by Miriam Toews
Yeah, but what if—
Aggie, I said. I know it’s against your religion to do anything I tell you to do but you’re going to take a break from your religion, okay, and you’re going to do everything I tell you to do starting right now.
Are we in trouble? said Aggie.
Well, you know, yeah, I said. A little bit. Which is why.
Why what? she said.
Why I have a plan, I said. And then later on, in a week or so, you’ll be able to once again refuse to do some of the things I ask you to do.
All things? said Aggie.
Just a few, I said. Just to keep your soul from disintegrating. Okay? Please?
Aggie sighed heavily and Oveja stared mournfully at her, his eyes a well of deep concern. He was also a rebel, a fighter, and understood the significance of what I had asked her to do.
Let’s quickly eat something, I said.
There was some leftover shepherd’s pie in the fridge that wasn’t working anymore since the generator died and Aggie ate the meaty stuff at the bottom and I ate the top layer of potatoes.
Then we both went outside and Aggie went to the pump to get some water and I went to the barn and let out all the cows. I punched their rear ends and shouted at them and that got Oveja all worked up and he came running over and started growling and nipping and chasing the cows out into the yard and into the cornfields and onto the road. Aggie came back from the pump and put the pails of water in the back of the truck.
What the hell are you doing? she said.
Back the truck up to the grain shed, I said.
Why should—
Aggie! I said. Do it. Remember what I said?
I know but—
No, Aggie, you don’t understand. Right now you have to shut up and do everything I say.
I know but—
Aggie! My God! Are you fucking insane?
Fine! she said.
I ran to the shed and stood on a bale and started hauling Jorge’s boxes out of the rafters. Aggie backed the truck up to the shed and hit the corner of it with the bumper. I yelled at her to stop. She got out of the truck and came into the shed and I told her to start loading the boxes into the back.
What is this? she said.
Something for Carlito Wiebe, I said. Let’s go.
Wait, she said, let’s take Oveja.
No, I said. He’s running around with the cows. We’ll come back and get him after. And besides, Carlito has a dog too, and they’d just fight.
Carlito Wiebe was angry with us for waking him up in the middle of the night but then he saw what was going on and he became less angry. He took the boxes out of the back of the truck and brought them into his dingy little kitchen and piled them up on top of each other. He leaned on the boxes and said a bunch of things and I wanted him to hurry up and buy the stuff and give me the money so we could leave.
I don’t have enough on me right now, he said.
Well, how much do you have? I said.
I don’t know, he said, I’ll have to take a look.
He went off into another room and Aggie and I stood there. She was yawning. Off in the other room Carlito put on some kind of cowboy music and we heard water running for a minute.
Irma? she said. Are you a narco?
No, I said. Shhh.
Jorge’s gonna kill you, she said.
Nah, I said.
Carlito came back and said he could give me about thirty thousand pesos. I like that music, he said. Do you?
Yeah, said Aggie, it’s pretty good.
It’s a new band from Durango, said Carlito. The singer just got out of jail.
Jorge told me it was worth at least a million pesos, I told him.
He’s wrong, said Carlito. He was just talking big. I’m going back to bed if you’re not interested.
I’ll give you thirty thousand pesos’ worth, then, and take the rest back, I said.
No, Irma, said Carlito. I don’t mean to be a hard-ass but you don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t even know how much thirty thousand is. Besides what are you going to do with it? Carry it around with you in the back of that truck?
Aggie cleared her throat and I looked into her translucent eyes for a second and felt weakness leave my body like blood.
Nah, forget it, I said. I’ll find someone else. C’mon, Aggie, help me load this shit back into the truck. I yanked the back of her dress.
Hang on, said Carlito. Tell you what. I’ll give you forty thousand pesos. That’s a good deal.
Fuck off, Carlito, I said.
Fuck off, Carlito, said Aggie. We went into the yard and hopped back into the truck.
He’s coming outside, said Aggie. What if he shoots us?
That would solve so many problems, I said. I rolled my window down and pointed my pen flashlight into his eyes. He put his arm up to cover them and I turned it off.
Sorry, I said. I had to make sure it was you.
Irma, he said. I don’t mean to pry but what the heck are you doing?
I’m selling drugs! I said. Jesus Christ, man. What the hell do you think I’m doing?
Irma, said Aggie. You sound a tiny bit hysterical.
Does Jorge know you’re doing this? said Carlito. Did he send you?
No, he didn’t, okay? I said. Just, you know, whatever. Give me forty thousand then. I have to go.
Tell you what, said Carlito. I’ll give you fifty. But promise me you won’t tell anybody, especially Jorge, who you sold it to. And also, do you girls want a bag of oranges? We waited for Carlito to run into his house and out again with a big sack of oranges that he put into the back of the truck.
Danke schön, I said.
Bitte, he said. And may God be with you.
Thanks, Carlito, I said. And with you.
Count the money, I told Aggie.
No, she said. I’m afraid it won’t be the right amount.
