In the Time of Butterflies (18 page)

“Your medals,” I complain, pointing to the sash across his chest. “They are hurting me.” Too late, I recall his attachment to those chapitas.

He glares at me, and then slips the sash over his head and holds it out. An attendant quickly and reverently collects it. El Jefe smiles cynically. “Anything else bother you about my dress I could take off?” He yanks me by the wrist, thrusting his pelvis at me in a vulgar way, and I can see my hand in an endless slow motion rise—a mind all its own—and come down on the astonished, made-up face.

And then the rain comes down hard, slapping sheets of it. The table-cloths are blown off the tables, dashing their cargo onto the floor. The candles go out. There are squeals of surprise. Women hold their beaded evening bags over their heads, trying to protect their foundering hairdos.

In a minute, Manuel de Moya is at our side directing guards to escort El Jefe indoors. A tarp is extended over us.
“Qué cosa, Jefe,”
Don Manuel laments, as if this inconvenience of nature were his fault.

El Jefe studies me as attendants dab at his dripping pancake. Annoyed, he pushes their hands away. I brace myself, waiting for him to give the order.
Take her away to La Fortaleza.
My fear is mixed oddly with excitement at the thought that I will get to see Lío if he, too, has been captured.

But El Jefe has other plans for me. “A mind of her own, this little
cibaeña
!” He smirks, rubbing his cheek, then turns to Don Manuel. “Yes, yes, we will adjourn indoors. Make an announcement.” As his private guards close around him, I break away, struggling against the sea of guests rushing indoors out of the rain. Ahead, Dedé and Patria are turning in all directions like lookouts on the mast of a ship.

“We’re going,” Patria explains, grabbing my arm. “Jaimito’s gone to get the car.”

“I don’t like this one bit,” Papá is saying, shaking his head. “We shouldn’t go without El Jefe’s permission.”

“His designs are so clear, Papá.” Patria is the oldest, and so in Mamá’s absence, her words carry weight. “We’re exposing Minerva by staying here.”

Pedrito looks up at the blowing lanterns. “The party is breaking up anyway, Don Enrique. This rain is a perfect excuse.”

Papá lifts his shoulders and lets them fall. “You young people know what you do.”

We make a dash for the covered entryway, passing a table with a caravel still standing. No one will miss it, I think, hiding the little ship in the folds of my skirt. That’s when I remember.
“Ay,
Patria, my purse. I left it at the table.”

We run back to get it, but can’t find it anywhere. “Probably somebody already took it in. They’ll send it to you. Nobody is going to steal from El Jefe’s house,” Patria reminds me. The caravel goes heavy in my hand.

By the time we run back to the entryway, the Ford is idling at the door and the others are already inside. Out on the highway, I recall the slap with mounting fear. No one has mentioned it, so I’m sure they didn’t see it. Given everyone’s nerves already, I decide not to worry them with the story. Instead, to distract myself—
One nail takes out another
—I go over the contents of my purse, trying to assess exactly what I’ve lost: my old wallet with a couple of pesos; my
cédula,
which I will have to report; a bright red Revlon lipstick I bought at El Gallo; a little Nivea tin Lío gave me with ashes of the Luperón martyrs not killed at sea.

And then, I remember them in the pocket of the lining, Lío’s letters!

All the way home, I keep going over and over them as if I were an intelligence officer marking all the incriminating passages. On either side of me, my sisters are snoring away. When I lean on Patria, wanting the release of sleep, I feel something hard against my leg. A rush of hope goes through me that my purse is not lost after all. But reaching down, I discover the little caravel sunk in the folds of my damp dress.

The rain comes down all morning, beating against the shutters, blurring the sounds inside the house. I stay in bed, not wanting to get up and face the dreary day.

A car comes splashing into the driveway. Grim voices carry from the parlor. Governor de la Maza is just now returning from the party. Our absence was noted, and of course, leaving any gathering before Trujillo is against the law. El Jefe was furious and kept everyone till well after dawn—perhaps to show up our early departure.

What to do? I hear their worried voices. Papa takes off with the governor to send a telegram of apology to El Jefe. Meanwhile, Jaimito’s father is calling on his colonel friend to see how the fire can be put out. Pedrito is visiting the in-laws of Don Petán, one of Trujillo’s brothers, who are friends of his family. Whatever strings can be pulled, in other words, are being yanked.

Now all we can do is wait and listen to the rain falling on the roof of the house.

When Papa returns, he looks as if he has aged ten years. We can’t get him to sit down or tell us what exactly happened. All day, he paces through the house, going over what we should do if he is taken away. When hours pass, and no
guardias
come to the door, he calms down a little, eats some of his favorite pork sausages, drinks more than he should, and goes to bed exhausted at dusk. Mama and I stay up. Every time it thunders we jump as if guards had opened fire on the house.

