From the swirling, life-giving waters, she plucks a small boy. My shame becomes so thick and heavy, the ground shifts, and I begin to sink. A strangled scream escapes my mouth, “Tomás!”
The old woman whips around, her crazed silver and white eyes fixed on mine. The face I see is my own. I scream again, but there is no sound, only the rush of the wind.
I bolt straight up. My nightgown sticks to me, limp with sweat. “Tomás!” I scream.
Mamá opens the door and peers in.
“Evangelina?” Her hair hangs loose and fans all around her shoulders. “M’ija, you’ve been crying? Hush now, my love, it was just a bad dream. I know this has been very hard for you, but what happened to your brother was not your fault. You must remember that. It was not your fault.”
She walks to the bed, sits down and rests her cool hand on my shoulder. “Your father has him on the front porch in the rocking chair. Doctor Gonzales says he should regain his strength in a few days.”
“May I go see him?”
“He’s been asking for you.”
I bounce out of bed and run outside. Tomás sits on Papá’s lap, his back against Papá’s chest, arms loose at his sides. Abuelito sits next to him and strokes Tomás’ good hand.
“Tomás, are you feeling better?”
My eyes drop to the strips of cloth tied around his wounded hand. Blood fans out like a miniature red wildflower.
He strains to lift his head. He’s pale as a dove. “Lina, did you keep the bug? I want to see it.”
“No, Tomás, I did not keep the bug, and I hope I never see it again!” I run my hand over his tangled curls.
“He’s already looking better, don’t you think?” Elsa asks hopefully.
“The pink is back in his cheeks,” Emilio lies.
“Tomás, you had an argument with some ants not long ago, and you lost! You’re so sweet, the bugs can’t resist you,” Enrique cackles at his own bad joke.
Mamá casts him a glance with those angry eyes she uses with such great effect. Enrique clamps his mouth closed. I wish it would stay that way.
Tomás attempts a smile and drifts off to sleep. Emilio carries him back to his bed. I trail behind, kneel at his bedside and pray. Occasional jerky movements of his legs interrupt his rest. Maybe his dreams haunt him, too.
La Llorona flickers in and out of my thoughts like an open flame taunted by a wisp of wind. Thin gray lips sag at the corners. Sunken eyes gape at me from under a dark cloak. I shake the thought of La Llorona out of my head. It’s just a ridiculous tale used to scare children into staying by their parents’ sides and nothing else.
But, just in case, I stand guard over my brother until the dark completely consumes the light.
Chapter Six
Tamales
May 25, 1911
Tomás sleeps in our parents’ room, like he does most days and nights. The rest of us sit at the table eating stew with chicken, garlic, squash, tomatoes and corn. The clatter of forks on plates sounds tinny and dull. Elsa stares vacantly out the window.
“You haven’t eaten much, Elsa,” Mamá comments. “Aren’t you feeling well?”
“I’ve been thinking,” she answers glumly. “Estela Morelos’ family’s moving to California.”
“Why is that?” Mamá asks.
“Customers at her father’s cantina say the war is moving north. Maybe we should cancel the quinceañera and leave town, like them,” Elsa says.
Now, everyone knows.
Enrique crosses his arms and leans back. “That’s crazy. We’re not going to leave the ranch! And even if we did, where would we go?”
Abuelito holds up his hand. “Take it easy everyone. I’ve been talking with ranchers passing through the area. The revolution is growing, which has our president so worried he may even leave the country. That could improve the situation dramatically, but are your Papá and I concerned? Yes. Will we cancel the fiesta? No. The quinceañera has been planned for months.”
“If Estela’s family is leaving, do you think others will go, too?” I ask.
“I don’t care what other people do,” Enrique barks. “I’m not scared of the soldiers, and I will not be forced out!”
Abuelito grabs my hand under the table and gives it a gentle squeeze. “Hundreds, maybe even thousands will leave Mexico. Others don’t feel there’s any real danger. They want to protect what little they have. Others are too sick or too old to leave, like me. We will not base our decisions on what others choose. Now, enough serious talk. After lunch I’m going for a walk. I’ve got dulce de camote in my pocket. Who wants to join me?”
