The Day of the Moon (22 page)

The boy lowered his head, expecting Doña Brígida's blow. But she walked to her chair, sat down, and motioned to him to take his place on the sofa in front of her. He smiled sheepishly as he settled himself into the overstuffed chair. The old woman looked at Alondra with a side glance that told her to begin her dusting.

“Velia Carmelita's screams echoed in the hollows of the empty, darkened patio. The ferns seemed to vibrate with her moans as she labored to give birth. Silhouettes dashed in and out of the kitchen of Casa Miraflores. Women carrying towels and boiling water
rushed to the bedroom where she lay, her legs raised and spread open, while the child made its way out of her womb. “

Doña Brígida turned to Samuel. Her face was filled with sadness. He thought that there were tears in her eyes, and he moved forward in the chair, trying to get a closer look.

“You might think, Samuel, that I should not mention these details to you since you're still a boy, but remember that Velia Carmelita was your grandmother and that the child she was about to have was your mother.
¡A-y-y-y-y! ¡A-y-y-y-y!
” Doña Brígida formed an oval with her thin lips and abruptly let out wobbly moans. In imitation, the children opened their mouth in a silent howl.

“Her screams filled the house and seemed to grow longer and louder. They took form, like demons banging at windows and doors, demanding to be freed. Pain choked Velia Carmelita. I sat by her side, holding her hands. I wanted to take her anguish into my own body. Sweat covered her even while several women toweled her down.”

Doña Brígida's lips again parted in a simulated groan. This time Alondra and Samuel puckered their faces, imagining the pain. “Isadora, your mother, was born before daybreak.”

The old woman paused and turned toward Alondra; her expression was still sad, but the girl thought she saw something different in Doña Brígida's eyes. Her expression was soft, and gentle, and it confused Alondra because the words
Isadora, your mother,
were aimed at her.

“Then Velia Carmelita died.”

Doña Brígida suddenly stopped speaking. Samuel and Alondra looked up, startled. This was the first time she had told the story this way. They looked at each other in expectation, but nothing more came out.

“But,
Tía Grande,
how could my grandmother have died before she had her next daughter? You've always said that
Abuelo
Flavio had two daughters, one good, the other bad …”

Doña Brígida, startled by Samuel's words, slipped back into anger, dispelling the melancholy that had prompted her to relive the moment of Velia Carmelita's death.

“Get out of my sight!” she shouted as she raised her arm, stick in hand. Her body shook so much that the children expected to hear the rattle of bones. They were frightened. Samuel leaped out of his chair and dashed out the door; Alondra followed closely. They did not stop until they had run down the corridor, through the kitchen and service porch. They tripped down the wooden stairs. Once out in the yard they kept running until they reached the shade of the avocado tree. There they fell on the ground, gasping and laughing.

“She really stuck her foot in it this time. She forgot all about the she-goat and all that craziness.”

Out of breath, Samuel struggled to speak. Alondra was breathing hard. She was frightened.

“I think, Samuel …”

She broke off. The boy got closer to her.

“What do you think?”

“I think that the
cabra
is me.”

The boy's head whipped toward Alondra. He secretly agreed with her, but he did not want her to know.

“You're nuts! You're a girl, not a goat. Besides, you're too little to be my mother's other sister. How can you even think such a dumb thing?” He paused for a moment as he slumped against the tree trunk. “
Tía Grande
just gets mixed up. That's all. Anyway, Alondra, you don't even belong to our crazy family.”

After a while, they decided to go back into the kitchen, where they found Ursula by the stove. When the children walked in, she looked at Alondra, trying to discern a change, something that would alert her to what Doña Brígida had said to make them run away.

“Ursula, do you remember my mother?” Samuel had gotten close to her, reaching into the pan she was stirring. He managed to pick a strand of the meat that was browning before she pulled his
arm away from the heat. Hearing what she thought might be a signal, she turned off the burner and led the children to the table, where all three sat down.

“Yes, I remember her. I took care of her from the time she was three years old. Just like I've taken care of you and Alondra.”

