The Day of the Moon (23 page)

“Niña,
one day you will return to the
llano
and ride in a carriage and see the sierras that tower over the
barranca.
One day you will sing songs, write poems, and walk through corridors of Casa Miraflores with the one you love. You will do that, just as I did.” Doña Brígida smiled at Alondra, pulled her hand from Ursula and stroked the girl's cheeks and forehead. She traced her hairline with an index finger. Her eyes roamed Alondra's face, looking at her forehead, nose, mouth. “Your grandmother was my soul.”

Doña Brígida closed her eyes and drifted away. Outside, the flow of cars had lessened and the ticking of the clock seemed to grow louder. Alondra looked at Ursula, who had tears on her cheeks. She had not known until then that Ursula loved Doña Brígida.

Ursula covered Doña Brígida's face and made the sign of the cross many times over. Alondra could not make out the prayers her grandmother was reciting, but she knew that they were uttered in her own language as well as in Spanish. Then Ursula took Alondra by the hand and led her out of the room.

“What are we going to do now,
Abuela?
”

“I have to tell Don Flavio that his sister has begun her journey to the other side of the sierra.”

“Will he cry?”

“I don't think so.”

“And then?

“Then I must bathe and clothe Doña Brígida so that she will not feel uncomfortable when she meets the others.”

“What others?”

“Those who have gone before her and are waiting for her on the other side.”

“Samuel's grandmother?”

“Sí.
I'm sure of that.”

In the kitchen, Ursula and Alondra prepared chocolate and
pan dulce
for the mourners, who sat in the parlor. Alondra was layering the different pieces of bread in a pattern, being careful that the
cuernitos
did not crush the
conchas
.

“Abuela,
what did Doña Brígida mean when she said that my grandmother had been her soul?”

“I don't know,
niña.
Maybe she was just confused.”

“You're my
abuela,
but you're on my
papá's
side. Do you think that she was talking of the
abuela
on my
mamá's
side?”

Ursula stopped stirring the milk. In one hand she held a wooden mill; in the other, the chocolate patty that she would put in before the milk came to a head.

“Only Tata Dios knows. I think it was someone that Doña Brígida loved and who made her happy.”

“Where is Casa Miraflores?”

“In Chihuahua.”

“Doña Brígida said that I would go there to sing songs.”

Ursula returned to stirring the milk and began to add the chocolate. She had to concentrate, so that the contents of the pot would not boil over.

“And the pictures,
Abuela?
She said that it was all there. What did she mean by that?”

“I remember some of them. There were pictures of her and Don Flavio taken even before they came to Chihuahua. Others were of people and friends they made at Hacienda Miraflores. Some were of special days like Don Flavio's wedding and
Niña
Isadora's baptism.”

“She was Samuel's
mamá.
Was there a picture of the bad daughter?”

Ursula pointed the wooden mill toward Alondra and wagged her head impatiently. She had momentarily forgotten about the pot, so she flinched when she heard the sizzling of spilled milk on the burner. After she lowered the flame on the burner, she again looked at Alondra.

“I have told you many times that there was no bad daughter. That was something that came out of Doña Brígida's mouth during her moments of illness.”

“Abuela,
do you think that I'll—”

“Niña,
the chocolate and
pan dulce
must be ready now, not
mañana.”
With that, Ursula carefully poured the steaming chocolate into a pitcher and headed for the parlor. Alondra followed, carrying the platter of sweet rolls.

Two days later, the sky was a gray and chilly current swirling around the tombstones of Calvary Cemetery. Alondra and Samuel, in dark clothing, stood shivering on the fringe of the acquaintances of the Betancourts. Snippets of the priest's high-pitched voice floated over to Alondra as he recited the prayers for the dead.

