Evangelina Takes Flight Page 2

  Mamá and Tomás head to the orchard to see if any of the late harvest pumpkins held up well enough to make empanadas.

  Papá and the boys walk back to the farthest edges of the ranch to chop wood and bundle it up to sell. The extra money helps, especially if our crops don’t fare well, or even if just one of them does poorly. Last year was a bad year for all our citrus, so Papá and Emilio took extra jobs in town. It took the rest of us to tend the cattle. We fed them, weaned calves from their mothers, moved the herd from pasture to pasture, leveled and seeded the ground and checked the fences to be sure no animals could escape and no coyotes, wolves or bobcats could get in.

  Dark has set in, and the crickets chirp their same old song outside my window. I lie in bed, but the pillow feels lumpy, my back aches and I’m too warm.

  Like Mexican snow, sleep won’t come. I can think better outside with the fresh air, so I walk out onto the front porch. I lower myself into the rocking chair, close my eyes and picture Mamá rocking Domingo to sleep with the movement of the chair’s soft rise and fall and her hushed, velvety lullabies.

  The porch steps creak.

  “Evangelina, what are you doing out here this late at night?” Papá walks toward me in the muddled moonlight, still in his jeans, boots and dirty work shirt. “It’s not safe. Señor Treviño found a half-eaten calf in his field just the other morning. Wolves got her. A young girl is not so different from a calf in the eyes of a hungry predator like that.”

  “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “What is it, m’ijita?” Papá kneels down and brings his face closer to mine. His brow knits together and forms two lines between his deep brown eyes.

  “The revolution. What happens if the soldiers come here? Will they hurt us? Will they kidnap Emilio and Enrique?”

  Papá lifts my chin with the tips of his fingers. “Your mother told me you knew about my conversation with your brother. Well, little Miss Big-Ears,” he pretend frowns, “I cannot predict the future. I leave that to God. But I will do everything in my power to keep this family safe.”

  I stand up and lay my head against his chest. A warm breeze rustles the folds of my nightgown, and the tightness in my chest eases.

  Papá walks me back to bed. “Good night m’ijita. You’ll feel better after some rest.”

  I climb under the care-worn patchwork quilt Abuelita, my father’s mother, made for my third birthday. She died when I was seven. I close my eyes and imagine the nighttime sky—so beautiful, like a blanket of sparkles that covers me and keeps me safe. My fourteenth birthday is just over a month away. I wonder where I will be the morning of July first. No matter what Papá says, I’m convinced it won’t be here.

  Chapter Four

  Tomás

  May 24, 1911

  I wake to the sound of someone splitting wood outside and the smell of something delicious. The sun blares through the window, my eyes unable to open more than a sliver. I’m usually the first one out of bed. Dawn is my favorite time of day. Most mornings I go outside, sit on the front porch and feel the heat trickle in, thankful for the time I have to be alone with my thoughts before morning chores. Other days I walk to the river and dip my feet in or throw rocks at the water. Rock throwing is behavior unbecoming of a proper young lady, but at sunrise, it’s just God and me, and He doesn’t mind. I know this because He often graces me with a gift of yellows, reds, purples and grays painted across the sky and bright beams of light shooting through the branches of the mesquite trees. The birds flit around dipping their tiny feet in the waters of the Río Bravo, chatting with each other and flying carelessly to and fro. If God didn’t want me to throw rocks in the water, He’d send rain instead.

  The house is alive outside my doorway. Pans clank, Domingo calls for Mamá, the screen door bangs. I weigh my options. If I go back to sleep, I won’t have to think about unpleasant things that make my stomach flip over. Despite my best effort, I just can’t sleep, so I toss off the covers and get up.

  Mamá stands in the doorway. “Evangelina, Papá needs help outside. Get dressed and take Tomás with you. Just because you slept in doesn’t mean you have fewer chores.”

  “Of course. It’s just that I didn’t sleep very well.” She raises an eyebrow. “I’ll finish my chores after dinner. I promise.”

  She walks away and calls back over her shoulder, “There are a few empanadas left in the kitchen. Make sure to eat something before you get started, and don’t forget to take Tomás.”