Oh, okay, I said, you’re right. Never mind. I told Aggie what the next step was and she put her feet on the dash and said she’d like to make a comment if she could, something having to do with what she called the paucity of my business sense, but I said no. We flew back to our parents’ house and went running in to tell our father that the cows were loose, that Klaus Kroeker, the guy he’d hired to do the milking, must not have known how to close the gate properly. My father grabbed his gun from the rack in the kitchen and put on his boots and told me and Aggie to help him round them up. His face was burnt bright red from stubbornly standing in the sun all that day. I told him that we’d take the truck and go over to the south side of the field, near the broken crop-duster, and stop them there. It didn’t really make any sense but he didn’t seem to notice and he left, swearing and bleary-eyed.
We went into our parents’ bedroom looking for our mother and there she was with the top of her nightgown down and she was nursing a baby. We all stared at each other except for the baby who kept sucking and gurgling and then our mother said in a soft, quiet voice, girls, what are you doing here? What’s going on? And Aggie said you’ve had your baby! Nobody told us! Shhhh, said our mother. She was smiling. Come sit here with me, she said. And then we both went and lay down on either side of our mother and her new baby for a while and we touched the baby very gently so we wouldn’t disturb it from eating and I told my mother that we had some hard news.
My mother was quiet for a long time. I wanted her to say something. The baby fell asleep and my mother took her nipple out of its mouth and gently laid the baby down beside her so it was tucked in between her and Aggie and then she put the top of her nightgown back on. She asked me to move so that she could get out of bed and she asked Aggie to stay with the baby and I helped her walk to the kitchen because she was still sore from the birth and she asked me to sit down at the table. She sat down too and put her hands on my hands.
How are you, Irma? she said. She touched my cheek and my forehead. We were whispering.
I’m okay, I said. How are you?
She smiled an
d said she was okay except that I was holding on to her hand so tightly she thought it might break.
Does Jorge know? she said.
No, I said.
But he’s your husband, she said.
I know, I said. She was quiet for a bit, staring at something invisible on the wall.
Are you cold? she said.
No, I said.
Are you hungry? she said.
No, I said.
Will you be brave? she said.
I’ll try, I said.
I love you, Irma, she said.
I love you too.
I pressed my fingers hard to my eyes. I put my head in my mother’s lap and she stroked my hair. My precious Irma, she said. Then she sang a little bit of this hymn we all knew called “Children of the Heavenly Father.” When she was finished singing she was quiet for a minute. She kept stroking my hair.
Your braids need redoing, she said.
I know, I said.
But there isn’t time now, she said.
That’s true, I said. She tried to help me up. She whispered to me that I should kiss the boys goodbye, they wouldn’t wake up, and she would talk for a bit with Aggie. I got up and went into the boys’ bedroom and looked at them. Doft was buried under his blanket, his fuzzy little head just barely poking out, and Jacobo had thrown his covers onto the floor. I leaned over each of my sleeping brothers and kissed them. They smelled like hay and sweat. I wanted to give them something to remember me by but I didn’t have anything. I kissed each of them again. Then I remembered the oranges and I went out to the truck and took two of them out of the bag and brought them back in and went and put one orange each beside my brothers’ heads. I went back into the hallway and I heard Aggie and my mother talking in her room. I heard Aggie say hold me closer, Mom, squeeze hard. They were both crying. I walked back to the kitchen and waited.
When my mother came out of the room she told me she had a very big favour to ask of me. I told her I’d do anything for her.
Take her with you, she said, and don’t tell me where you’re going.
I am taking her with me, I said. That’s why we’re both here. To say goodbye.
I know, she said. I mean the baby. Take her too.
SEVEN
I WROTE A NOTE AND SLIPPED IT under the door for Diego to find when he woke up. I told him the truck would be at the airport in Chihuahua and the keys in the ashtray. I thanked him for everything and wished him well with his movie. I asked him to please forgive me for leaving the shoot early and for taking the truck and to give Marijke a hug from me and goodbye to all the others. And I signed it.
I drove fast, straight into the rising sun. Aggie held the baby and stared at her.
Does she have your eyes? I said.
It’s hard to say, said Aggie. Just one is open. It’s really dark blue.
Hmmm, I said.
I don’t think she has any pupils, said Aggie.
Of course she has pupils, I said.
I don’t know, said Aggie, I can’t see it.
Well, that’s just because her eye is dark blue, I said. She must have pupils.
What does a pupil do, anyway? said Aggie.
I don’t know, I said. I was calculating the amount of time it would take us to drive to Cuauhtémoc and wondering if the farmacia would be open so that I could buy some baby formula and bottles.
You should know that by now, said Aggie.
Okay, I said, they react to the light. They dilate and contract.
So, said Aggie. If she doesn’t have pupils will the sun just burn holes right through her eyes?
She has pupils, I said.
Maybe she’s blind, said Aggie.
See if you can make her blink, I said. Or just move your hand around and see if her eye follows it.
Aggie moved her hand slowly through the air in front of the baby’s one open eye and then the baby closed that one too.
Well, said Aggie, that didn’t really work.
She’ll be fine, I said.
You always say that, said Aggie. You’re always saying everything is fine.
No, I’m not, I said. I’m not an idiot.
She has your fists, said Aggie.