“Absolve, Domine, animas omnium fidelium defunctorum, ab omni vinculo delictorum …”

Alondra wondered of what sins the priest begged that Doña Brígida be cleansed. She shuddered as the cold wind cut through her short dress and coat. She looked up to the sky and saw gray clouds skittering across the wide expanse. Then she looked around, peering at the gathering of people. In the center was Don Flavio, dressed in black. She was afraid of him, having seen him only a few times in her life. The only person crying was Ursula.

“In paradisum deducant te angeli …”

“
Tía Grande
is not going to Heaven. I think that she's going to the other place. You know, Hell.”

Alondra, jerked out of her thoughts, did not answer Samuel's whisper in her ear; she only wagged her head in disagreement. She looked over to the priest and saw that he was sprinkling holy water on the coffin and into the grave. At the priest's signal, four men
lowered the box into the hole. Alondra stretched her neck to watch them as they filled in the dirt. She could hear the hollow thud as each shovelful of earth was piled above Doña Brígida's head. When Alondra tired of watching, she turned to Samuel.

“No. She's going to the other side of the sierra, where she'll meet the others.”

Los Angeles, 1965

Alondra sat at the table, unmoving. Even the kitchen noises did not intrude on her thoughts. Both women were tired from a sleepless night spent tending to Don Flavio, but Ursula moved about the business of preparing dinner.

“Abuela,
it's been a long time since the death of Doña Brígida, hasn't it?” At twenty-seven, Alondra felt that her childhood was a lifetime ago.

“Yes,” Ursula answered without looking up, as she mashed a clove of garlic. When she put the pulpy dab into the skillet, it sizzled loudly, and the kitchen filled with its fragrance.

“And now it looks like the old man is going, too. He was really in bad shape last night.”

“Doctor Canseco is with him now.
Niña,
you should help him. You know what you're doing.”

“Because I went to nursing school?'

“Sí.”

“
¡Ay! Abuela.
I finished last in the class.”

“You finished. That's important.”

“Hmm. Maybe. Anyway, the
viejo
doesn't let me come close to him.
¡Chispas!”

“I thought that school taught you not to mix your words.”

“I try,
Abuela,
but sometimes they get jumbled up.”

As she watched her grandmother move from stove to sink to table, Alondra reflected on questions that had been gnawing at her for years. As a child Alondra had been mystified by Doña Brígida's last words that she would someday return to Mexico. As her grammar
school and high school days passed, the longing to find out more about herself and her beginnings grew until it became an obsession.

She had tried to quash the uneasiness that hounded her with nursing school. Although she had finished the program, nothing in it satisfied the drive inside of her. She decided to get a teaching credential. That ended with a leave of absence midway through the program. After that, Alondra decided to stay at home with Ursula for a while.

During those years, Samuel had been drafted, had been posted to Korea, and returned. Some time after that he married a girl from San Francisco and moved out of the city. Alondra had felt lonelier than ever without him. Even the young men she dated could not put out the yearning inside of her.

“Abuela, tell me about the
llano.”

Ursula stopped what she was doing, went over to Alondra and looked at her. She knew from long experience what was coming next.

“Hija,
please try to put that out of your head. Concentrate on your life. Think—”

“I
am
concentrating on it. I can't live
mi vida
and until I find out …”

“Find out what?”

This conversation was not following the usual pattern. Alondra's voice and words were charged with anguish. Ursula wiped her hands on her apron, pulled out a chair and sat next to Alondra.

“Hija …”

“No,
Abuela,
you're not going to put me off anymore. You know what Doña Brígida meant. But all you tell me are cute little details.”

“Cute!
¿Qué es eso?”

Alondra put her hand on Ursula's shoulder and squeezed it. Her face had darkened and her eyes were bright.

“Tell me,
¡por favor!”

“Soon.” For the first time, Ursula made concession: “When Don Flavio dies.”

“But he's almost dead now! You know that. How can he make a difference?”

Ursula rose to her feet, her mouth clamped so tightly that it was a straight line. She returned to the stove, shaking her head.

