of earrings, and a broach watch with a chain. This was Doña Brígida’s jewelry.

  Alondra took the watch in her hand and laid it in one palm. She remembered the old woman fingering the ornament. She shook her head and returned the watch to its place. The other drawer was locked, so she inserted the metal bar and broke the lock with a snap: It was a packet of letters, bound by a ribbon. She took the bundle and turned it over, scrutinizing the yellowed, crinkled envelopes. Then she went over to the window; she needed more light to read the writing. On each of them was written: Brígida.

  Alondra stuffed the letters into the bib of her overall. She would check their contents later. She returned to the cabinet and was about to close it when she made out a cardboard box behind the dresses. Alondra spread the garments apart to get a better look.

  She pulled the box toward her; it was heavy, but she could manage it. It plopped onto the floor. A thick cord held down the flaps. It was filled with photographs. They were old, and many of them were daguerreotypes. She took out the first one; it was a young Brígida, fifteen or sixteen years old. Her posture, the way in which she held her head and cocked her eyebrow, along with the broach watch—it could be no one else. She looked on the reverse side and made out the date: 1901.

  Alondra picked up the entire box and carried it from the attic. When she got to the service porch, she put the box and letters into the broom closet, then went to the bathroom, where she stripped.

  She stood naked for a long time, holding her head back, taking large gulps of air, struggling to steady her pounding heart. Don Flavio had stashed it away from sight after his sister’s death, she knew. It must be important. Alondra wondered if he had gone through the contents of the wardrobe, as she was about to do.

  “Probably not. The old loco more than likely had a bunch of guys take the thing up and lock it in the attic. Then he put the key on a chain and forgot about it.”

  Alondra mumbled to herself as she shampooed and scrubbed, trying to wash away the stench that had seeped into her skin. After dinner, she stayed in the kitchen alone.

  Alondra put on a pot of coffee, then plopped the box under the light and began to unpack it. When she reached into it, her fingers found the packet of letters. The ribbon disintegrated as she pulled it. She opened the top envelope carefully and removed the letter. She made out the date, then the greeting.

  3 de enero de 1913.

  Querida Brígida,

  It took Alondra a while before she could read the words that followed. She mumbled, irritated that she had not listened to her grandmother, who had frequently advised her to practice speaking and writing Spanish. She glanced down ahead, to the signature.

  Te ama, Velia Carmelita.

  Alondra leaned against the backrest of the chair to relieve the pressure on her back as she read the letter word by word. It was short, but, the message became clear: It was a love letter written to Doña Brígida by Velia Carmelita. Alondra closed her eyes, mentally arranging names and relationships: Velia Carmelita was Samuel’s grandmother, Don Flavio’s wife.

  “¡Chispas!”

  Alondra, staring at the yellowed paper, felt guilty and awkward for having pried into what was private. But she could not help herself. She looked out the window, at the dark and wet outside, but she was not thinking of the weather; she was calculating dates.

  Doña Brígida must have been Alondra’s age when she had read the letter. Alondra had never heard such words—words that expressed a love that transformed plains, sierras, and barrancas into paradise. At her age, no one had told her, Because of you, the world has meaning.

  Slouching against the chair, Alondra stared out at the night, listening for street sounds, but the barrio was asleep; nothing stirred. She held the fragile letter in both hands as she pondered the mystery of love between the two women. She was perplexed; this thought had never entered her mind when thinking of Doña Brígida, but now that it was in front of her, Alondra felt glad and, in a strange way, envious.

  She returned the letter to the packet and put it aside. Now that she knew what was in the other letters, she decided not to read them. One said it all and the others should remain secret, even to her. But she decided to keep the letters; to cherish them as her own.

  Chapter 19

  Alondra awoke the next day grumpy and belatedly disappointed. She had hoped to find something that would help her to discover herself, but what she found instead was about Doña Brígida. She tried to soothe the irritation she felt by telling herself that the photos might help her come up with something.

  Alondra stayed behind after dinner once again that night to examine Doña Brígida’s photographs. She put the coffeepot to brew, pulled the box out of the cupboard, and began to go through the pile, separating the pictures according to size. The larger ones were mounted on gray cardboard frames; the smaller ones were loose, and most had frayed, ripped edges.

  The first large one was Don Flavio’s wedding picture. He was seated on an elegant chair with gilded legs and armrests. Next to him was a column crowned by a large bouquet of flowers, and Alondra could make out a cloth backdrop showing a snowy volcano. He was young—in his late twenties or early thirties. He was dressed in black, high boots and he held an elegant hat in his hands. His chin was forced up by a starched, broad collar, and his tie was wide and delicately knotted; a stud adorned its center.

  “Hmm. You were good-looking. How come you became such a loco?”

  The faded picture did not diminish his handsome appearance. His hair was wavy, thick, and blond, and even his mustache, shaped like two handlebars, was light-colored. Alondra could also see that his eyes were blue, almost transparent. When she concentrated on his face, she saw Samuel’s face reflected there.

