Under the Feet of Jesus Read online

  Petra stood up. With the corner of her apron, she wrapped the handle of the coffee pot and removed it from the fire.

  Perfecto shook his head repeatedly.

  —I can’t allow it.

  —It’s not in our hands.

  —I can’t allow it. He noticed a puncture in the ribbed clouds which floated right toward him. For a moment, he felt as if the hand of God was going to reach right through the hole and pull him up to the heavens. He glanced down and the maggots looked like white specks against the chocolate soil. His chest ached.

  —Not now, he pleaded, Not now.

  —What’s the matter with you?

  —I say you can’t!

  —Tell me to go to the devil, Petra replied, tell me I’m crazy. But don’t tell me that. Don’t tell me I can’t. Petra ambled to the crate and sat a second time and smoothed the apron on her lap and X-ed her arms over her chest like two planks boarding up a window.

  With the help of Perfecto Flores, Gumecindo carried his cousin into the bungalow and lay him on the pile of blankets which made up a bed. After Petra propped a pillow for him, Alejo already felt better. He had been left alone for many days while the others went off to work, leaving him breathing in the smell of foul socks and loneliness. And Alejo thought if he was going to die, he did not want to die alone. His body muscles spasmed every time he moved in the slightest way, and all the ache rushed to his head as he came in and out of the deep well of days.

  Petra brought some rice water for his runs and scooped the back of his head up, put the cup to his lips. He could barely drink the pasty gray water and the scent of his illness was a fog of sweat and rotting garbage. Later he felt a cool object, and opened his eyes to see Petra rubbing a hen’s egg on his bare stomach while she muttered prayers to herself. He struggled to turn his head, watch her crack the same egg in two, then pour it in a saucer, watched her study the yellow yolk, after which she placed the egg and saucer behind his head and left it there, and then he closed his eyes.

  In a daze of sleep and ache and loneliness, he felt Perfecto struggling to pull his pants off, saw Petra near him with buckets of water, and only realized when he felt the soothing warm water between his thighs, that he had soiled himself and they were cleaning him and he felt too pitiful to be ashamed. He hoped Star was far away.

  That same day, Alejo slept contentedly for hours. When he awoke it was dark, and the cool scent of orchard resin refreshed him and he felt better. He listened to the sound of night crickets coming from the open window, the raspy breathing of children that he missed whenever he was away from home. Sleeping in a room full of children was different than sleeping in a room full of men. The smells and noises and dreams were different. He noticed Star’s back next to him. One button on the back of her floral dress had slipped from its mouth and he moved closer to her to feel the comfort of that unburied patch of skin. She, accustomed to the legs and arms of her brothers and sisters, pushed herself against him to fill any crevices between their bodies that would allow the chill to enter. There was a distinct scent to her of woodsmoke and sweat and soil, but also a sweetness like Eagles’ condensed milk that he inhaled from the back of her neck. She turned, a breath coming from between her lips, her face looking as if she took her sleep seriously.

  A sleeping face looked so different than one awake. Her eyelashes were long and thick black against a complexion brown like wheat bread crust, and except for the blemishes on her forehead, her skin was smooth and soft when he touched her cheek. Drowsy, she fanned her face. Alejo pulled closer to her, rested near her chest and with her lulling breathing against his cheek, he became convinced he would not die after all.

  Last Monday, Perfecto had watched Petra stop kneading the dough on the table. She looked out at the eucalyptus trees thinking of what, he didn’t know, and her stare made him think for a moment that the trees were whispering his secret to her. Could she know what he thought? Could she tell by the way he took to looking for extra jobs? Could she hear it in the clanking bells of the train crossing? But she broke her stare, continued kneading the white dough for the dinner tortillas.

  The Thursday before he had dreamt of illness, his veins like irrigation canals clogged with dying insects, twitching on their backs, their little twig legs jerking. The following night he dreamt of Mercedes calling to him in the ridiculous frilly dress she was buried in. His dreams were never in color. Perfecto, don’t you remember us? she whispered in sepia tones. Or was it his baby? It was the memories that bound his spirit to his native soil. He knew the ghosts were working in the dream world to tell him something, yet each night that he lay next to Petra, he prayed that the spirits would keep quiet and let him enjoy the tenderness of a woman who wore an aura of garlic as brilliant as the aura circling La Virgen. What more could he have asked of the spirits? But it was too late, too late. He was too old to support this family, and who did he think he was, and on Saturday, he dreamt of keys and the moon and that Petra was pregnant.