“Perdóname, Abuela.
I can't help it. Look at me, please. I'm twenty-seven years old and I can't find myself. Nothing I do helps. How many jobs have I had? You tell me. I drive the guys I date crazy. I drive
myself
crazy. I'm empty and I need someone to help me.”

“Soon,
niña.
Very soon.”

Dinner did not take place that evening. Soon after Alondra and Ursula spoke, Dr. Canseco emerged from the bedroom to let them know that Don Flavio's death was imminent. The old man was now asking for them, he added.

“What about Samuel, doctor? We have to call him.”

“There's no time now. You'll have to call him after Don Flavio's gone.”

Although she had grown to womanhood in his house, Alondra had seen Don Flavio, and been in his company, only sporadically. This was the man who had imposed rules, who had kept her and Ursula almost always in the kitchen. This was the person who had prohibited them from sitting at the table with him, tacitly reminding them always that they were servants. Yet now, on the verge of death, he had sent for them.

He was stretched out on the bed, lying on top of the covers because he couldn't tolerate the weight of a sheet. His face, taut with pain, was turned to the window that overlooked the street.

“Don Flavio, Ursula and Alondra are here. You asked for them.”

The old man only fluttered his eyelids in response. His hands were on his chest, clutching at his nightshirt. His skin had yellowed since the previous night; it clung to his skull. Ursula was shaken by
the deterioration that she saw. Don Flavio's spirit was already on its path to the kingdom of the dead. She made the sign of the cross over him, then turned in every direction of the room, tracing the cross in mid-air. The doctor watched her impassively.

Don Flavio's lips moved, but his eyes remained focused on the window: El Rarámuri had returned. At last he turned his face away from the glass to look at Alondra. He tried to speak to her—she thought she heard words slip through his lips—but he was unable to talk.

Alondra knelt by his side, pulled by a strange energy. Don Flavio's eyes rolled toward a corner of the room. Alondra saw nothing except a wooden chair, a desk, a photograph. She rose to her feet: It was a man dressed in black, wearing a bowler hat.
Edmundo Betancourt. 1896. Arandas, Jalisco.
The script was flowery, written in white ink against the dark background of the daguerreotype.

She brought it to Don Flavio and put it by his side. The old man seemed not to notice. His breathing began to grow shallow as he again glared at the window. When Don Flavio's congested chest began to hitch in ragged, shallow breaths, Doctor Canseco looked at Alondra and Ursula. It was time. In a few minutes, the breathing had stopped.

Alondra stared at the old man's face: It had become a yellow mask. When the doctor covered the corpse, both women left the room.

Alondra waited, listening to the telephone ring at the other end of the line. After the fourth ring, a thin voice piped, “Hello.”

“Is Samuel there?”

There was no answer, just a pause. She heard the receiver being put down, then a brief shuffle.

“Hi, Alondra. How's—”

“Don Flavio died this morning.”

Samuel was quiet, but Alondra waited.

“I guess he went fast.”

“He was very sick, but he died here because he didn't want to be taken to the hospital.”

“That figures.” Samuel stopped for a moment. “They're gone now, Alondra, the old ones. It's hard to believe, don't you think?”

“Yes.” When he didn't say anything, Alondra went on: “His body is on the way to the mortuary, but you're the one with the final say about where he's to be buried and how much money you want to spend.”

“It's not going to be that way. The old man left a will. I have it. He wanted to be cremated and that's the way it'll have to be.”

“Just like that, Samuel? No prayers, no ceremony,
nada?”

“That's the way he wanted it. I'll make the arrangement from this side.” Again he paused. “I'll try to come down as soon as I can. I'll let you know when I'm coming.” Then he said, “Alondra, you and Ursula can stay in the house, if you want.”

“I can't pay rent right now, but I'll get a job soon.”

“Take your time. It doesn't matter. Do you want to live there?”

“Sí.”

“With all the memories?”

“Sí,
and with
Abuela.
Samuel?”

“Yeah?”