Summer of the Mariposas Read online

  When she first started working, the only jobs she qualified for were janitor, maid, and waitress. After a few trial runs, she decided she hated the other two, so she was doing her best to keep this job. She couldn’t stand Mr. Moore, but she got along with the customers and they tipped her well.

  “Then let’s get back to work, shall we?” Mr. Moore raised his eyebrows. When we didn’t move, he cleared his throat. With his lips clamped shut and his eyes bulging out of their sockets, he looked like a toad on steroids, but Mamá knew he was about to explode, so she nudged me aside.

  “I’ll be in in a minute,” Mamá said, taking me by the shoulders and turning me around so that I was facing the parking lot.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered as soon as Mr. Moore was inside the restaurant again. “I didn’t mean to . . .”

  “Whatever it is, deal with it, Odilia,” Mamá insisted. “You are the eldest. It’s your responsibility to take care of your hermanitas. I can’t do it all. Now, go home before I lose my job.”

  Because I’d known how going to see Mamá would turn out, I left Mr. Gee’s without feeling one bit of remorse over not telling her what was going on. At least I’d tried. There was nothing more I could do when she wouldn’t give me the time of day. I couldn’t help but think she wouldn’t get in so much trouble at work if she and I had cell phones. Money was just too tight, and calling the restaurant would only get her in more trouble. Mr. Moore didn’t approve of personal phone calls. But then, a cell phone would probably be yet another reason for Mr. Moore to accuse Mamá of neglecting her work. Last week I saw him chew out Mamá’s younger coworker for texting instead of finding something “useful” to do on her break, like tidying up the break room.

  Feeling less than thrilled at having to once again “take care of it,” I walked back down Zamora Street the same way I’d walked up. The truth is, I needed to stall for a while if my plan was going to work tonight. So, instead of turning right on Brazos, I just kept going until I hit our old elementary school.

  The campus fence wasn’t locked, so I was able to walk right up to the classrooms. I dusted the powdery corpses of half a dozen dead butterflies off a cement bench and lay down on the quad under the moonlight for a while, contemplating my sisters and our rebelliousness. We were taking it too far, this rowdiness. Maybe I needed to tone down my part in it, become more responsible, listen to Mamá — wash some dishes or do some laundry for a change.

  At that exact moment, a star shot across the sky. Its sparkling life faded into the horizon as it died away, unsung, unwept. Immediately following behind it, another star fell from the sky. It went down in the same direction. Then another one, and another, and another. On and on they all went, one right after the other, all five descending in the same direction.

  Something told me I should hurry up and make a wish before the magical moment passed me by, so I closed my eyes and thought about the one thing I truly wanted — Papá.

  Yes. If I could have anything, I’d have Papá come back into our lives and take care of us. I wanted him to stop touring, get a real job, and be home every day like he used to be when we were young. I wanted Mamá to stop working and worrying all the time. It’s not like I wanted her to tuck us in at night and sing us a lullaby in Spanish like she used to. We were too old for that now. No. I just wanted to be a family again. With that longing in my heart, I closed my eyes and actually fell asleep right there on the school bench.

  When I woke up, I lit up the face of my thrift store watch and couldn’t believe how long I had napped. It was ten past midnight. Two hours had just flown by! I jumped up and trotted past the empty lots, but instead of going straight down the street toward home, I took a detour. I turned into the alley behind our house. Hiding behind the Olivarez family’s dumpster, I opened my backpack.

  Hastily, I took one of Mamá’s blue dress uniforms out and slid it over my own clothes. I unzipped my jean shorts and slipped out of them, shedding them like a snakeskin and stuffing them into my backpack. Then I changed into an old pair of Mamá’s work shoes and twisted my hair around and pinned it up into a half French twist, an easy, well-rehearsed styling technique I’d learned from Mamá, who always wore her hair that way. I completed the outfit by tying a white apron around my waist.

