Velorio Read online

  Dedication

  For the thousands lost

  and the unaccounted

  Epigraph

  The fear and dread of you

  shall rest on every animal of the earth,

  and on every bird of the air,

  on everything that creeps on the ground,

  and on all the fish of the sea;

  into your hand they are delivered.

  GENESIS 9:2 (NRSV)

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  One

  Camila

  Bayfish

  Moriviví

  Urayoán

  Banto

  Cheo

  Moriviví

  Bayfish

  Cheo

  Moriviví

  Banto

  Urayoán

  Two

  Cheo

  Bayfish

  Camila

  Banto

  Urayoán

  Moriviví

  Camila

  Bayfish

  Urayoán

  Cheo

  Three

  Banto

  Bayfish

  Moriviví

  Urayoán

  Four

  Moriviví

  Bayfish

  Urayoán

  Camila

  Marisol

  Acknowledgments

  A Note from the Cover Designer

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  One

  Camila

  It wasn’t until after I dug out her body that I learned to love my sister, Marisol. You’d think it strange, to see destruction as a way to learn her, to grow with her and our people, but that’s how it went. It started with the mudslide that came through and busted my bedroom window. As huracán María raged outside, Marisol slept with all our dreams.

  No one can tell you how much pressure is outside during a huracán. In the rain clouds unstitched, the wind breezing, and the storm, a large squeeze in your entrails and a hum so loud, you begin to forget. Those howls sing in tiresome anger. You feel your ears pop. “Las turbinas de un avión,” is what Mami chanted throughout the night. And I felt our house tremble like I believed God was fuming. We all did. Mami held on to us after the lights went. Mami felt the ground shake from under our feet and walked with Marisol and me, hand in hand, to the bathroom. There we curled under the wooden vanity and she prayed, “Dios will be here. He will.”

  “But what if he’s not?” Marisol asked.

  “He will!” I snapped back.

  That was all I could say or needed to say. She tugged on my dress at first, then moved her fingers away from mine and left us there.

  “Marisol!”

  “Ya, Mami. I’m going to sleep.”

  “So, sleep here, nena.”

  But she didn’t listen. She went to my bedroom and shut the door and that was it.

  UTUADO WAS BEAUTIFUL. A town that reached heaven, at least downtown where the church is. We lived way up; me, Marisol, Mami, and the neighbors. It was a beautiful place, the town center perched on a hill with a plaza central and all the shops run by friends. They sold yarn for knitters and there were cafeterías where you could get bacalao and tostones every day and as much as you like. Mari and me played there often when Mami ran errands. She spent a lot of days with el licenciado Cabán. She said she needed a lawyer a lot back in those days when Papi was still around. I didn’t like Cabán much. He always looked at Marisol funny, with hunger in his eyes even though she didn’t have anything to eat. This was before Papi finally disappeared. After Papi, I was happy because we didn’t need men like him in our lives. That’s what Mari used to say too. She was all sorts of maniática, with that quick and sharp temper which often collided with Mami. But that never bothered me since she loved me in her own way. She was pretty and unafraid. She liked to race me down the thin roads of our barrio, always sprinting down the jagged hillside where the bamboos twisted toward the river crest and the only visible shade of green was a constant fire. Mari wasn’t perfect. She needed things her way. Don Papo, our neighbor, used to joke that her manic episodes were her way of becoming a woman. He’d eye her from his butaca as he rocked back and forth, his hands clasping down at his crotch. An absent stare and deep brown eyes that wanted to penetrate us. His aged white skin like a cow’s hide would slick in sweat. He called me la fea because I was so big for a twelve-year-old. My arms thick as palm trees. I was strong. I could lift Marisol up so high she reached the clouds. She told me that it didn’t matter what children said about me, Don Papo was the vicious type. Whenever we walked by his front porch back from school, Marisol always tried to rush me past his gaze, said to never go outside alone, never turn your back to that viejo sucio. I try to remember as much as I can, but I keep hearing wind and seeing night.

  The sea is out there somewhere in the darkness, behind all that used to be green, those tree spines and jagged caves. It takes a lot to get here, the roads narrow as you drive up from Arecibo and I imagine now it is harder to reach us. Energy comes and goes on normal days, so you can guess what mean weather can do. I call it that, even though everyone calls it gasoline and power. But I like Energy because it means more and it’s all the same. The people that brought the Energy my entire life warned that if something were to happen to the roads, the Energy would be difficult to repair because we were so far and high on the mountain. That made me chuckle because Energy is something that’s never consistent. It’s fragile. Some of us bought these portable electricity sources, but I hated them because when they were on, they sounded like lawnmowers, and if the Energy was gone for more than a day, the night was filled with a buzz so loud it was hard to think or sleep. I’m sure the coquíes hated them too because they weren’t able to sing to each other.

  We all thought we were ready for María. Mami made sure to prep all the food and batteries and clothes. She had her machete sharpened. She was sure the trees around us would snap and fall everywhere, and she’d be the one to clean it all up. As the big night approached and María started making her mess, Mami sent me to the backyard as soon as the lights went to get the lime green kerosene lamp and machete. The lamp sat in the wooden shack that Mari and me helped build. We looked all over the sides of the mountain for wood the day we decided to build it and Mari always made me carry all the wood. She said I was the strong one even though she’s the eldest.