What do you mean, fists? I said. Hands?
She’s a fighter, said Aggie.
I’m not a fighter, I said. They just ball up like that on their own. Stretch them out.
Aggie took the baby’s hands in her own and gently pried them open. The baby was trying to scratch her own cheek. Her hands were flailing around all over the place.
Don’t let her do that, I said.
Do what? said Aggie.
Tuck her hands in under the blanket so she doesn’t scratch herself, I said.
Isn’t it strange, said Aggie, that Mom gave us all those baby clothes and now we have a baby but none of the clothes?
Yes and no, I said.
Are we going to look for Jorge? said Aggie.
I don’t know, I said. I don’t think so.
Wilson? said Aggie.
No, I said. I don’t know where he is.
Well, you don’t know where Jorge is either, said Aggie. That’s why it’s called looking.
I said, she’s still kind of scratching herself. Tuck her hands in. Or hold them away from her face.
I didn’t say goodbye to the boys, she said.
They were sleeping, I said. They’re all right.
See, said Aggie, you’re always saying everything is all right.
I didn’t say everything is all right, I said. I said the boys are all right.
The motor on the truck was loud but we could still hear the mourning doves.
Dad will kill Oveja, said Aggie.
No, he won’t, I said.
Yeah, he will, said Aggie. Stop saying stuff you don’t know. I hate that. He’ll kill him for sure.
Well, now you’re saying something you don’t know, I said. Maybe Oveja will kill him first.
What’s he gonna do when he finds out the baby is gone? said Aggie.
Nothing, I said. He barely noticed her. Mom will tell him she had dengue and died and is gone.
That’s it? said Aggie.
That’s all, I said. You have to be buried quick with dengue. Mom will tell him she put her with that other one behind the feed barn.
What about a funeral? said Aggie.
Not worth it, I said. Dad will say a prayer at dinner and send her soul to heaven.
What does Mom call her? said Aggie.
Ximena, I said.
What? said Aggie. For real? That’s a Mexican name.
Well, we’re in Mexico, I said.
Let’s give her a Mexican last name too, said Aggie.
Sure, I said. Molina?
Ximena Molina, said Aggie.
Or we could call her Miep, I said.
Ximena Molina Miep? said Aggie.
Sure, I said.
How will we feed her? said Aggie.
I’m thinking about that, I said.
It started to get a little cloudy and after about twenty minutes it started to rain hard. Finally Diego could shoot the scene he needed so desperately. Except that we had his truck. We were driving to the airport in Chihuahua city. I stopped at a farmacia on the main road going out of Cuauhtémoc and bought some baby formula and bottles and a bag of infant-sized diapers and a package of three sleepers and a blue box of moist baby wipes. I bought a beach towel with a herd of wild horses on it against a setting sun to use as an extra blanket for Ximena and a forbidden teen magazine and a Snickers bar for Aggie. When I got back to the truck Ximena was screaming and Aggie was trying to get her to stop.
You have to walk with her, I said.
It’s raining outside, said Aggie.
Walk under that canopy for a bit while I make her a bottle, I said. I read the instructions on the formula tin and carefully measured out four level scoops of powder. I had taken care of babies all my life but until now my mother had always provided the milk. I added clean water and I sh
ook the bottle and then I squeezed a drop of it onto the inside of my wrist to make sure the temperature was perfect. It was a little cool so I rubbed the bottle between my hands for a minute. I considered starting the engine and putting the bottle on it to warm up fast but I didn’t want the plastic to melt.
Aggie came back to the truck with Ximena, she was still crying but not as hard and she’d stopped waving her arms around, and I took her and gave her the bottle and Aggie took her magazine and chocolate. Ximena spit the rubber nipple out several times and tried to scream but I kept putting it back into her mouth until she got the hang of it.
Aren’t you supposed to boil those bottles before you use them? said Aggie.
Yeah, you are, I said. I shrugged. I wiped the bottle with a sterilized baby wipe.
When Ximena had finished her bottle I burped her and changed her diaper on the seat of the truck.
Look at that, said Aggie. Is that normal?
Yeah, I said, it’s her umbilical cord. It’ll fall off in a few days.
We should keep it, said Aggie.
Sure, I said. It’ll eventually shrivel up, though.
How long will that take? said Aggie.
I don’t know, I said. Marijke keeps her son’s umbilical cord in a little pouch around her neck.
How far is it to the airport? said Aggie.
About an hour and a half, I said.
Where are we flying to?
I’m not exactly sure right now, I said.
How about Canada? said Aggie.
The world seemed spectacular and beautiful and calm, like the sacred heart of Jesus, as my mother would have said. The world we were leaving, that is. But I guess that’s how the world works. How it sucks you in by being all beautiful just when you’re ready to leave. Jorge used to get me to walk and talk with him when I was sad. He’d hold my hand and sometimes we’d skip all the way to San Miguel, the tiny village down the road, because skipping is stupid but exhilarating and it made us laugh. Words and movement, he said, would push all the bad stuff away. I tried it on myself. I was starting to think hard about my mother, wondering if we’d ever see her again, and I didn’t want to cry in front of Aggie.