  By the time I got to the house, the lights were all out. I could see that in Juanita’s bedroom a nightlight was shining, but, when I jiggled the latch on the chain link fence, it went out. I kept my head down as I walked into the yard. Just as Mamá would, I struggled with the doorknob, pretended to look in Mamá’s apron pockets for her keys, and finally opened the door. I didn’t turn on any lights or make any noise. Like Mamá, I chose to walk in darkness. Quickly and quietly, I slipped into her bedroom.

  I didn’t undress, but instead lay on Mamá’s bed fully clothed with my back to the door. Soon, I covered up with her blanket and pretended to snore, congratulating myself the whole time. I was bien águila, the queen of ruse.

  Not even ten minutes went by before the bedroom door clicked open, and I heard someone enter Mamá’s bedroom. But I didn’t stir. Instead, I continued to fake snore.

  “Mami?” Pita said quietly, sweetly, reaching the bed and touching my shoulder. She tried to shake me a bit, whining softly under her breath, but I snored again, loudly this time, like Mamá does when she’s really tired.

  I heard another noise, more like a rap, then another — a knock, then two, three, four more. I shifted in bed and halfway turned. In the mirror, I saw the dark silhouettes of at least three of my sisters locked in a muted struggle. In the darkness, I could hear their muffled grunts, and then the intake of a sharp, deep breath before they knocked each other to the floor, taking Mamá’s ironing board with them.

  I clicked the table lamp on and saw Velia, Delia, and Pita all tangled up on the floor. “What’s going on?” I yelled.

  Pita wailed, “They’re trying to kill me!” She took a sharp breath, struggling to free herself.

  “We are not!” Delia and Velia exclaimed even as they held her down.

  “They had their hands over my nose and mouth. I couldn’t breathe!” Pita whined, wiping at her eyes with the heel of her hand when they finally freed her.

  Juanita entered the room and looked from the girls on the floor to me on the bed. “What are you doing in Mamá’s clothes?”

  “Stop biting me, you little traitor!” Velia spat out. She was so mad, she kicked at Pita’s leg.

  “Aw!” Pita scooted away from them and stood up. “I wasn’t gonna tell, I just wanted to give Mamá a good-bye hug.”

  “Sure you were! ¡Chismosa!” Delia scolded. “You’re the biggest gossip there ever was.” She turned around to give me a dirty look.

  “Don’t kick her.” I let Pita sit on the bed with me. “You should be ashamed of yourselves, treating her like that. She’s a little girl, not a spy on Mission Impossible.”

  “And you’re not Cinderella, so why the stupid get-up?” Juanita threw back at me.

  I undid the knot on Mamá’s apron, slipped it off, and laid it on the bed beside me. Then I pulled the pins out of my hair and let my hair loose. It felt good to let my scalp breathe again. “Never mind me,” I said. “Didn’t I tell you all to go to bed?”

  “You were bluffing, weren’t you?” Juanita’s dark brown eyes narrowed in disgust. “There was no sleepover, and you never called Mamá. It was all a trick — to stall us.”

  Delia got up and dusted her rump. “Well, it didn’t work; we’re going anyway,” she announced.

  “That’s what this little snitch was doing in here. She was going to tell Mamá we’re leaving,” Velia said, kicking at Pita again before she stood up too.

  “I said, don’t kick her,” I warned Velia. Then, looking at Juanita, I asked, “Oh yeah, well, how’re you going to get there?”

  I started to unzip Mama’s uniform dow
n the back. I felt ridiculous sitting there dressed up like a waitress even as I tried to sound like the voice of reason. Delia went to the door and blocked it, her feet apart and arms crossed like some kind of mobster. “If you won’t drive us there, Juanita will. She’s been watching you. She knows how to do it.”

  “She has the keys,” Velia said, as she went to stand next to her twin.

  “You don’t know what you’re doing,” I said, pulling my clothes out of my backpack. I peeled the waitress’s uniform off, put on my T-shirt, and pulled my jean shorts back on quickly.

  “Well, we’re going anyway,” Velia concluded.

  They walked out of the room, leaving me and Pita to stare at each other.