  The tantalizing fragrance of apples and fresh ground cinnamon fills my nose. The pumpkins were over ripe, so Mamá made my next favorite filling for the empanadas. Eager for the flaky little turnovers filled with gooey fruit, I throw on a white cotton dress, slip on my sandals and twist my thick hair into a quick braid. I put on my apron with the big pockets in front and step into the kitchen. Tomás sits at the table, his fingers and face covered in apple mess. He wipes his hands on his pants, turns around and sweeps the room with a guilty-looking glance.

  “Tomás,” I say sternly. “What are you up to, young man?”

  His cheeks flush a watermelon color.

  “I’m sorry, Evangelina.”

  His remorse doesn’t last long. A mischievous grin slowly appears. He holds up his left hand, spreads his fingers and licks them one by one.

  A small laugh escapes before I can stop it. “Go clean up. Papá needs our help. It’s hot outside, so bring your sombrero, or you’ll get burned for sure.”

  I walk to the sink, wet the corner of a small towel and hand it to him.

  “Can I have another empanada?” He bats his long, swoopy eyelashes.

  “It looks like you had more than your share from what I can tell. How many did you eat?”

  “Two I think?” His head bows low.

  “That’s quite enough. Lucky for me there’s one left.”

  Heat waves ripple and float above the parched ground. Papá stands behind the stable and chops wood into pieces short enough to fit in our stove. Without wood we can’t cook. If we don’t want to eat more than fruits and vegetables, Papá and my brothers chop. Mamá cooks from dawn until dusk—tortillas, beans, chicken with squash, tomatoes and corn, and when we’re lucky, rice pudding, my favorite.

  Papá swings the axe with such force it splits each piece of wood with one cut. The muscles in his arms shift and slide as he heaves the axe up and down. He lifts his sombrero and uses his handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead and the back of his neck under a thicket of dark curls. He turns to stuff the handkerchief in his back pocket, sees us and waves.

  “Well, hello, my little morning glories! I’m sure you came out here, anxious to help me, right?”

  Tomás shakes his head and grimaces.

  “I need you and Tomás to gather kindling,” he says to me. He bends over and gives Tomás a little squeeze. “Buenos días, m’ijo! Did you enjoy your empanadas?”

  “Sí, Papá,” Tomás says and turns to me. “Evangelina, I have a good idea. You look for wood, and I’ll look for a lizard with the spikes on its back. The spikes are soft, you know, and you can push them over with your finger, and it doesn’t even hurt them!” He holds up his palms and lifts his shoulders. “Isn’t that terrific?”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” I answer. “I need to talk to Papá first, though. You go on, and I’ll follow you. Don’t climb any trees or go anywhere near the river, you hear?” I kiss him on the cheek, and he skips away.

  “Did you tell Mamá what we talked about last night?” I whisper to Papá.

  “Your mother and I don’t keep secrets from each other. I told her next time I’m in town, I will ask around and let you both know what I find out. In the meantime, go about your day as if nothing’s changed, because the truth is, at least for now, nothing has changed. This should be a happy time for all of us. Just think, your own quinceañera is not that far off. Before you know it, you and your mother will start talking about your own fiesta! Now go find Tomás. There’s a basket inside the stable by
the first stall. Fill it with as much kindling as you can. You’ll need to make a few trips. And make sure Tomás actually gathers wood. If you don’t watch him, he’ll spend the whole time seeing how far he can spit! That’s a new hobby Enrique taught him.”

  “Wonderful. I’ll have to thank Enrique later.” I roll my eyes.

  I squeeze Papá tight, then walk into the stable and scan the ground for a horned toad lizard. Maybe I can find one for Tomás so he can give up the search and help me gather wood.

  No lizards in here, just a horse, two mules and a skinny, undersized thirteen-year-old who wishes she was stronger, prettier, taller and braver. I kick the hay with each step, pick up the basket, throw the straps over my shoulders and hurry down the road, the empty basket thumping against my back.