  There was no denying the insect signs that warned him. Even Petra had said it: when you feel it that deep, listen. The final sign was the young man Alejo. He could feel the boy’s death under his bare feet as he carried him up the porch and into their house. It was that close.

  Alejo felt a mosquito buzzing and lifted his hand to swat it away. He swiped his hand to his face, his head too groggy to open his eyes. Finally, irritated by the mosquito, he opened his eyes to see Cookie tickling his nose with a white thread. He turned his face to the window, and thought he was seeing double, for he saw Perla studying the pock marks and the stubble of cheek that felt like sandpaper when she touched it.

  Perfecto wiped the crusty terminal posts of the car battery with a soiled rag he kept under the driver’s seat for checking the oil. He removed the vent hole caps and sniffed for the corrosive smell of sulfuric acid, then replaced the caps and slammed shut the hood of the station wagon and threw the blackened rag on the front seat. There was no doubt that the wagon needed a new battery. The acid had become so diluted with water, the smell was gone, and this made the starter skip like a spoon scraping against metal. Now it was only a matter of time. He pulled his kerchief from his back pocket and wiped away grease from between his fingers as he walked toward the bungalow. The salvaging of the barn would bring in some good money. At least he could purchase a new battery and have enough left over to leave them some.

  Ricky and Arnulfo collected firewood, and when they broke into swordplay, he called to them to quit the monkey business and carry the wood to the pit. He thought of his own children, grown now with children of their own, and wondered where they were, which side of the border they settled in, wondered how he had managed to stray so far away and for so long.

  The twins ran to him, grabbed a thick hand each, their hands fleshy and moist. At first Perfecto recoiled his hands because he no longer liked the feel of the warm little knots of fingers tying into his; but they anchored a hand each anyway, clamping their grasp and laughing. They chattered together excitedly but with different words, tried to tell him that Alejo had opened his eyes and told them to go away, just in those words, like that, Go away, and they were very pleased. The twins tugged Perfecto Flores to the porch. Petra emerged with a hint of a smile at his forgetfulness, her two hands holding the rim of his hat again. He tried not to see her, passed her to enter the bungalow.

  Petra knew the capricious black lines on a map did little to reveal the hump and tear of the stitched pavement which ascended to the morning sun and through the trees and no trees, and became a swollen main street and then a loose road once again outside the hamlets that appeared as splat dots on paper. They had travelled by foot, in and out of the orchards, until they reached the main highway and Petra could feel the heat pulsating from the asphalt. The oil of the pavement mirrored like puddles of fresh rainwater though it hadn’t rained in months. The family stood in file on the thistle belt of road and rested.

  Under the strutting powerlines, Estrella sat on her haunches. The f
loral fabric of her dress was thin from repeated washes and the reddish blue violets paled against the searing sunlight. She sunk her white thumbnail into the pavement and slowly sliced a sliver on the melted tar. Not far across the highway, the rickety store stood as desirous as a drink of water.

  —It’s real hot, Estrella said.

  —So tell us something we don’t know, Ricky replied. The rubber of his shoe stuck with thistle thorns which were planted around the fenceless edges of the orchards to discourage roadside thievery. He carefully plucked off a few.

  —Should we wait? Arnulfo asked, looking down the slithery road. It looked as flat as a crushed, dried snake.

  —Wait for what? snapped Petra in a tone that was tired, and therefore mean. She lay her forehead on her palm. The only relief from the reaming sun came at twilight and twilight seemed as far away as the store. A lime green Bermuda with a white top and white wall tires rolled off the road and under the awning of the store’s single gas pump and braked and two people got off.

  —Vámanos, Petra decided.

  Estrella heaved Perla on her shoulders with firm instructions, Keep your manitas outta my eyeballs, gordita, she said, and the twin nodded like a jiggle doll on the backseat of a car. Plump legs dangled on Estrella’s chest and the twin’s moist palms rested on her forehead.