  I heard a commotion in the living room, the girls arguing again, but the front was locked and I had the only key. “They’re not going anywhere,” I assured Pita. No sooner had I said that than I heard the front door slam shut.

  “What the heck!” I walked out into the hall just in time to hear my father’s old Chevy Nova sputter loudly to life. I pulled off Mamá’s frumpy shoes and pushed on my own sneakers. Dang it! There was obviously another set of keys, to the house and the vehicle! I had no idea where they’d found them, but they had, and now my sisters were trying to drive away in a compromised vehicle without a clue as to how to handle it.

  “Ah, you cussed!” Pita followed me down the hall. From the living room window, I saw Juanita, Velia, and Delia jumping into the car. I ran out onto the porch.

  “Hey! Get out of the car! What do you think you’re doing?” I hollered. Juanita put her arm out the window and waved my old canvas bag at me, taunting me from inside the car, daring me to stay behind. Then she revved the engine like a professional race driver and stared me down.

  “Wait for me,” Pita called, leaving my side and running out after them. She jumped into the backseat. Seeing that I wasn’t leaving the porch, Juanita shrugged, put the car in reverse, and backed out of the driveway. The left corner of the Nova’s rear bumper clipped the chain-link post, taking the gate with it and knocking down a good part of the fence. Juanita didn’t even look back at the fence damage as she put the car in drive.

  I ran into the darkened street as Juanita peeled out. “Come back here!” I yelled, but they were driving off so fast, I had to cut across the neighbors’ lawns and through their backyards to keep up with them. Pumping my arms and legs as fast as I could, I followed the car all the way down to the corner. My breath was coming in ragged gasps, and I could barely hear the knocking engine of Papá’s old car for the pulse pounding against my eardrums.

  “Okay!” I screamed. “Okay! I’m coming with you! Stop! Stop!”

  They paused long enough to let me jump into the front seat while Velia made room for me by quickly crawling into the back with Delia and Pita.

  “Can you at least let me drive?” I asked.

  “You can drive us into Mexico, but not before that,” Juanita said, gripping the wheel resolutely.

  “Then turn on the lights!” I demanded as we made our way down Main Street in the dark. If they didn’t want to get stopped by the police, we should at least look like we knew that much about driving. The idea made me think that perhaps I shouldn’t have pointed that out to her — getting a cop’s attention would definitely bring their harebrained trip into Mexico to a standstill. But police involvement was more of a last resort. There had to be a better way. “Use the wipers,” I continued. “Get these dead butterflies off the windshield so we can see where we’re going.”

  It wasn’t at all how I had planned our night to end, but I figured all hope wasn’t lost. It was just easier to let my sisters think they’d won. However, the instant I buckled up I promised myself I’d surrender the body when we got to the international bridge — no matter what.

  LA ESTRELLA: “La más alta y brillante

  de todas mis hijas.”

  THE STAR: “The tallest and brightest

  of all my daughters.”

  When we got back to the river’s edge, the girls exhausted themselves prepping the body for the trip. Velia held a flashlight, while Juanita, who had brought a pair of Papá’s old jeans, one of his dress shirts, and his cowboy boots, dressed the body with the reverence of a dedicated mortician. Afterward, we slept with the mariposas in the car. At five o’clock in the morning, the girls got up and splashed cold river water on their faces.

  “I don’t like it,” Pita scrunched her chubby face in disgust when they propped the dressed body up against the mesquite’s trunk. He was as rigid as the mannequins at JCPenney, with a baseball cap on his head, dim sunglasses over his lifeless eyes, and his arms crossed awkwardly in front of him.

  “He looks too much like Papá,” Delia admitted, stepping away from him.

  Velia scrubbed away the thick layer of rouge Juanita had applied to his cheekbones in the dark. “He looks like a prostitute.”

  “He does not,” Juanita said. “Don’t take it all off. He needs to look alive.”

  Delia helped her twin sister scrub off the excess makeup from the dead man’s neck. “He doesn’t look alive; he looks ridiculous. Men don’t wear makeup, Juanita.”