Ursula looked at the girl and saw the question forming in her eyes. It was the same doubt that had come up recently.

“Did she have a sister,
Abuela?”

Samuel looked at Ursula. Although he had laughed at the she-goat story, he had believed his great aunt: There
must
have been another sister. Ursula did not want to speak about this, fearing that something she said might trigger Alondra's curiosity, or even her imagination. But she knew that if she evaded the question, it would be worse.

“No,
hija,
Doña Isadora was the only daughter of Don Flavio. There was no other sister.”

“J-e-e-e-z!” Samuel let out a long, whistling sound through his teeth. Then he looked at Ursula, disbelief stamped on his face.

“Samuel, you know that Doña Brígida has her bad moments. The story of a second daughter has come out of a lonely, dark corner of her spirit; she cannot help it.”

“Then what about the
cabra?”

“There was no she-goat,
niña.”

Ursula got to her feet and told the children to prepare for dinner. Samuel left the kitchen, heading upstairs to his room and Alondra went to the sink, where she began to wash her hands. When Ursula looked, she saw that the girl was rubbing her hands and muttering: “There was no
cabra!
There was no
cabra!”

The next day the children were nervous; they knew that the old woman had been so upset at Samuel's question that she had not come down for dinner in the evening. As they waited, the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece seemed to be growing louder.

Alondra looked at Samuel and blurted out, “Don't you ever wish that you knew who your
mamá
was?”

Samuel wondered what her question had to do with the terrible thing that was about to happen to them. He blinked, wrinkled his brow and tensely nibbled at his upper lip.

“I do know who she was. Isadora Betancourt.”

“You see! That proves you don't know who she was. If you really knew, you would say your
papá's
family name. Shouldn't she be called Isadora something-or-another? When a girl marries, she has to take her husband's name, no?”

Samuel's eyes opened wide; he was stumped. He didn't have the answer to Alondra's questions. He swallowed a gulp of saliva and opened his mouth, hoping the right words would come out. “I don't know why my name is Betancourt, but I do remember a little bit about her. I think it was a cave, on top of a mountain. I slept there, on the ground. And my
mamá
used to rub my forehead a lot and tell me stories.”

“Is that all you remember?”

“Yea.”

“I know who my
mamá
and
papá
are, but only because
Abuela
Ursula has told me about them. She says that he ran faster than wind, and that she never died, even after they scraped her skin right off of her.” Alondra stopped talking to ponder what she had said. In a few seconds she spoke up again. “Do you know what I think?”
“I think that
Abuela
Ursula is hiding something from me.
Sí.
I'll bet you anything!”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because who can live after your skin has been pulled off? And who runs faster than the wind?”

The boy began to giggle, imagining a roadrunner, its legs a blurred circle, running away from its enemy; just like in the cartoon. Samuel's laughter was interrupted by the sound of Doña Brígida's walking stick. Alondra also heard it and she jumped to retrieve her dust rag. Samuel froze into his usual place opposite his great aunt's chair.

Doña Brígida walked into the parlor. She stood erect and it seemed to the children that her cane struck the floor with more authority. They looked at each other in nervous anticipation, as she sat down on her chair, let out a loud, deep sigh, and began her chronicle without an introduction. Doña Brígida spoke quietly. Whenever Alondra thought that she would not be noticed, she looked steadily at the old woman's face. Her eyes were red and puffy, and her voice was weak.

“I will soon die, but it doesn't matter because today we've come to the end. The end of our family history.”

“Tía Grande,
may I ask you something?” Samuel had left his place to kneel in front of Doña Brígida. “What was my father's name? Why don't I get to use it? Where did he go? What about my mother? Where is she? Did she—?”

The old woman's eyes snapped open and she stared at Samuel. He thought she was about to slap him, but instead she moved him aside and got to her feet. Wordlessly, she walked past him and Alondra. They saw that she shuffled more than ever; her feet seemed too heavy for her body. When she disappeared into the shadows of the dark corridor, the children looked at each other, baffled.