“I’ll go!” Enrique and Domingo call out in unison. Sweet potato candy works every time with the boys.
May 26, 1911
Mamá hovers over the wood stove. Strings of dried chilies and garlic and a carved wooden Cristo decorate the stove hood. Iron wall racks hold spoons and varioussized ladles and whisks. Jars of peppercorns, cloves, cinnamon sticks and carved gourd bowls and clay cups line the scallop-edged shelves.
She peers into a vast iron cauldron and shreds a large chunk of pork with two giant serving forks, then spoons in a dark paste made of freshly toasted cumin seeds, garlic, oregano, dried red chili and water, crushed and mixed in the molcajete. Making tamales involves the whole family: the young, the old, even the ones who don’t like to cook or who don’t want to cook. Some of Mamá’s church friends will join us this afternoon to help.
Mamá mixes the cornmeal dough with hot pork broth, salt, lard and melted pork fat in a separate pot. There’s so much of it, and it’s so thick that she uses both hands to stir with an enormous wooden spoon then gives up. She pushes a loose hair off her forehead with the back of her arm, walks to the front door and calls, “Adán, I need you in here.”
Papá stomps his boots outside to loosen the dirt and sets his hat on the rocking chair just outside the screen door before he comes in. He leans over Mamá’s shoulder and pecks her cheek.
“Do you need me to taste anything? You know, check the spices?” He smacks his lips.
Mamá grabs a clean spoon, dips it in, brings up a mouthful and feeds it to Papá. She raises her eyebrows and awaits the review.
“Muy sabroso, Maríaelena. You have outdone yourself again. Is that all you needed? A taster? I make an excellent taster,” he says, raising the spoon to dip it back into the pot.
“No, no, no,” Mamá scolds him, taking the spoon from his hand. “If all I needed was a taster, I could have done that myself. I need you to mix the masa. I can’t stir it anymore. Wash up.”
I take my seat, grab a stack of corn husks and set them down on my left. When Mamá decides the masa has the right, light and fluffy texture, she fills a bowl and sets it on my right.
“Okay m’ija, don’t spread it too thick.”
I hold an hoja in one hand, the widest end pointing toward me. I spread the masa downward from the middle of the husk to the widest end and leave the upper, narrower part of the hoja plain, with no masa at all. Mamá adds a thin line of meat to the center of each tamal, rolls it tightly from the long side, folds the top of the hoja down to make a perfect tube-shaped bundle, grabs a small finger full of masa and seals the open end. Mamá takes a thin strip of hoja and ties it around bundles of six tamales and stacks the bundles in a pile.
Papá lines an oversized pot with hojas with an upside down molcajete and water at the bottom. He carefully situates tamales around the molcajete in an upside down V and takes them outside to steam over a fire.
Elsa finds a place at the table. “Good morning,” she says.
“Elsa, I’ve finalized the menu for Wednesday,” Mamá announces. “Now, I have to figure out how to make enough food for fifty people!”
Elsa’s eyes open wide. “Will there really be fifty people?”
“Well, there are the neighbors, plus René and his family, if his mother can make it. Father Roberto and everyone from church. And oh, yes, the Treviño family said they’ll come.”
&
nbsp; Tiny bursts of gold flicker in Elsa’s eyes.
“A girl from church has been helping around their house ever since Señor Treviño and the oldest brother were kidnapped by the villistas,” I add. “I’m surprised the rest of them are coming, because my friend says the señora stays in bed all day and talks to no one.”
Rodrigo, the second oldest son, and one of the most handsome boys in town, has had his eye on Elsa for years. She stares at him at church when he’s not looking and blushes when he catches her doing it.
“Well, that is surprising.” Elsa studies the kitchen floor. “Will Rodrigo come, too?”
“La pobre señora, it’ll be good for her to get out of the house and put her worries aside, even if just for a day. And yes, Rodrigo’s the man of the house now and must accompany his mother and siblings. Besides, you’ve known each other for many years. You must be pleased, m’ijita.”
“Mamá, Rodrigo and I are acquaintances from church, that’s all,” she responds.
When she finally looks up, I wink at her and watch her turn red as a radish.