  The machete was pierced into a wooden stump. I liked going out into the night because the air felt clean and the stars cast a large net above. I watched as the stars moved and the trees shuddered with the wind and I saw long stacks of smoke rising over the mountain’s silhouette as if a giant was ascending into the sky.

  I grabbed Mami’s things and rushed back and yelled to them that there was something dark climbing our way.

  “Mami, two long clouds are out there, and they keep moving toward us.”

  Mami walked over to the kitchen window and pushed the curtain. “That’s smoke, Cami. Don’t worry about it. They must be burning something en la plaza.”

  “But it’s moving toward us,” I said.

  “Estúpida, that’s the wind.” Marisol said and rolled her eyes.

  “Mami . . .” I said. I wanted to cry.

  “Leave her alone, Marisol.” She turned to me and put her big hands over my head. “Cami, it won’t come this way. Don’t worry about it, mija. Now, you two come. Let’s go to my room.”

  Mami wanted to sing us both a lullaby, which I always liked but Marisol hated. As María came and turned everything dark, Mami made us crawl into bed with her that night to sing. She started by first humming the words to “Lamento borincano” before shifting to
La Lupe. La Lupe was Mami’s favorite. I liked La Lupe because her words sounded determined as though she were always angry at someone. They sounded like she needed to sing her songs, or she wouldn’t be able to live happily. Mami growled the same way, grunting when she reached for the highest notes. The whole house shook and the flames on the devotionals flickered. That was the power of her voice and she tried to tell us that La Lupe was the person to listen to if we were sad because she gave you powers through her songs. Marisol hated La Lupe, but I liked her.

  So Mami started grunting and growling and her dark skin was fire and shadow in the darkness. I curled up next to Mami as she orchestrated the notes with her hands. The wind started picking up outside. Marisol sat on the edge of Mami’s bed and picked at her toes with a nail clipper. Her curly black hair fell down her back and she looked beautiful, as if she were a still bronze statue. But as Mami kept singing, Marisol grew impatient.

  “Ya, Ma! It’s loud outside and now loud in here. I’m tired of those same songs again and again.”

  Mami didn’t listen and kept singing. She winked at me as she continued to move her hands and it made me smile because I knew that Mami was there protecting us with a spell.

  “Okay, Ma,” Marisol said getting up from the bed and walking toward the door. And Mami stopped midsong.

  “Marisol! Come back here. I’m not done.”

  “It’s really hard trying not to freak out and you’re over here acting like this is a game.”

  “A game? Who said anything about a game, Marisol?”

  “Forget it, Ma. I’m going to la sala.”

  “Marisol, ¡quédate aquí! It’s safer here.”

  “It’s like death and church in here. I’m going. I need quiet.”

  “Marisol! I’m not telling you again.”

  “Ya, Ma!”

  Marisol opened the door and a shudder came into the room and the hairs on my back rose and it felt cold. Mami moved out of bed and grabbed Marisol by her thin arms and forced her back inside. She then slammed the door and sat on the bed next to one of her devotionals.

  “Ma!”

  “Ya, Marisol! Ya! It’s safer if we stay together.”

  The wind started thumping on the windows and the trees outside were alive, screeching and howling louder and louder. I started to miss Mami’s singing.

  Mami’s room was damp and cold and I knew Mari hated being there because she felt everything in there was judging her. Mami’s religious things, her many bibles, some bound in leather inscribed with our names, el padre nuestro framed nicely in gold over her night table, crucifixes on the walls, and devotionals. She’d light them every night before bed. Some were lined on the nightstand and others on the wooden dresser. She had a few more in the bathroom behind the toilet seat. I smiled at those because it was like Mami needed help doing her business.

  Those devotionals surrounded Mami and I think they made her feel safe and closer to God. Mami was that way. She even tried teaching me how to make rosaries once, but I never got the rhythm because my fingers are sausages. Mari would’ve been good at it if she had wanted to learn. She had those nice delicate hands, thin and long. I really liked her hands.

  NOW, I CARRY her with me. It started with me taking a piece of her. The tip of her pinky. The one that stuck out from the mud. I cut it from her hand with a shard of window glass. Only because Mami told me that she is no longer with us. That we would have to wait for the people to come collect her. Mami was too busy seeing me off, trying to nudge me away from all the dead satos washed up by María’s currents. Mami never checked up on Marisol so I knew that it was okay.

  I never saw Mami cry. When Marisol disappeared into my bedroom, Mami simply went to the window and watched God deconstruct the landscape, María serving as his contractor. She stopped praying but I knew she still believed, so I guess that’s why I wanted to perform a resurrection.

  A week after María left, Mami spent most of the day counting our water containers, checking to see if we had access to the river to collect what little liquid we could to flush the toilets. She started whacking away with a machete at the web of branches that kept us, for some time, trapped on our end of the street. Her broad black shoulders flexed with every stroke she landed, her short hair disfigured, and her mouth open and breathing heavy. She then started to ration out the little trash bags we had so as to not waste them. She said the mountain of filth would start collecting and we’d need every one of those bags because the garbage people were not coming. Not anymore.

