The Witch Narratives: Reincarnation (8 page)

Señor Baca bossed Marcelina and Diego around, as if he owned the house. At least, he bossed Diego; he flirted with Marcelina, enticing her with sweets, flattering her into doing his bidding. At first, she found it rather funny to practice her thirteen year-old charms with this fat, 35 year-old man, until he showed up at the house with Pacheco.

“Why is he here?” she whispered, pulling on Mama’s skirt. “Tell Señor Pacheco to go away.”

“Hush. Señor Pacheco is here to help.”

But Pacheco was already examining the staircase, as if measuring the stairs to see if the steps could be torn out and nailed together for a coffin. “All we can do for your husband, Señora, is to wait for his death.”

“There are those who can cure him,” Mama said, buttoning her coat. “Felicita and La India are healers.”

Pacheco pointed a finger at her and she sat down, resting one foot atop the other.

Señor Baca knelt in front of her, slowly unbuttoning her coat, his arms brushing against her breasts, staring at Marcelina’s ripening bosom like he was touching her instead. His face flushed red. He yanked down Mama’s
coat, leaving his hands on her shoulders, massaging her, kneading her, caressing her, all the while looking into Marcelina’s eyes.

She took a step back, bumping into the wall. Señor Baca looked at her the same way Pacheco looked at Salia.

“Felicita and La India are witches, not healers,” Pacheco told Mama. “You will get nothing from them without it costing you dearly.”

“Oh, but we have money.”

Señor Baca moved his eyes from Marcelina’s breasts, and looked about the company-owned house, calculating the worth of the family furnishings. “You have cash, Lupe?” he said in a tone which did not believe her boast of having money.

“Si, we can pay. Ramon is a penny pincher. He has saved much over the years.”

Pacheco said, “I was not talking about money, Señora. Felicita and her mother-in-law practice the third degree of brujería, the black arts. A life for a death is what Felicita will trade for Ramon. Better to be a widow, Señora, than let damnation into your home.”

“Oh,” Mama said, looking down at the floor.

I will trade my soul for Papa
, Marcelina wanted to scream, but was too scared to pay a visit to Witch Hill. Pacheco accused the witches of bringing death, but Papa screamed in agony and took a turn for the worse, as soon as Pacheco walked into the living room.

“I will send for Padre Sanchez,” he added, “To administer the last rites.”

“And I,” Señor Baca offered, “Will ride to Santa Fe and bring back El Curandero, the renowned healer, who practices only the first degree of brujería, the white arts of healing. But, it will cost money. El Curandero is expensive.”

Of course. El Curandero. Bless you, Señor Baca
. Marcelina looked at the fat man with worshipful eyes.

Pacheco nodded his consent for Mama to give him a bag of money.

“You have more of this?” Señor Baca said, shoving his face in the bag and inhaling the dollar bills.

“Yes,” Mama lied.

He kissed Mama on the cheek and she blushed. He then rode away on his horse, headed towards Santa Fe. Cars were very expensive and only the rich could afford the $400 to buy the cheapest. Even in Albuquerque, the
newspaper said only one in thirteen families owned a car. Banks would not loan money to purchase cars, which could be driven away from debt. Besides, Madrid was a company-owned town of miners’ shacks and small enough to walk everywhere.

Ride with the wind. God speed your journey, you blessed man
. Marcelina now thought of the fat man as Santa Baca, while she stood at the window, waiting for El Curandero, the powerful shaman, to come to the house.

But, after thirteen hours it was just the priest, Padre Sanchez, who finally showed up to minister the final rites to Papa, the right every Catholic is born with, to have the gates of heaven thrown open, rather than having to wait in line in purgatory.

Please take a number. It’s going to be a very long wait. Perhaps an eternity
.

It was an eternity since Señor Baca had ridden off into the sunset. He should have taken the train like Mama suggested.

What’s taking the pig so long? It’s but 25 miles to Santa Fe
.

Marcelina felt faint from the musky smell coming from the tin cup the padre waved around in the sick room, filling the air with smoke.

How can Papa breathe with the foul air and the smell of death coming from the padre’s cup? It stinks like a funeral
.

The pounding of nails outside shook the house.
Pacheco can’t even wait for Papa to die
. She waited for Papa to live. She waited and waited until at long last, Señor Baca returned from Santa Fe.

Alone.

“Aye, Chihuahua,” he exclaimed, rocking on his feet.

“You poor man, you are so tired, you look like you are about to fall down from exhaustion,” Mama said.

He’s drunk and smells of whiskey
, Marcelina thought with disgust.

“El Curandero is too busy with an outbreak of sickness in Santa Fe to come himself, but he gave me a potion for Ramon,” Señor Baca said, hiccupping.

Pacheco held Papa’s head up, while Señor Baca poured the potion down his throat.

Papa choked, clawing at his throat, pus bubbling from his lips. He thrashed on the bed and went into convulsions. His head rolled back, his eyes still.

“He’s dead,” Mama screeched, sobbing hysterically.

“You’ve killed my papa,” Marcelina screamed at Pacheco and Señor Baca. Such foul language came from her mouth that Mama blushed.

Pacheco drew back his fist and punched Marcelina.

She folded to the floor with a bruise on her cheek.

“Please,” Mama pleaded, falling to her knees before Pacheco. “It is because she loved her papa so much. Please, do not punish my daughter.”

“Lupe is right,” Señor Baca seconded. He, also, knelt on the floor, but while Mama and Pacheco were locked in moral battle, he tried to look up Marcelina’s skirt.