After Ursula had finished serving Don Flavio and Samuel, she picked up the dishes and returned them to the kitchen sink. She sat
down at the table to have her own dinner. Alondra was finishing what was on her plate, but her eyes were on Ursula.

The older woman was silent, lost in thought as she tore small bits from a tortilla, slipped them into her mouth, and chewed absentmindedly. Alondra watched her, but soon began to fidget and squirm in her chair. She pushed her plate away, deliberately scraping the table top. She jangled a knife and fork against one another, then clinked a finger nail against the empty milk glass. Still, nothing pried Ursula away from her thoughts. Alondra finally cleared her throat and let out a loud, artificial cough.

“Sí, hija.
I know you're there.”

“Abuela,
is there something wrong?”

“Sí.”

“Is it me?”

“No,
niña.
It's this family.
¡Ay! Virgen Santísima!
So much suffering.”

“Is Samuel suffering?”

Ursula moved her plate away and looked at the girl. She had lately been listening in on what Doña Brígida was telling the children. Now she pushed her chair back and gestured to the girl to come to her. She sat her on her lap, took her in her arms and began rocking back and forth. Ursula yearned to tell her that she was not her grandmother, but her great aunt, like Doña Brígida. She longed to let Alondra know that Samuel was her brother, and Don Flavio her grandfather, and that this was her mother's side of the family.

“Come,
hija,
” she said at last. “Let's go to bed. We'll wash the dishes tomorrow.”

Together they headed toward the service porch. They were almost at the door when they heard a long, deep moan. It had been loud enough to cut through a closed door, make its way along the hall down the staircase, and to the rear of the house:

“¡Ayyyyy, Dios!”

“
¡Santísima!
It's Doña Brígida!”

Ursula let go of Alondra's hand to run to the old woman. She was fast, but the girl was faster. Alondra was ahead by the time
Ursula sped through the parlor, up the staircase, and to the closed door of Doña Brígida's bedroom.

Ursula rapped at the door. Silence. When a second knock went unanswered, she slowly opened the door. Alondra and Ursula caught sight of Doña Brígida stretched out on her bed, fully clothed; she even had her shoes on. She held her arms crossed peacefully on her breast.

“Por favor, entren.”

Doña Brígida had not moved nor turned her face. Her voice was calm, light; Alondra hardly recognized it. Ursula moved toward the bed, holding Alondra's hand. The girl had never before been in the room, so she was taken by its high ceiling, heavy wooden furniture, carved cabinets and wardrobe. Even in the dark, she could see that one wall was covered by aged, purple-tinted photographs. As she was led by Ursula, the girl's head swiveled, looking from side to side, up and down.

When they were by the bed, Doña Brígida raised an arm and gestured to Alondra to come to the other side. Alondra obeyed and the old woman held out her hand wordlessly. Then Doña Brígida smiled. She seemed content as she held Alondra's hand.

Alondra looked from Ursula to Doña Brígida, but there was only silence. The passing of cars in the street and the ticking of a clock on the nightstand were the only sounds. Alondra became aware of Doña Brígida's hand, of its warmth and softness, and she was surprised. She had imagined that the old lady must have been made of something hard.

“Ursula, take my hand.” Doña Brígida stretched her other hand toward Ursula. Alondra stared at the women and for the first time wondered if they were the same age. She had never thought of how old her grandmother might be, and as for Doña Brígida, Alondra had thought that she had been born old.

“¿Qué pasa, Doña?”

“Me muero.”

“¡Santo Dios!
I'll call Doctor Canseco.”

Doña Brígida held onto her hand. She pulled Alondra and Ursula closer to her. “No. Stay with me.”

She smiled first at Alondra, then at Ursula. The girl was struck by the beauty of Doña Brígida's face. Why had she never smiled like that before?

“Take care of my pictures, Ursula. It's all there.”

Ursula nodded. The old woman turned to look at Alondra. Their faces were so close to one another they nearly touched.