  —Maybe we should wait, Arnulfo meekly repeated. A Ford pickup with a dented headlight rambled by and honked and the blast frightened him.

  —After this one, Petra said, pointing to an Allied Moving truck which whisked by with such incredible speed, it forced the hems of dresses up and shirts to fly open. Estrella lifted Cookie’s buttocks and the twin clamped her legs around her waist.

  Petra looked both ways. A convoy of vehicles appeared from nowhere, whipping their faces with grainy wind.

  —After this one, Petra said again.

  Cookie tightened her grasp. Estrella followed the clicking of the mother’s rubber sandals. The twins were heavier than usual. Her neck strained from Perla’s clamped hold. Let go a little. The thistle thorns on her shoes felt like cleats as she sprinted across the asphalt in short, precise steps. You’re not gonna fall.

  When they reached the gas pump, Estrella lowered Cookie immediately and slid Perla off her shoulders and the sudden release of weight made her dizzy. Patches of sweat pasted her back and saturated the violets into deep purple flowers. She slipped under the tinted awning, her shadow dissolving like lard in a hot skillet. The driver of the Bermuda cocked the trigger of the dispenser and the old gas pump began rotating clackety numbers. The vapors of the gasoline idled in the air.

  —Next time, Petra wagged her finger at the twins: Next time, you two will have to walk. The twins cowered behind Estrella. Huercos fregados, she whispered.

  Petra crossed her arms and looked at the Bermuda’s plump seats. The white plush carpeting was so white, it was obvious no one ate in the car. She envied the car, then envied the landlord of the car who could travel from one splat dot to another. She thought him a man who knew his neighbors well, who returned to the same bed, who could tell where the schools and where the stores were, and where the Nescafé coffee jars in the stores were located, and payday always came at the end of the week. The gas dispenser triggered off and Bermuda man removed it.

  The boys had not crossed the highway. Ricky plucked the thorns from his shoe. The man snapped a blue paper towel from a silver box and buffed the chrome of his car.

  —Should I go get them? Estrella asked.

  —You always gonna carry them on your back? Petra was angry. Another semitrailer roared past and their dresses fluttered between their knees.AHORA MISMO! Petra yelled to the boys after the truck was safely out of ears reach. Pronto! and she pierced her finger in the air. But the dried snake frightened the boys. Arnulfo remembered how they had found a snake. So perfectly crushed was the snake by the tire of a huge semi, Ricky couldn’t even scrape the slithered body off the pavement with a butterknife.

  Petra raised her voice so that there would be little doubt in their minds: PRONTO! Or you’ll get a chanclaso ! The Bermuda man looked at her over the hood of his lime green car, and the sun reflected wavy green on his face. Petra wore mismatched clothes and had chosen the clothes for their blues because blue was a cool color against the hot tempered sun and that was why she was dressed the way she was and she hoped he would stop staring. The man crumbled up the blue of his towel into a ball and tossed it on the ground and the twins watched it slowly unfold. Arnulfo and Ricky hopped across the seething, pocked pavement before the mother made good her promise.

  —It’s so hot, Ricky said.

  —So tell us something we don’t know, Estrella replied.

  Petra led the string of heads with the children in the middle and Estrella at the end. They passed the red vending machine, and passed a woman wearing patent leather pumps who banged a fist against the machine until some quarters clanked to the slot below. Petra glanced at the woman’s spiked heels. Was this like the woman who crossed Whittier Boulevard with Estrella’s real father? The woman stared at Petra and then at the children and finally at Estrella who pointed to a coin near the woman’s heel. Her skirt so tight, the woman stooped with difficulty and picked up the coin.

  They passed the watchdog who lunged its purple belly wildly against a particular space on the lopping wire fence. The dog growled, his incisors showing from his purple lips, and barked until his bark grew into an angry howl.

  —Shut up, Arnulfo ordered bravely from the other side of the fence. Shut that trap of yours!

  —Good dog, nice dog, sweet dog, nice dog, Perla crooned, keeping her distance. The dog became quiet and pushed its black nose up against the wire mesh and the snotty slits of his nostrils flared open.

