Summer of the Mariposas Read online

  “What do we do now?” Pita asked. She was standing next to me, while the others stood back behind me, fanning the smoky steam out of their eyes.

  I looked at the mileage gauge. We were only about fifteen miles down the road from where we’d started in El Sacrificio, but it was far enough that going back there wouldn’t be too smart. It might call more attention to us, the missing children, and fifteen miles was a long, long way to walk. Longer than just walking the rest of the way to Abuelita’s. At least, I hoped it was.

  “We walk,” I said, fighting the sense of despair that was slowly seeping into my heart. “Because this piece of junk isn’t going anywhere without a mechanic.”

  “Walk where?” Velia wanted to know.

  “We’re in the middle of nowhere,” Delia finished her twin’s thought.

  I looked around and saw nothing. There were no houses, no animals, no major roads. Stretched before us in every direction, there were only miles of mesquite and huisache trees and tall brown grasses too dry and thin to feed to animals. If we turned around now, it would take us more than half a day to walk beyond El Sacrificio and up to Highway 57 on foot, but that’s where the nearest gas station was. I didn’t even know if that gas station had a tow truck, though we could use the phone there. It was better to just keep moving forward, since by my calculations, we were closer to Abuelita’s house. The trek was going to be hard on us, especially without water to fight off the searing heat that was already burning through my clothes. I wished I’d thought about getting water instead of sodas at the puesticito before setting out this morning.

  “To Abuelita’s,” I said. “Take whatever you want out of the car and let’s get a move on. No use standing around here. We have a long way to go before we reach Hacienda Dorada.”

  I dug Papá’s map and the envelope with my earrings out of the glove box and stuffed them into my bag. With our backpacks, purses, and the few provisions we still had in the car in tow, we started down the road heading east. We left the blankets behind because we didn’t want to exhaust ourselves with too much to carry. Mamá would probably want to kill us for leaving them, but there was no other option. Perhaps we’d be able to return for the car and the rest of our things with Abuelita’s help.

  The morning sun grew hotter by the minute, and we were sweating profusely within half an hour. Several times along the way, Pita cried that she was either tired or thirsty and we had to stop and sit on the side of the road under a mesquite or a huisache tree, trying to make the trek without succumbing to heat exhaustion.

  Two and a half hours later, we were huddled together on the side of the road, shoulder to shoulder under the full shade of a large cluster of scraggly trees, when we heard it — a woman’s voice, sweet and melodic, coming from the brush behind us. She sang of flowers and gardens and sweet, sweet nectar oozing from every petal and leaf.

  “What’s that about?” Juanita asked, turning to look at me.

  My heart quickened. “Never talk to strangers.” Mamá’s warning rattled around in the back of my head. We hadn’t seen any houses along the dirt road.

  I scrambled to my feet and stood listening for a moment. The woman’s voice was engaging and lovely. She sounded nothing like La Llorona, and my apprehension began to subside. “I don’t know. But we should be careful.”

  Ignoring Mamá’s rule, the rest of the girls scrambled to their feet and ran to see where the enchanting voice was coming from.

  “Hello!” Velia hollered into the dense thicket. She squeezed between the trunks of two mesquite trees in an attempt to avoid going around.

  “Hello!” Delia chimed in, louder and more desperately than her twin sister. She had been complaining about being dehydrated for at least an hour and human life meant the possibility of water.

  “Who are you? Who’s there? Who’s singing?” My sisters all hollered in the general direction of the woman’s voice.

  “What are you girls doing out here?” the woman’s voice asked from somewhere behind the brush. The lady who emerged was lovely and petite. She wore a flowing, bright yellow dress, and her blonde hair was perfectly coiffed in a thick chignon.

  “Our car broke down,” I said as she came closer. “Can you tell us how far it is to the next town?”