  The only time Mami seemed to show any emotion was when I used the toilet. I peed and flushed and Mami stormed into the bathroom with a broomstick and swatted my feet.

  “¡Eso no se hace! Do not ever waste water like that again.”

  “Ma,” I started to cry. “I’m tired of the smell. I don’t want to keep going on top . . .”

  “¡Cállate, Camila! If you flush again without letting more days pass, you will go outside.”

  So I did. For some time, I took to peeing in the darkness. I tried to wait until I desperately needed to do it, found a spot where two giant palm trees snapped in the middle and served as a natural barrier from the seeing world. Nothing but the quiet moon shining its light helping me avoid making a mess.

  After the storm, there was no water in the colmado and I needed to find Marisol some hydration for her lungs and for her wounds. Even though Mami said not to talk to her, to leave her alone, I figured she needed water. Or food. Or something. I think Mami was afraid because we were only prepared to keep hold for two weeks, hoping that aid would come all the way into the forests, to us in Utuado. Mami started losing faith as time passed and that’s when I started to worry.

  The roads were swept off the mountain and the river camped out in la plaza. All that water around us but none of it drinkable. This was before people got desperate. Some said they started collecting whatever was around. They started by setting all those dead things on fire just to taste something.

  When Mami left me alone at night, I’d creep back into my room where a wall of crystalized mud trapped poor Marisol. I’d open the door and see a sweeping brown river frozen in a wave. I worked to chip away at it, every piece of her showing as I jabbed into the petrified guck. Slowly. Excavating Marisol back to life.

  During the daytime, I would walk around with Marisol’s pinky in my dress pocket and after a while it started to stink. I missed her.

  Just after the huracán, like all people, I wanted to return to a normal state. So, I took care to clean Marisol as best I could. It took a little time but when I finally freed her, I dressed her with her favorite pair of jeans. They had a sharp tear on the knee that I thought looked distinguished. I found her nice blue blouse that had a smudge of dried blood on its neckline. Of course, Mami was busy with the machete. She soon moved away from our house and started on the bridge that connected us to el barrio. I knew she was trying to clear a path to God. To ask him if he was planning on getting back to work anytime soon.

  “Marisol, we need your help. I need you to wake up so you can help Mami and the town.” I shook her after putting clothes on her dusty body. I asked her to take me with her. Wherever she had gone, so far and free from all the water and mud. I asked if she was willing to see through her closed eyes one more time, to try and leave all the green shades I imagined were in heaven. How the shine from the breaking waves in the ocean still captured the sun. That no matter how terrible the island looked, someday, it would all heal.

  But Marisol just smiled, her eyes shut from the world.

  “Okay, Mari. Okay.” I combed her hair with my fingers and imagined how nice she would look with the sun against her skin. Her hand with the missing pinky was a little smelly so I rushed to the shed and teased out some gardening gloves. I went back to her and shoved them on.

  “You need fresh air. You are starting to pick up that smell that the satos got after being out and still for so long.”

  I imagined Mari happy in her new home and I made up
conversations thinking how Mami would react if I told her about Mari’s new home. Mami would probably object, but that’s how I saw us all, talking to walls that didn’t respond.

  “She is a part of the dirt now and the mountain is us, the mountain is our people. It’s all a part of the mountain, the ground, the sky, the sea,” Mami said.

  “The sky floats, Mami. It belongs to heaven.” I said.

  “Okay, Camila. But the sky would not exist if the mountain wasn’t there. It would then be called something else. Without the earth, the sky isn’t the sky.”

  “And the sea?”

  “The sea, Cami. The sea is water and we are all water. But this is our mountain, this is our home. When you are lost, you search for the mountain. When you are lost, you never forget you’re home.”

  “I don’t understand, Mami.”

  “That’s okay, Cami. That’s okay.”

  DUSK WAS FALLING over the hillsides and I heard Mami return to our house. I dragged Marisol out from my bedroom and into her quiet den. Mami would never think to look for Marisol there. Must’ve been, to her, a special place because she didn’t even want me in there rummaging through all of Marisol’s things. The stillness of all her objects, all the drawers from her dresser begging to be held by familiar hands, all the hangers where her clothes hung longing to be dragged down their metal spine.

  Mami had managed to steal a transistor radio from Don Papo and that’s where she began to live. At night all that could be heard throughout our house was the barking of Francisco Ojeda passing judgment, and Mami curled up next to his voice on our dining room table, her broad shoulders hiding her face. She listened intently as if she was listening to the songs of a church choir. Trying to understand their celestial glow and pick out the answers that would solve anything. The candlelight that hit her body only gave her a growing shadow that seemed to drape the entire house.

  I heard her speak to herself, “When are they coming? ¿Cuándo? Dios mío, where are you?”

  I knew then what we needed to do. Marisol and me needed to make it to la plaza, we needed to trek through all the mess and reach the center of town, to find the people and meet them. They spoke of FEMA, of the National Guard, of the Army. The people that would return things back to how they were.