Chapter Seven
Quinceañera
May 28, 1911
Despite all the worries and extra work, the excitement in the house today is thick as refried beans.
I pull on my fullest petticoat, long gray skirt, a white blouse with extra puffy sleeves, ruffled socks and Mamá’s old black school shoes with an open V shape on the top. Three buttons form a row on each side of the V. Stretchy bands loop around each button and attach to the button on the opposite side.
The carved wooden chest at the foot of my bed holds quilts, some old dolls, doll clothes and a cigar box full of ribbons. I part my hair down the middle, weave two dark blue ribbons into two braids and pin them across the top of my head. A small spray of tiny white blossoms from the orange tree goes behind my ear, even though they’re already starting to wilt.
Sun streams through the sheer white curtains of the sewing room window, and the room glows with soft light. Elsa turns to the left, then to the right as she admires her dress in the full length mirror. What a stir it will cause! Made of white cotton with hand-made lace and delicate, sky-blue embroidered butterflies, the skirt cascades in three layers, the second and third layers longer than the one before it. Bluebell flowers adorn the hemline of each tier. Mamá spent night after candle-lit night in her rocking chair making the unique lace pattern of the bodice and sleeves with each pull of the thread. Each stitch forms part of the subtle lace landscape—miniature flowers, vines and leaves surrounded by tightly spaced crisscrosses, each one smaller than a grain of rice.
Francisca sits on Mamá’s sewing chair and nods approvingly.
“Elsa, you look gorgeous, except for all those pin curls stuck to your head,” I taunt.
“Must you always say what crosses your mind?” Francisca reprimands me then turns toward Elsa. “You want me to style your hair?”
“I was thinking of loose curls pinned on the top to make a bun, but leave some hanging down on the sides,” Elsa suggests. “Something regal, like a princess.”
Francisca lets Elsa’s black, glossy curls fall loose. She takes sections of hair and folds them under to make a fancy bun, skillfully twisting the loose hair into two large curls with her fingers, one on each side, that fall over Elsa’s shoulders and down the bodice of her dress.
Francisca hands me two abalone hair combs carved with ridges to look like clam shells. “You do this part, Evangelina. Put them in wherever you think they’ll look best.”
I push a comb in on each side of Elsa’s perfect bun. Francisca opens the lipstick tube Mamá ordered all the way from Mexico City and adds a dab of pink to Elsa’s full lips.
I clasp my hands and grin. “Can you believe it? The mass is less than two hours away, and you look perfect, Elsa.”
“Thank you Evangelina, but I feel bad celebrating when Tomás is so sick,” she sighs.
My stomach drops. How can I celebrate when Tomás isn’t getting better?
“One of Mamá’s friends will stay with him the whole time,” Francisca says as she dabs her face with powder in a pretty silver case. “After the service, we’ll come back and check on him, all night long if we want to. Not you, though, Elsa. Us. Your job is to be beautiful and charming and behave like an eligible maiden, ready for a young man to whisk you off to some happily ever after fairy tale life.”
Friends and family fill the pews at Iglesia de la Paz. Elsa stands at the altar and scans the faces in the congregation.
Father Roberto walks in from a side door, greets Elsa and turns to us, Holy Bible in hand.
“Welcome all!” he begins in Latin. “Today we have gathered together to celebrate one of the most beautiful events of Mexican culture, the quinceañera Mass. Adán and Maríaelena de León welcome you to this joyous occasion. True to the promises they made when Adán and Maríaelena baptized her fifteen years ago in this very church, they have been Elsa’s first teachers in the Christian faith and way of life. They have seen her develop her faith, and now they bring her here to give witness to their own faith in God. They pray to the Most High so that, through the wish of the Most Holy Virgin, Elsa will continue to follow the Lord’s call with deep devotion.
“Elsa, in the name of the Catholic Church, I congratulate you on this important occasion. Will you honor God with the strength of conviction you inherited from your parents, your grandparents and all of your ancestors, and will you keep these promises to your family, friends, the Holy Virgin and the Lord our Savior?”
Elsa nods. “I will.”