  Immediately, the enchanting woman began doting on us, like a tiny yellow butterfly, fluttering about. Her words flittered up and down and all around us as she fretted, taking our reddened faces in her hands and looking into our eyes, inspecting each of us in turn for signs of heat stroke. “Where did you come from? Ay, María purísima, but you look dreadful. You must be absolutely parched, melting away in this heat.”

  “We need to get to Hacienda Dorada as soon as possible,” I said when she pulled out an embroidered handkerchief and swabbed at Pita’s small face in a concerned, almost motherly manner. “Can you give us a ride?”

  “I wish I could,” the woman said, “but I don’t have a car. Oh my, but you must be parched by now; you look like wilting flowers. You need something to drink. Come with me, I have just the thing.”

  She invited us onto her property, a desolate piece of land we would have never imagined was inhabited, set far enough back from the road that we hadn’t seen it through the trees. I was so relieved to see someone, anyone, that I didn’t question her sudden appearance. She was a godsend; I was grateful for the sight of her. Besides, she didn’t look like she could be part of a gang or some kind of kidnapper ring, so we followed the sweet-voiced woman as she led us deeper and deeper into the brush.

  Past a wasted field and through a graveyard of fallen mesquites we went, listening to her melodic words as she led us away, until we came to what can only be described as an oasis in the desert. Whereas the land we’d just crossed had been populated by huisaches and scrub, her house was large and impeccably landscaped, like the houses in the more affluent neighborhoods of Eagle Pass, with a beautiful garden of flowering plants and herbs. I recognized the orange bursts of Butterfly Weeds and the tall red Indian Paintbrushes, but there were so many beautiful plants in the garden all I could do was smile with joy and serenity. The woman’s house was beautiful too, with wide, resplendent windows reflecting the daylight on every side, making it glitter and shine majestically. I thought for a moment we were in a fantasy world — a magical land, a dream come true.

  The vivacious woman took us through her spacious living room and into a splendid, sunlit kitchen where we were asked to sit at a long mahogany table while our hostess poured us glass after tall glass of ice-cold lemonade. When she had quenched our thirst, she brought us platters full of sweet bread: pumpkin empanadas, pan de huevo, cuernos, and the most delicious marranitos — dense pastries shaped like piggies made with sweet molasses and full of spicy richness in every morsel.

  We ate so much sweet bread and consumed so much tart lemonade, we felt gluttonous, but sinfully content. We listened to the lady of the house as she entertained us with her life’s story feeling delightfully blessed.

  Our enchanting hostess was named Cecilia. She was a viuda, a long-suffering widow. Her husband had been a police officer, a detective, who had lost his life in the line of duty, she said as she served us more and more of the delicious sweet bread. She was glad for our company because she lived too far from the nearest town to entertain visitors. Since she was self-sufficient, relying on her garden and animals for sustenance, she didn’t know anyone in town. Having no other family to speak of also meant she hadn’t had visitors since the days of her marriage. Her only contact with the outside world was her supplies delivery once a month.

  Our long hot day in the sun was too much to contend with, and soon we felt sleepy and tired. We’d made pigs of ourselves. Now we wanted nothing more than to take a nap in the afternoon heat.

  “You look tired,” Cecilia said, pulling the trays of pastry off the table and placing them back on the counter behind her. “P
erhaps you should rest awhile.”

  I watched her with half-closed lids as Cecilia moved about the room with slow, gentle movements that mesmerized me. “We should go,” I whispered, more to myself than to her.

  “Come on now,” Cecilia said, as she turned off the lights in the kitchen. “I have the perfect spot for a nap. My husband built this cozy little den just for me. Come on. It’s right through here.” Being so happy to have us in her home, Cecilia made us comfortable in a small nook just off the kitchen, away from the sun and the heat of the day. Like a fairy godmother waving a magical wand, she tapped open cabinet doors and pulled out extra fluffy pillows so that we might rest comfortably on the sofas and recover from our arduous expedition.