  —I’ll tell Mama, Cookie dared.

  —He loves me, the twin Perla said.

  —Don’t go near ese perro loco! Petra yelled. Without warning, the dog opened its jaws wide and yawned and shook its snout, its collar rattling like keys, and sauntered his scruffy body to the supply shed where empty soda bottles nestled in metal crates.

  —You scared him.

  —Stay on the porch.Y tú! Petra pointed at Ricky, Watcha las niñas.

  Petra. did not allow the children inside. The proprietor squinted whenever children flooded the store as if their touches dulled the value of his wares. And there were too many things to touch: pots and brooms and a barrel of pinto beans and tacked up posters of celebrities ; slabs of fabric on the shelves and stacks of pirated cassette tapes. Cantinflas plaster of paris statues and canned goods and candles and propane lined up like soldiers. Too, the peppermint sticks were right at the children’s eye level. This inspired such outlandish behavior that it made Petra spank them with a fierce, unjustified anger she later repented. A string of Christmas bells hung on the screen door with a rusty thumb tack though summer was here and the bells jingled as Petra pulled the door open.

  —Buy me a raspada, Arnulfo pleaded.

  —Stay in the shade of the porch, replied Petra.

  —Don’t let the flies out, Ricky said.

  —Don’t let the flies out! the proprietor said when he heard the clank and knock of the old bells. He chuckled as if his private joke never lost its punch, and he looked up from the ledger book as thick as a Bible and his nostrils grew wide and he pulled out his kerchief and swabbed his nose then poked the kerchief back into his vest pocket. The freezer in the back room of the store buzzed off and the store fell noticeably silent. The scent of burnt rubber hovered like the quiet.

  —Puta madre! a voice said.

  —¿Y qué gana hablando así!? Petra muttered to Estrella as she handed her a basket.

  —You sure you can fix it? The proprietor yelled to the cursing voice in the back room. Yellowed and dusty crepe paper draped like sagging cable lines above the cash register.

  —Trust me, the voice replied. A crank of motor buzzed on again and it reminded Petra how the bus engine sounded climbing the steep Interstate 5 m
ountain pass.

  Petra picked up a can of El Pato Tomato sauce, checked the price, then checked a can of Carnation Milk, a jar of Tang, then returned each to the shelf. She decided on four cans of Spam and stacked them into Estrella’s basket at $1.80 each for a seven-ounce can and made a mental calculation of $7.20, then returned the two cans and adjusted the amount, then realized the ESPECIAL that read three cans for $5.00 which meant to buy six cans was cheaper in the long run and placed four more cans in the basket.

  The fresh produce was dumped into small zinc tubs and pushed against a wall and hardly resembled the crops harvested days before. The fruits and vegetables were firm and solid out in the hot fields; but here in the store, only the relics remained: squished old tomatoes spilled over onto the bruised apples and the jalapeños mixed with soft tomatillos and cucumbers peeked from between blotchy oranges. The white onions reminded Petra of eggs.

  —We should get some eggs, Petra said, looking up at the posters tacked up on the wall behind the vegetable tubs. Except for the cans of Spam, the basket Estrella held was empty.

  A lopsided poster of the holy Virgen, Our Lady of Guadalupe was tacked between the posters of Elvis Presley and Marilyn Monroe holding her white billowing dress down. La Virgen was adorned by red and green and white twinkling Christmas lights which surrounded the poster like a sequin necklace. Each time the lights blinked, Petra saw herself reflected in La Virgen’s glossy downcast eyes. Unlike Marilyn’s white pumps which were buried under the shrivelled pods of Chile Negro, La Virgen was raised, it seemed to Petra, above a heavenly mound of bulbous garlic.

  —Can we? replied Estrella, You think we can get some eggs?

  The freezer motor smelled of incense.

  —We need to take garlic, Petra said. The top bulbs were obviously older: many had brown age spots or green sprouts. She plunged her arm deep into the pit of the tub knowing full well the fresher bulbs were at the bottom. Elbow deep, her hand felt for the firm hearty bulbs while the top ones plummeted onto the floorboards like hail from the sky.