  It’s never a good idea to leave Tomás alone for long. Most five-year-olds have a curious nature, but Tomás makes other kids his age seem disinterested by comparison. A year ago he pushed a bean up his nose so far that no one knew it was there until it sprouted. Doctor Gonzales had quite a time getting it out!

  Last week Tomás piled dirt complete with an ant colony into a metal tub. He gave the little critters bits of leftover tortilla and watched them scurry along with their treasure, tirelessly building tunnels. When everyone was asleep he set the tub at the foot of his bed for safekeeping. Around two o’clock in the morning, we heard the screams and found him flailing on top of his bed, eyes wild with panic.

  “Mamá, they’re eating me! Mamáááááá!”

  Mamá and I rushed to him and found him covered with fire ants. She picked him up, took him outside and started brushing the ants off. They were everywhere, even in his hair. She poured a bucket of water over his head, washing away most of the reddish-black little monsters. After we dried him off and picked off the last few ants, I cut a piece of aloe, peeled back its rough exterior and rubbed the cool salve on his bites. Mamá wrapped him in a blanket, held him on her lap and sang to him softly until he fell asleep again.

  I walk faster and pull the empanada out of my front apron pocket, take a bite and round the bend.

  Tomás is on all fours, the upper half of his body behind a large rock.

  “Tomás, what are you doing?”

  “Sshhh . . . I found some big bugs. Come see! I woke them up, and now they’re fighting!”

  I step around the rock. He’s poking a stick at two goldcolored scorpions. The black tips of their pincers and tails curve up over their armored bodies as they circle each other in a deadly dance. The empanada slips from my hand.

  “Don’t do that!” I shriek, but the words sound far away.

  He turns his head to look at me and his hands slide backward across the dirt as I lurch forward with outstretched arms. His eyes fly open, his mouth twists and he screams.

  “It bit me! Evangelina!”

  What do I do? Don’t panic, don’t panic, don’t panic.

  “It will be all right Tomás,” I assure him in a trembling voice. “Papá will know what to do. We should get home now, but we must walk quickly.”

  He looks at me with eyes wide as saucers.

  “You can do it. I’ll hold your other hand.”

  “I don’t like that bug.” He sniffles and breathes in short choppy spurts as he swallows his tears.

  “You’re being very brave. We will be home soon, but we need to go faster, okay?”

  His short legs try to keep up, but he stops and pulls his hand out of mine. The sting looks red and puffy.

  “What’s wrong with my hand?” Solitary teardrops become a tiny moving river.

  “You remember when you bumped your head the other day on Mamá’s sewing box, and that spot got swollen? That’s all it is, but it will be okay. We have to get going, though. Come on.”

  He starts to walk alongside me again, feet dragging, but soon stops. I gently pull him along. Drops of sweat appear and multiply on his face.

  “My throat feels . . . funny . . .” he says. “I can’t, I can’t . . .” He drops my hand.

  I scoop him up and run. His tiny body softens and his head falls backward.

  “Tomás! Hang on, we’re almost there,” I sob.

  “Papá, come quick! Tomás! A scorpion . . . his hand,” I heave in and out.

  Papá takes Tomás from my arms and bounds inside the house. He lays Tomás on the sofa. Tomás’ breath is uneven—short breath, deep breath, shallow gasp. Tiny bubbles gather at the corners of his mouth.

  “Get some water!” Papá shouts.

  I run to the back of the house and grab the water pitcher. I hold it out for Papá as he removes a small, folded knife from his front pocket and lays it by Tomás’ legs. He pours water over the wound in a steady stream. The water dribbles off and forms a puddle on the floor.

  “Find the mezcal and hurry!”

  The bottle of mezcal hides in the cupboard behind bags of dried corn. Papá pours the mezcal over the blade, then cuts an X into the top of Tomás’ hand. He pours the mezcal over it, lowers his head and puts his mouth over the wound. Papá sucks in the blood and venom and spits it out into his handkerchief. He props up Tomás’ arm with a small pillow, elbow next to his body, hand in the air.

  “Tomás, can you hear me? M’ijito? I am going to take care of you, and Mamá should be home soon.”

  The back screen door opens and Enrique walks in.