Next day, early, while Papa is out seeing what damage this last storm has done on the cacao crop, two guardias arrive in a Jeep. Governor de la Maza wants to see Papa and me immediately.

“Why her?” Mama points to me.

The officer shrugs.

“If she goes, I go,” Mama asserts, but the guard has already turned his back on her.

At the governor’s palace, we are met right away by Don Antonio de la Maza, a tall, handsome man with a worried face. He has received orders to send Papa down to the capital for questioning.

“I tried to handle it here”—he shows us his palms—“but the orders have come from the top.”

Papa nods absently. I have never seen him so scared. “We... we sent the telegram.”

“If he goes, I go.” Mamá pulls herself up to her full bulk. The guardias finally had to let her come this morning. She stood in the driveway refusing to get out of the way.

Don Antonio takes Mama by the arm. “It will be better all the way around if we follow orders. Isn’t that so, Don Enrique?”

Papa looks like he’ll agree to anything. “Yes, yes, of course. You stay here and take care of things.” He embraces Mama, who breaks down, sobbing in his arms. It’s as if her years and years of holding back have finally given way.

When it’s my turn, I give Papá a goodbye kiss as we’ve gotten out of the habit of hugs since our estrangement. “Take care of your mother, you hear,” he whispers to me and in the same breath adds, “I need you to deliver some money to a client in San Francisco.” He gives me a meaningful look. “Fifty pesos due at the middle and end of the month until I’m back.”

“You’ll be back before you know it, Don Enrique,” the governor assures him.

I look over at Mama to see if she’s at all suspicious. But she is too upset to pay attention to Papa’s business dealings.

“One last thing,” Papá addresses the governor. “Why did you want to see my daughter, too?”

“Not to worry, Don Enrique. I just want to have a little talk with her.”

“I can trust her then to your care?” Papa asks, looking the governor squarely in the eye. A man’s word is a man’s word.

Absolutely. I make myself responsible.“ Don Antonio gives the
guardias
a nod. The audience is over. Papa is taken out of the room. We listen to their steps in the corridor before they’re drowned by the sound of the rain outside, still coming down hard.

Mamá watches Don Antonio like an animal waiting to attack if her young one is threatened. The governor sits down on the edge of his desk and gives me a befriending smile. We have met a couple of times at official functions, including, of course, the last few parties. “Señorita Minerva,” he begins, motioning Mama and me towards two chairs a guard has just placed before him. “I believe there is a way you can help your father.”

“¡Desgraciado!”
Mamá is going on and on. I’ve never heard such language coming out of her mouth. “He calls himself a man of honor!”

I try to calm her. But I’ll admit I like seeing this spunk in Mama.

We are driving around in the rain in San Francisco, getting our last-minute errands done before we leave for the capital this afternoon to petition for Papá’s release. I drop Mama off at the
clínica
to get extra doses of Papá’s medication, and I head for the barrio.

But the turquoise house with the white trim isn’t where it used to be. I’m turning here and there, feeling desperate, when I catch a glimpse of the oldest girl, holding a piece of palm bark over her head and wading through the puddles on the street. The sight of her in her wet, raggedy dress tears my own heart to shreds. She must be on an errand, a knotted rag in her free hand, a poor girl’s purse. I honk, and she stops, terrified. Probably, she’s remembering the time I rammed into our father’s car, blowing the horn.

I motion for her to come in the car. “I’m trying to find your mother,” I tell her when she climbs in. She stares at me with that same scared look Papa wore only a couple of hours ago.

“Which way?” I ask her, pulling out on the street.

“That way.” She motions with her hand.

“Right
^?
”

She looks at me, not understanding. So, she doesn’t know directions. Can she read, I wonder? “How do you spell your name, Margarita?” I test her.

She shrugs. I make a mental note that once I’m back, I’m going to make sure these girls are enrolled in school.

In a few turns we are at the little turquoise house. The mother runs out on the porch, clutching the collar of her dress against the rain blowing in. “Is Don Enrique all right?” A doubt goes through my head as to whether my father’s assurances that he’s no longer involved with this woman are true. That cleaving look in her eye is not just memory.

“He’s been called away on urgent business,” I tell her more sharply than I meant to.

Then, softening, I hand her the envelope. “I’ve brought you for the full month.”

“You are so kind to think of us.”

“I do want to ask you for a favor,” I say, though I hadn’t meant to ask her now.

She bites her lip as if she knows what I’m going to ask her. “Carmen Maria, at your orders,” she says in the smallest of voices. Her daughter looks up quizzically. She must be used to a much fiercer version of her mother.

“The girls are not in school, are they?” A shake of her head. “May I enroll them when I get back?”

The look on her face is relieved. “You’re the one who knows,” she says.

“You know as well as I do that without schooling we women have even fewer choices open to us.” I think of my own foiled plans. On the other hand, Elsa and Sinita, just starting their third year at the university, are already getting offers from the best companies.