Pacheco gave Marcelina dispensation for her sins.

Mama slapped her cheek, and her voice sounded like it came from under water. She ordered Marcelina to apply her talents. “You must fix his hair for the funeral so your papa will look nice. Your poor papa…What shall we do? We’ll starve,” Mama said, wringing her hands.

Marcelina sat alone in the living room, twirling a comb. Papa’s hair was slicked back and his face shaved, but she had no recollection of grooming him. Voices spoke, footsteps crept, doors closed and opened, but she had no memory of speaking to anyone. The clock chimed one in the afternoon, but she could not remember the hours that passed since yesterday. Her skirt twisted around her hips and her blouse was buttoned askew, but she could not recall dressing. A plate with taco crumbs and a half-full cup of coffee attested to a meal that left a bitter taste in her mouth.

There is a saying: when love dies, another grows in the heart to take its place.

While the villagers whispered that the Rodriguez family was cursed, Salia came up to Marcelina, where she withered in the corner like a dying flower. It took a lot of courage for Salia to even show up at the funeral, all by herself and with the cross under the salea, protecting the house from witches. However, unknown to Mama, Marcelina had removed the crucifix when she thought there was still a chance Felicita or La India might visit and cure Papa.

Salia plopped down beside her, squeezing her fingers. “I don’t have a papa either,” she said, her voice trembling. “I was a baby when Long-Hair died. I don’t know if she poisoned him, but I can’t help who my mother is. I asked about him once. She flashed her eyes at me and said, ‘That worthless man went because it was his time, as it will one day be yours, so you must
spend your life preparing for death, my darling, for in the end, death is all we have.”

Her own sadness forgotten, Marcelina frowned. “And are you prepared for death?”

She stared straight ahead, as if transfixed. “My mother has read my chili seeds and I will not die in my sleep, like your papa. I will be torn apart by the four winds.” She squeezed her hand tighter. “It was your papa’s time, Marcelina. I do not pretend to think it’s fair or to know how you feel, for I never had a papa’s love, but I share your grief, because I feel it in my own heart. Here,” she said, thumping her chest.

She was weary of everyone telling her they knew how she felt. What Marcelina needed was compassion like she saw in Salia’s eyes, not pity like everyone else offered, nor the hushed whispers of, “What are they to do now the man of the house is dead?” What she really needed was Mama, but Lupe was being held and comforted by Señor Baca, who lost his own wife just three months ago and pretended to know how she felt.

How could the Señor know what it was like to be a helpless woman? He worked at the mine so earned money to buy his supper at the hotel restaurant, and to hire a woman to launder his clothes. The loss of his wife was merely an inconvenience and did not threaten his livelihood, the way a husband’s death affected his widow. Her very identity depended on a man. The wife of Ramon Rodríguez sounded important. The widow Rodríguez was an object of pity. The daughter of the widow was to be despised. It spoke of a girl without protection.

And their money was ill spent and truly gone. Señor Baca claimed the medicine he brought from Santa Fe had taken all of the Rodríguez fortune. Her papa’s death was purchased with his life savings.

“I would like to ask your mother for poison for Señor Baca,” she whispered

Salia made sure no one was watching and then pulled a black rose from her pocket. She pressed the rose into Marcelina’s hand. “This will protect you from him,” she said, pointing her chin at Señor Baca. “But stay away from my mother. She is a scary woman.”

“Are you afraid of her?”

Salia rubbed her arm and the fresh cigarette burn, panicking at the thought of describing Mother.

“Give your mommy a kiss, my Darling.” Felicita opens her arms to Salia
.

Her eyes dart around the room, trying to avoid Mother’s empty eye sockets
.

On the table is a plate, containing Mother’s eyes. She has just come back from her nightly journey and to see in the dark, borrowed the eyes of her cat, Macho. Mother loves Macho so much, and does not wish for her kitty to stumble around the house, yet has not replaced her own eyes on purpose—to scare her daughter, whom she loves less than the cat
.

Felicita is unaware that this is the time Salia treasures, when Mother is blind
.

She avoids Mother’s eyes on the plate that are watching her, following her about the room, waiting for her to approach Mother and give her a good night kiss. Actually, a good morning kiss. Felicita will sleep the day away until darkness comes and it is again time for her to leave the house to make mischief for her neighbors
.

Salia walks up to Mother, climbs on her lap, and wraps her arms around her neck
.

Felicita reaches beneath her skirt, pinching her
.

She is used to being fondled. Mother never does anything bad, merely pets her though Salia never enjoys her touch. It’s a form of power, a way of control
.

Her other arm reaches around and puts out her cigarette on Salia’s arm
.

She doesn’t cry out. She is used to being burned. Mother has told her she must one day learn the magic to fly as a fireball, only then will fire not hurt her or scar her
.

She stretches her neck, pecking her lips on Mother’s cheek
.

Mother slaps her, shoving her from her lap. “How dare you! You know I don’t like the sweat of others pouring into my pores,” she screams and storms away
.

Salia always ends their encounters with a kiss so Mother will stop groping her
.

“My mother…my mother is really an Esperanza from Chimayo. She’s not from Spain, like she brags, or from a rich aristocratic family. She was dirt poor and came to Madrid to visit an elderly cousin. This cousin showed her the
Shroud of Veils
of the Esperanza clan. My mother coveted the book and so, killed her cousin, but the joke was on her.”