  Standing next to Don Flavio, one hand delicately placed on her husband’s shoulder, was Velia Carmelita. Her height was medium; not much taller than her seated husband. She was dressed in the end-of-the-century fashion; Alondra calculated that she was not more than seventeen or eighteen years old. Alondra thought that she was beautiful. Her eyes, mouth, and nose reminded her of statues she had seen in books. Even the coils of hair that had slipped out of the veil made her look like a figure in an art book. She was smiling, but she had a faint, almost painful look.

  “Maybe your shoes were tight and your feet were hurting you.”

  Fatigue was overtaking Alondra, so she began to flip through the pictures with less concentration. She stared briefly at one showing elegantly dressed rancheros in charro suits. There was another picture showing Don Flavio, Velia Carmelita, and Brígida on a picnic. They smiled self-consciously at the photog
rapher as Indian servants catered to them.

  Alondra was losing patience. That was the only picture with Doña Brígida in it. She grabbed the box, dumped its contents on the table, and began picking out pictures randomly. She took a quick look at each one, then flipped it to one side. Patios with shining tile floors and potted plants leapt out as she scanned each photo. Formal dances, weddings, baptisms, and other occasions wearied her even more.

  Here was Don Flavio, stiff and arrogant, mounted on a large black gelding; he held a riding whip in his hand. Alondra’s attention was taken by an Indian who stood by the horse, holding the bridle. An oversized sombrero covered his forehead almost to the eyebrows, but his features were in focus. She examined his face closely; something in her memory moved. She gazed at the picture for some minutes, turning it in different directions to catch light. Unable to recall anything, she shrugged her shoulders and went on to another picture.

  Alondra slumped against the chair in exasperation, accepting that there was nothing in the box for her. Then her attention was caught by a photograph of an infant dressed in baptismal garments. She flipped the picture over: El bautizo de Isadora Betancourt. Hacienda Miraflores, 1913. She turned the photo to its front, wanting to see what she looked like, and if Samuel resembled her, but Alondra saw nothing but the tiny, puffed-up face of a newborn child. Then she remembered Isadora’s sister, la cabra, and she shuffled through other photos, but there was nothing. Frustrated and angry, she threw the picture on the pile that had built up in front of her.

  “There wasn’t a she-goat after all. There’s nothing here but a bunch of Betancourt shit.”

  She stretched and flexed her legs, as one of them was cramping painfully. Then she got to her feet and poured another cup of coffee. Alondra had not noticed the day beginning to break, the first rays of sun were creeping into the kitchen, diffusing the light of the overhead bulb.

  “Something is missing. Someone’s been messing with these pictures,” she muttered to herself.

  “What pictures?”

  Ursula, her hair still wet from her morning bath, walked into the kitchen.

  “Buenos días, Abuela. I didn’t know that I was talking out loud.”

  “Have you been here all night, niña?”

  “Sí.”

  “Where did you find these photos?”

  “In the attic. They were in Doña Brígida’s wardrobe, along with other things.”

  “Hmm.” Ursula absentmindedly poked a pudgy finger, pushing one picture to the left, the other to the right. She cocked her head, an inquisitive expression on her face. “I’ve never seen these before.”

  “No? I thought you said that you used to look at Doña Brígida’s pictures all the time.”

  “Yes, but these were not hers. I’m sure.”

  Alondra’s face showed satisfaction: Someone had substituted these pictures for Doña Brígida’s. She got to her feet as she felt a surge of new energy, despite her sleepless night.

  “Today I go into Doña Brígida’s room.”

  “No, niña!”

  “Sí, Abuela. There’s more to see. Maybe I’ll find it there.”

  “ ¿Qué? What are you looking for?”

  “I’ll show it to you when I find it. In the meantime, let’s have breakfast. I’m starving.”

  Equipped with a crowbar, Alondra went to Doña Brígida’s bedroom door. Her hands shook slightly as she inserted the clawed end of the tool between the door and its jamb. She yanked and there was a crunching sound. The door popped open. Alondra did not move.

  She was afraid, she had to admit it. Especially when she felt a current of air seep through her overalls, making her shiver. A dank, sour smell drifted into her nostrils.

  She remembered the room as it had been on the day Doña Brígida died. Alondra looked at the high ceiling, the drooping velvet curtains, the ancient chandelier, the four-poster bed. These images floated in the gloom, and she was not certain if she was seeing real objects or memories.

  It suddenly occurred to her that the room must have electricity. Her fingers fumbled up and down the side of the door sill until she located the old-fashioned button switch. Even when the room lit up, she still felt like the child who had timidly walked into the bedroom clutching her grandmother’s hand. Alondra had to shake her head to come back to the present.

  She took a few steps into the room, and saw that everything was as it must have been during the life of Doña Brígida. She had almost begun to lose interest when she noticed a wardrobe; it stood upright against the wall.