Father Roberto lifts his palms upward as a signal for the people to rise from their seats and join together in the Lord’s Prayer.
After Mass, the ceremony is over. Elsa stands just beyond the church steps, and people surround her to offer congratulations, give her hugs, pinch her cheeks and tell her how beautiful she is. My parents stand close by and beam with pride.
Our mules Félix and Felipe pull the wagon home on the same path they’ve followed to and from the church for ten years. We hop off and scurry around with lastminute preparations as guests stream in. Papá, Abuelito and the boys built a dance floor surrounded by four wooden posts three meters high. They covered it with a thick white canvas roof that drapes down a half meter on each side. Flowers made of brightly colored tissue paper—sky blue, brilliant pink and sunny yellow—adorn the edges of the fabric overhang. On the inside of the structure the flowers hang from strings of varying lengths and float in the breeze. Twenty lanterns with soft glowing light surround the yard. Fireflies move through the air like floating sparkles. Soon it’ll be dark enough to see them weave and dance in the warm, sticky air. Tables are arranged around the yard with sweet smelling magnolia blooms in small copper vases. A long table by the back porch holds the food and drinks. A smaller table holds two oblong clay dishes of bread pudding. Mamá mixed the bread, eggs, walnuts, cinnamon, raisins, milk and sugar last night and baked each pan for an hour in the outdoor clay oven. Three more pans sit in the house.
Elsa spots me from across the yard, waves and bounces over. “I’ve been greeting the guests as they arrive. There are so many! I just checked on Tomás. Señora Salinas from church is telling him stories. He seems about the same.”
“Yes, I checked on . . .”
Elsa grabs my arm and covers her mouth. “Look over there,” she motions with her head, “but don’t turn around too suddenly.”
“I can barely understand you with your hand over your mouth,” I whine.
I swivel nonchalantly, look across the crowd, and see Rodrigo and his mother approaching. Elsa’s face becomes whiter. Mamá skips down the back porch steps and catches up to them.
“Elsa, isn’t it nice Señora Treviño and Rodrigo could make it tonight?” Mamá says.
I prod Elsa with my elbow.
“Yes, of course,” she stammers. “It’s so nice of you to come. Where are the little ones?”
“A family friend came for a few days,” Señ
ora Trevino answers. “She’s watching after the children. As you know, I have not been well since my husband and son were taken by the villistas, but I felt we really must offer our congratulations.”
“Gracias, señora,” Elsa replies.
Mamá picks up the señora’s hand and cups it tenderly. “I hope you don’t think I’m intruding, but I must ask. Have you heard any word from your husband and Martín? We’ve been quite concerned.”
“There’s been no word. We think they went south, but can’t say where. I am sick with worry, but luckily,” she looks squarely at Elsa, “Rodrigo is a strong, responsible son, and he is taking care of the family until their safe return.”
Mamá nods. “We will pray for them as we have every night. Please let us know if we can be of any help. But of course, tonight, we celebrate Elsa. She looks beautiful, no?”
“Ahem,” Rodrigo clears his throat. “I agree, you look especially beautiful tonight. Your gown makes you look elegant . . . I mean you always look elegant.”
“You are very kind,” Elsa replies. “You know, the mariachis will be here soon, and then the dancing will begin.”
“Will you honor me with the first dance? I mean, after you dance with your father?” He swings his golden brown hair away from his forehead revealing large hazel eyes and long lashes.
Elsa looks at Mamá.
“That is for your father to decide, Elsa,” Mamá says.
“Rodrigo, I would be happy to dance with you, but I must ask Papá first.”
“Perhaps it would be more customary if I asked your father myself,” Rodrigo offers. “Will you wait for me?”
“Yes, of course.” Elsa blushes.
Oh, how romantic! He’s so handsome. Those eyes! Those eyelashes! When will my turn come to find a boy? Someone tall and strong, with striking eyes, broad shoulders, long fingers and a brilliant smile. And, funny, hardworking and a true gentleman like my father. A girl can always dream.
Mamá and Rodrigo’s mother talk quietly. Elsa and I watch Rodrigo approach our father. They speak briefly and shake hands.
Evangelina Takes Flight Page 3
