In the Time of Butterflies (39 page)

As soon as he was gone, I rushed to Mamá’s bedroom and delivered my good news.

Mama went down on her knees and threw her hands up in the air. “The truth is the Lord has not forgotten us!”

“Nelson is coming home?” Noris rushed forward. Since his imprisonment, Noris had moped horribly, as if Nelson were a lost love instead of “the monster” who had tortured her all her childhood.

The younger children began to chant, “Nelson home! Nelson home!”

Mama looked up at me, ignoring the racket. “And the girls?”

“We have passes to see them,” I said, my voice dropping.

Mamá stood up, stopping the clamor short. “And what does the devil want in return?”

“A sancocho
when Nelson comes home.”

“Over my dead body that man is going to eat a sancocho in my house.”

I put my hand on my lips, reminding Mamá that she had to watch what she said.

“I mean it, over my dead body!” Mamá hissed. “And that’s the truth!”

By the time she said it the third time, she and I both knew she was resigned to feeding Judas at her table. But there would be more than one stray hair in that
sancocho,
as the
campesinos
liked to say. No doubt Fela would sprinkle in her powders and Tono would say an Our Father backwards over the pot, and even I would add some holy water I’d bottled from Jacqueline’s baptism to give to her mother.

That night as we walked in the garden, I admitted to Mamá that I had made an indiscreet promise. She looked at me, shocked. “Is that why you snuck out of the house a few weeks ago?”

“No, no, no. Nothing like that. I offered Our Lord to take me instead of my Nelson.”

Mama sighed.
“Ay, m‘ija,
don’t even say so. I have enough crosses.” Then she admitted, “I offered Him to take me instead of any of you. And since I’m the mother, He’s got to listen to me first.”

We laughed. “The truth is,” Mama continued, “I have everything in hock to Him. It’ll take me another lifetime to fulfill all the
promesas
I’ve made once everybody comes home.

“As for the Pena
promesa,”
she added, “I have a plan.” There was that little edge of revenge in her voice. “We’ll invite all the neighbors.”

I didn’t have to remind her that we weren’t living among our kin anymore. Most of these new neighbors wouldn’t come, afraid of being seen socializing with the blackmarked Mirabals. That was part of Mama’s plan. “Peña will show up, thinking the
sancocho
is meant just for him.”

I started laughing before she was through. I could see which way her revenge was going.

“All those neighbors will look out their windows and kick themselves when they realize they slighted the head of the northern SIM!”

“Ay,
Mamá,” I laughed. “You are becoming
la jefa
of revenge!”

“Lord forgive me,” she said, smiling sweetly. There wasn’t a bit of sorry in her voice.

“That makes two of us,” I said, hooking my arm with hers.

“Good night,” I called out to the cigarette tips glowing like fireflies in the dark.

Monday, Pena telephoned. The audience with El Jefe was set in the National Palace for the next day. We were to bring a sponsor. Someone willing to give the young offender work and be responsible for him. Someone who had not been in trouble with the government.

“Thank you, thank you,” I kept saying.

“So when is my
sancocho?”
Pena concluded.

“Come on, Mamá,” I said when I got off the line and had given her our good news. “The man isn’t all that bad.”

“Humpf!” Mama snorted. “The man is smart is what he is. Helping with Nelson’s release will do what twenty
sancochos
couldn’t do. Soon the González clan will have him baptizing their babies!”

I knew she was right, but I wished she hadn’t said so. I don’t know, I wanted to start believing in my fellow Dominicans again. Once the goat was a bad memory in our past, that would be the real revolution we would have to fight: forgiving each other for what we had all let come to pass.

We made the trip to the capital in two cars. Jaimito and I rode down in the pickup. He had agreed to sponsor his nephew, giving him his own parcel to farm. I always said our cousin had a good heart.

Mama, Tio Chiche and his son, Blanco, a young colonel in the army, followed in Don Bernardo’s car. We wanted a show of strength—our most respectable relations. Dedé was staying behind to take care of the children. It was my first excursion out of the Salcedo province in three months. My mood was almost festive!

At the last minute, Noris stole into the pickup and wouldn’t come out. “I want to go get my brother,” she said, her voice breaking. I couldn’t bring myself to order her out.