  Those hours resting went by very fast. We slipped in and out of wakefulness, wincing at the soreness in our muscles, and thirsting for more of that tart lemonade. Finally, we slept so deeply, that we were shocked when we awakened to find the landscape outside the windows in complete darkness. It seemed we had slept the day away and nighttime had descended upon the spacious house like an unexpected guest.

  “What happened?” Velia asked, yawning as she stretched on a satiny divan chair.

  Pita’s face was illuminated by the light of the moon from an open window. Her cheeks were flushed a bright crimson, sunburnt from our walk this morning. “Where is she?”

  “Do you think she knows who we are?” Velia asked as she got up and went to peer through the open door into the darkened kitchen. I wondered myself if she got the paper all the way out here.

  “I hope she doesn’t get us arrested,” Pita whined scooting over to sit next to me on the plush sofa. Suddenly, the familiar pangs of guilt hit me again, and I winced. I hated seeing them so concerned. They were little girls. They should be at home, fashioning bracelets out of old aluminum cans or just sitting at the kitchen table playing Lotería with Mamá.

  Juanita pushed herself off the couch and stood looking out the window at the darkness outside. “Do you think she’s gone? She wouldn’t have left us here alone, would she?”

  “Girls? Are you awake? Come in here!” Cecilia’s musical voice made us all jump, startled. We followed her voice into the living room, where she was sitting before a giant old-fashioned television that must have been brought in from somewhere else in the house because it was so fat and bulky, there was no way we could have missed it when we first entered.

  “How was your nap?” she asked, lifting a silver platter full of tiny, delicately decorated sweets.

  “Whoa! What are those?” Pita’s eyes sparkled with delight; she was all but devouring the baby cakes on the platter.

  “Petit fours,” Cecilia said, smiling indulgently at the expression on Pita’s face. “Try a chocolate one. They’re my favorites.”

  I thought about asking Cecilia if she had a phone we could use, but the reporter’s somber face on the television screen caught my attention. “What are you watching?” I asked. I popped a creamy petit four into my mouth. It melted away too quickly, leaving a soothing minty aftertaste that made me want more.

  “Oh, listen to this. It’s coming on again.” Cecilia turned up the volume on the television. “They’ve been running your story on the news all day.”

  At her words, the girls abandoned the tray of petit fours and scrambled to sit in front of the television set. I fell onto the nearest couch and listened as the words “STORY IN DEVELOPMENT” scrolled across the screen in Spanish and an ominous tune began to play in the background.

  The first segment of the news was an interview with Inés and Zaragoza. Both women seemed horrified at the idea that they had been deceived by the five little sisters who seemed to be so generous and pure of heart. They kept telling the reporter they didn’t know why they believed us that our mother knew where we were, and felt terrible for not calling the authorities or at least getting in touch with our mother. They talked about the dead man’s return and the bride’s hat they had given one of the girls as a token of their appreciation. But most of all, they worried about our safety and hoped we would be located soon.

  Feeling the blood rushing from my face, I looked around for a phone in the room, but I couldn’t see one. I was just about to ask Cecilia if she even had one when the tray of petit fours started making its way around the room again. I took two and ate them absently. I knew I had to do something, call someone, but my mind was suddenly blank and I couldn’t think what it was I needed to do. I couldn’t even talk.

  In the second news segment, after a brief commercial break, a female reporter pointed to a wide-brimmed hat stuck on the branch of a tall mesquite while she informed the viewers that the missing girls’ broken-down car had been abandoned less than a mile down the road from the location of the discarded hat. She reported that at that time, only terrible conclusions could be reached because there was no sign of the sisters. Our previous plan to return for Papá’s car evaporated when we saw it being towed away on television. According to the newscaster, it was being taken in for forensic analysis.

  The third segment of the story was a previously taped interview with our mother. On the screen, Mamá was crying and blowing her nose with a tissue. She wasn’t making any sense, but she kept repeating the same thing in Spanish. Over and over again, she begged, “Please, please, if you have my daughters, please let them go. Let them come home. They’re all I’ve got.”