  It was empty. The bottom drawers, too, had been cleaned out. Don Flavio had seen to it that nothing remained behind. Alondra turned, intending to leave and tell her grandmother that the bedroom did not have an evil spirit waiting to be freed, after all. As she was leaving, however, she noticed that the wardrobe stood in front of what appeared to be a door. She went back and tried to push it aside with one shoulder, but although empty, the wardrobe was too heavy for her to budge. Then she tried backing into it, pressing her buttocks and upper back against its side as she dug her heels into the floor. Breathing hard and muttering under her breath, Alondra was finally able to push the wardrobe away from the wall. The wardrobe concealed a closet door.

  She found stacks of boxes. There was not enough light for her to make out the inscriptions, so she ran to the service porch for a flashlight. Alondra was so engrossed in her task that she did not notice Ursula standing at the stove as she sped through the kitchen.

  When she returned to the room, Alondra pulled out a box and took it to the window. She sat on the floor to examine what it held. She cried out: It was Doña Brígida’s collection of pictures. Here was Brígida with Velia Carmelita by her side. Dressed in gauzy white dresses, the two sat outdoors on a wicker seat, their heads cocked toward one another, nearly touching. Alondra looked carefully and saw that Velia Carmelita was showing signs of pregnancy. Both figures smiled, holding hands.

  There were dozens of pictures, but Alondra looked at each, studying, comparing, absorbing the young Brígida and Velia Carmelita. Her eyes took in their beauty and the happiness stamped on their faces. Here they held guitars; over there they walked arm in arm under shaded arches and colonnades. In a carriage, seated under a tree or next to a stream, each photo showed Velia Carmelita’s growing pregnancy and Brígida’s attachment to her.

  Alondra’s head began to swim as she became dizzy with fatigue. She closed her eyes while the spell passed. When she looked again, she saw a picture that captivated her: two children— a boy and a girl. Alondra recognized them as Don Flavio and Doña Brígida. Behind them stood a young Indian woman; her image sent a vague shudder through Alondra. She brought the picture closer, and she confirmed what she had thought at first glance: She, Alondra, looked like the dark-skinned woman. She put the picture into the bib of her overalls. She would ask Ursula about it.

  When she returned to the closet, she flashed the light on a shelf that held several small boxes. The inscription on one read: Sanatorio de San Juan de Dios—Zapopan. Stacked neatly inside of it were receipts, each one marked PAID, along with its canceled check. Each check bore Don Flavio’s endorsement. The date of the first bill was October, 1939. She returned to the closet, skipped the other boxes and yanked out the last one. She went to the window and forced herself to translate: Services and assistance provided for Isadora Betancourt. It was dated a month before Don Flavio died.

  “Isadora Betancourt! ¡Chispas! That’s Samuel’s mamá.” Alondra leaned against the wall and stared at the wardrobe. Don Flavio had taken over his sister’s room after her death to store the things he kept a secret. “But how did he move that wardrobe when he was so weak?”

  She frowned, trying to imagine the frail man moving the heavy piece of furniture that had taken so much of her energy to budge. She shook her head, pondering his obsession with secrecy.

  “You old loco. If your daughter is sick, she’s sick. What’s the big deal? Why try to hide it?” Alondra stuck the i
nvoice into her bib with the intention of showing it, too, to Ursula. Without bothering to put things back into place, she walked out of the room and went downstairs.

  Ursula was ironing a sheet when Alondra asked her to join her. She disconnected the iron and followed Alondra into the kitchen, and together they sat down at the table.

  “ ¿Qué pasa?”

  “Look at this picture, Abuela. Have you seen it before?”

  Ursula squinted as she tried to focus on the photograph, but it was not until she held it at arm’s length that she recognized it. She smiled, remembering the time when she had first seen it.

  “Sí. This is Doña Brígida and Don Flavio when they were children.”

  “And la india? Who is she?”

  Ursula put the picture on the table and clasped her hands on her lap. She squinted as she pursed her lips.

  “Doña Brígida told me that it was her mother.”

  “ ¿Qué? Her mamá? But this is an india, Abuela. I thought they were white people.”

  “Sí. I thought that too, but I believe that she was telling the truth. She said it to me many times; every time I dusted the picture. She told me that her mamá was an india from the tribes of Jalisco.”

  Alondra shook her head and rolled her eyes. She took the picture and looked at it again for a while, turning it toward the window for better light.

  “I look like her.”

  Ursula tensed, and her fingers pressed against one another, leaving yellow blotches on the back of her hands. The moment she had feared had come. It was staring at her, telling her that she must tell Alondra the truth. Her mouth suddenly grew dry, and she tried to scrape saliva from the roof of her mouth with her tongue so that she could speak. She stared at the tabletop, wondering where to begin.

  Both women were quiet for a long while; dripping water from the leaky faucet splashed against the sink. Ursula’s face was set in concentration, and she seemed to be listening to something far away. Alondra sat looking at her, noticing how the overhead lamp cast deep furrows in her face, as if it had been carved from brown wood, or cast in hardened earth. Her hair, still thick, had grown nearly white, and her braids were like tight, gray ropes.