  Papá shouts, “Go get Doctor Gonzales!” Enrique glances at Tomás and bolts through the door. The clatter of hooves starts loud and fades.

  Mamá swings the front door open with Domingo trailing behind her.

  “Domingo, you’re a big boy. Can you take this for me?”

  She smiles as she leans down to transfer a melon to his extended arms. Her eyes shift and lock onto Papá’s, then rests on Tomás.

  She drops the melon. “Evangelina, take Domingo outside!” she commands. “No, wait! Bring my rosary.”

  It hangs on her bedpost, where it always is. The long patterned sequence of large and small wooden beads and tiny silver medals adjoin a silver crucifix at the bottom. Every night Mamá kneels, fingers each bead on the rosary and repeats the Hail Mary and Lord’s Prayer in their proper order to thank the Mother of God for her blessings and invite her to pray for our safety and salvation. Today, she will pray for her son’s life.

  I grab it and run back to Mamá. She brushes the back of her hand lightly across Tomás’ forehead. I thrust the rosary at her.

  “I let him go ahead without me. . . . I wasn’t watching him. Please forgive me! It’s my fault. I’m so sorry!”

  “Take Domingo outside.” She clasps the rosary and prays, “Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name . . .”

  “Does Tomás have a tummy ache?” Domingo whimpers.

  “He’ll be fine,” I answer. Salty tears burn as they trickle down my raw, aching throat.

  We walk into the dust-filled wind. Perfect yellow-pink grapefruit weigh down the branches of a tree loaded with God’s bounty. I yank one off and tear into the thick fleshy rind. A million particles of citrus mist make the air smell sweet, but the taste in my mouth is bitter. Domingo pulls the grapefruit apart and bites into one half. Juice drips from his face and hands.

  We sit against the tree trunk, him on one side, me on the other. My head drops to my chest. Tears fall onto my apron. They spread into the soft cotton fabric, each one a tiny circle of shame and regret.

  Chapter Five

  La Llorona

  May 24, 1911

  The knobs in the old woman’s spine protrude beneath her gray cloak like miniature fists trying to break free. Her back stoops. Pale, wrinkled skin hangs from her exposed lanky arms. Her palms extend toward the threatening sky—long, frail fingers curve upward—stiff, pleading for something, waiting for something.

  She hobbles away from me slowly. A hood shrouds her face. She emits a wail so sorrowful, so penetrating and hopeless, every muscle in my body tenses and a sudden chill washes over me. My heartbeat slows, thump . . . thump .
. . thump . . . thump . . . thump.

  I follow her with light steps, afraid she’ll turn around. She moans, “Where are my babies? What have you done with my babies?”

  The steep, narrow path leads us away from the cliff top down to the Rio Bravo. She does not look down as she walks, although the ground is uneven. The roots of the pinion trees stretch across as if carefully placed to make unsuspecting daydreamers fall to their watery deaths below. No need to watch her step. The old woman has walked this path thousands of times before.

  She stops, turns her head and listens. My legs don’t move except to shake from the inside out. I inhale and exhale a tiny stream of air, soundlessly. The river rushes below.

  Her wild, menacing eyes settle on me, but nothing registers. My heart thunders in my chest. Surely she must hear it! If she doesn’t see or hear me, maybe I am not flesh and blood but a soul adrift.

  I follow the woman down, down, down to the river. The water surges and swirls. She hunches over the water’s edge and reaches for something with expectant arms. Her gnarled fingers skim the water.

  The woman . . . Who is she? My memory stirs and murky thoughts clear and crystallize.

  La Llorona! Every child has heard the legend of the beautiful but vain woman abandoned by her husband. In a moment of desperation, blind with hatred toward the man who broke her heart, she stood at the edge of a cliff and silenced her children forever. Tortured by what she’d done, she jumped to her own death, hoping to reunite with her beloved son and daughter. But, even in the afterlife, she could not find them. So, every night she walks the riverbanks, in search of her babies, shrieking and sending dread through the souls of all who hear her. That is why they call her, “La Llorona,” “the weeping woman” who mourns her loss and carries eternal shame for destroying those who were innocent and needed her the most.