  At the sight of Mamá completely undone on the news, Pita broke down and started crying silently.

  “Oh, I know you miss your mami,” Cecilia cooed as she reached out to pull Pita beside her on the couch. “Come here, darling. Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.” After Pita settled down and stopped crying, we were all able to concentrate on the rest of the news broadcast. The fourth and final segment of the “Story in Development” was a live interview with the chief of police in Piedras Negras. Arnulfo Jiménez disclosed that the drowned man, Gabriel Pérdido, was a known drug dealer and fugitive. The Federales were investigating his death and the culprits behind it. Chief Jiménez speculated that the girls might have been abducted by the same individuals who killed Gabriel Pérdido. They believed the suspects were operating under the assumption that the girls knew more than they really did about the dead man’s drug dealings. They suspected the abductors were manipulating the girls’ actions as they traveled through Mexico to return the body to his family in El Sacrificio.

  “The kidnapping might have all been part of a ploy to flush out Gabriel’s cohorts. We don’t know for sure. Anything is possible,” Chief Jiménez said, claiming it was imperative they find the missing girls and bring them home safely. He assured the reporter that his men were working night and day on this case, and he was positive justice would prevail.

  By the time our news story ran through, the local newscast was over. They had dedicated an entire show to us, a fact that mesmerized us into complete and utter silence.

  “Don’t believe everything you hear,” Cecilia said, shutting off the television set with one click of her remote control. “That Jiménez is a corrupt anaconda. His position on the force is just a front. He’s suspected of being in business with the mafia. Only, he’s so cunning, so sly, no one can connect him to any of their crimes. But everybody knows he’s working both sides.”

  “I don’t understand,” I whispered. “If he’s such a bad guy, how can he say he wants to bring us home?”

  “Of course he wants to bring you home,” Cecilia said, leaning out over the coffee table to be close to us. “Don’t you see? He wants to find you because he thinks you know more than you should about the drug dealer you brought home. It’s a trick. You should avoid him at all costs.”

  “I’m scared!” Pita slid off the couch and scooted over to me on the floor.

  “Oh honey, don’t be scared,” Cecilia said, leaving the comfort of the couch to slide down on the floor between Pita and me. “He can’t
hurt you. Not as long as you stay with me. I promise. Why — you’re trembling! Here, have some more petit fours, sugar for my sweet one. There you go. Feel better?”

  Pita bit into a tiny sweet morsel of cake and nodded even as she sniffed back her tears. Noticing the twin’s fearful faces, Cecilia slid the tray of petit fours toward them. Soon, we were all sitting on the floor, sharing the enormous tray of petit fours. Funny how distress takes away one’s appetite for real food, but when sweets are involved, all bets are off. Or maybe it was just us, because we sat there and ate every last petit four offered to us as we looked guiltily at each other for eating so greedily while everyone worried about us back home.

  “At least Mamá is home and not in jail,” Velia whispered close to my ear, so the others wouldn’t hear.

  “I’m not sure that’s any comfort to her right now,” Delia said from the other side of the coffee table. “She looked pretty torn up. Maybe we should call her.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you if you have a phone we could use,” I said, turning to look at Cecilia.

  “Freedom is always a comfort,” Cecilia said, ignoring my request and thrusting a chocolate petit four into my hand. “Your mamá is lucky to be free, after neglecting you all the way she did.”

  “What do you mean? Who says she neglected us?” I asked, suspicion creeping into the corners of my mind even as I put the chocolate treat in my mouth. I shook my head, trying to remember if any of us had spoken rudely about Mamá, but my thoughts were cloudy, eerily void of memory, a fact that stupefied me. Biting into a tiny sugar-covered cake, I gave each of the girls the evil eye, letting them know Mamá was not a topic that we needed to discuss, not with a perfect stranger like Cecilia.