  “Fine, have it your way. But we’re gonna get caught if he doesn’t look half alive,” Juanita answered.

  I left them there arguing with each other and took a short walk while they figured things out. Once they got the body in the car, I’d drive us up to the international bridge and turn it in. We’d be home in time to fix breakfast for Mamá. Then we’d go to bed and only dream about what could’ve happened after this night.

  I walked alone along the riverbank. In the dawning light, it shimmered with the hues of day fighting away the shadows of night, while the multitude of trees and shrubbery that grew for miles and miles along the riverbank still shrouded the land in shadow. Suddenly, to the left of me, about ten yards southeast along the river beyond the twisted path my sisters and I had worn into the thicket, two small figures ran past me in and out of the dusty brush right up to the river’s edge. They ran along the bank, skirting it so closely that pebbles flew off their footsteps and bounced down into the water. Their faces were indistinguishable in the dark and their white outfits were muted by the lack of sunlight, but I could see that they were little boys running away from something — or someone.

  It didn’t take very long to see who they were running from. Behind them, a woman in a pale dress came running, screaming at the boys, begging them to stop. Her long black hair whipped behind her as she fought through the brush. It was clear to me she was worried — frantic, even — that they might fall into the river.

  “¡Ay, mis hijos!” she screamed as she side-stepped ruts and rocks with her small bare feet. The short trees tore at her immaculate white dress, but she didn’t care. She pulled herself free of any tree limbs that clawed at her and kept chasing after her children, never losing sight of them.

  “Hey,” I screamed after the children. They didn’t turn to look at me or acknowledge me in any way. They were getting dangerously close to a cliff at the edge of the river. I left the security of our path and darted after them. They still ran parallel to the waters of the Rio Grande, much too close to the current that roared furiously below. The waters here were dark and angry, almost violent — nothing like our friendly swimming hole. I sped up, afraid they might lose their footing.

  Too late, I screamed for them to get away from the edge. In a second, they were falling, both of them, one behind the other. Into the water they went, making loud splashes as they fought to stay afloat. Without thinking, I scrambled up to the edge and jumped in after them.

  The roar and chilliness of the dark water awakened my senses, and my heart constricted in my chest as I came up for air. I had to fight the undercurrent to keep from being swept away. As I struggled to stay afloat, I looked around wildly for the children
who I clearly saw fall into the water seconds before me.

  They were about fifteen feet away from me, being dragged down, into the body of a heavy current. Their mother, running along the river, cried and screamed for me to help them.

  “¡Ay, mis hijos!” she wailed miserably.

  I swam with long even strokes, trying to remain in control of my body, not letting the undertow pull me down. But my efforts were in vain. The water rose over my head and swirled around me like a whirlpool, dragging me deeper and deeper, until the thin light of dawn turned into darkness, and I couldn’t see anything anymore.

  All was obscurity and cold, and I thought I would drown. What would Mamá think? Did I fail my sisters? My lungs ached with the pressure of unreleased air. Just when I was about to give in, the roaring stopped and I felt myself break through the surface. The fresh morning air hit my lungs like a blow to the chest, and I pressed a fist against my heart as if to stop the pain from killing me.

  As I coughed and sputtered in agony in the now-calm water, I saw one of the boys floating before me. I grabbed his arm and pulled him in. Dragging him over my shoulder, I began to swim toward the riverbank, where his mother was crying out for me to bring him to her. When I got close enough, she stepped back.

  “You’re too late. He’s drowned,” she wailed as she stood watching me struggle with her son’s body. At her words, inexplicably, the boy’s body slipped from me. It bobbed in the water and wavered in the pre-dawn light, then disappeared before my very eyes. I turned around to look for his brother and saw him drifting a few feet away from me. Before I could dive for him, he vanished like a strange mirage.

  “Here, let me help you,” their mother said, extending her hand to me from above. The hand was cold as a corpse, but I took it anyway. At first I attributed the coldness to her state of despair or my own soakedness, but when she pulled me out she spoke again, and what she said made me want to jump right back in the water.