Somehow, in our excitement, our two cars lost each other on the road. Later we found out that Don Bemardo’s old Plymouth had a flat near the Constanza turnoff, and when Blanco went to change it, there was no jack or spare in the trunk. Instead, Mamá described a whole library that Don Bernardo confessed he had hidden there. In her forgetful rages, Dona Belen had taken it into her head to rip up her husband’s books, convinced there were love letters hidden in those pages.

Because we had backtracked, looking for them, we got to the National Palace with only minutes to spare. Up the front steps we raced—there must have been a hundred of them. In Dedé’s tight little heels, I suffered my Calvary, which I offered up to my Nelson’s freedom. At the entrance, there was a checkpoint, then two more friskings inside. Those were my poor Noris’s Calvary. You know how girls are at that age about any attention paid their bodies, and this was out and out probing of the rudest kind. Finally, we were escorted down the hall by a nervous little functionary, who kept checking his watch and motioning for us to hurry along.

With all the rushing around, I hadn’t stopped to think. But now I began worrying that our prize would be snatched away at the last minute. El Jefe was going to punish us Mirabals. Just like with Minerva’s degree, he would wait till I had my hands on my Nelson and then say, “Your family is too good to accept pardons, it seems. I’m so sorry. We’ll have to keep the boy.”

I could not let myself be overcome by fears. I hung on to the sound of my girl’s new heels clicking away beside me. My little rosebud, my pigs-eye, my pretty one. Suddenly, my heart just about stopped.
¡
Ay, Dios mío!
What could I be thinking, bringing her along! Everybody knew that with each passing year the old goat liked them younger and younger. I had offered
myself
as a sacrificial lamb for Nelson. Certainly not my darling.

I squeezed my Noris’s hand. “You stay by me every second, you hear! Don’t drink anything you’re offered, and it’s no to any invitation to any party.”

“Mamá, what are you talking about?” Her bottom lip was quivering.

“Nothing, my treasure. Nothing. Just stay close.”

It was like asking the pearl to stay inside its mother oyster. All the way down that interminable hall, Noris held tight to my hand.

I needed her touch as much as she needed mine. The past was rushing down that long corridor towards me, a flood of memories, sweeping me back as I struggled to keep up with the little official. We were on our way to the fateful Discovery Day dance, Minerva and Dedé, Pedrito, Papa and Jaimito and I, and nothing bad had happened yet. I was climbing up to the shrine of the Virgencita in Higuey to hear her voice for the first time. I was a bride, promenading down the center aisle of San Juan Evangelista twenty years back to marry the man with whom I would have our dear children, dearer than my life.

The room was a parlor with velvet chairs no one would dream of sitting on even if invited, which we weren’t. Doors led in from three sides, and posted at each one was a fine-featured guard from El Jefe’s elite all-white corps. A few other families stood by, in clumps, looking solemn, the women in black, the men in suits or formal
guayaberas.
My yellow dress stood out like a shout I tried to quiet by draping my black mantilla over my shoulders. Still, I was glad I had worn it. I was going to greet my boy dressed in the sunshine he hadn’t seen in a month.

A crowd of journalists was let in one of the doors. A tall American draped with cameras approached and asked us in his accented Spanish what our feelings were today. We looked to the little man, who nodded his permission. The audience was as much for the press as for us. We were part of a stage show.

El Jefe entered in a wash of camera flashes. I don’t know what I thought I’d see—I guess after three months of addressing him, I was sure I’d feel a certain kinship with the stocky, overdressed man before me. But it was just the opposite. The more I tried to concentrate on the good side of him, the more I saw a vain, greedy, unredeemed creature. Maybe the evil one had become flesh like Jesus! Goosebumps jumped all up and down my bare arms.

El Jefe sat down in an ornate chair on a raised platform and spoke directly to the families of the prisoners to be released. We had better do a better job of controlling our young people. Next time, we shouldn’t expect such mercy. As a group, we thanked him in chorus. Then we were to name ourselves for him, one by one, and thank him again with little personalized comments. I couldn’t think of anything to add to my thank-you, but I was hoping that Jaimito would come up with something.

When our turn came, El Jefe nodded for me to speak first. I had a momentary cowardly thought of not giving him my complete name.

“Patria Mercedes Mirabal de González, to serve you.”

His bored, half-lidded eyes showed a spark of interest. “So you are one of the Mirabal sisters, eh?”

“Yes, Jefe. I’m the oldest.” Then, to emphasize what I was here for, I added, “Mother of Nelson González. And we’re very grateful to you.”

“And who is that little flower beside you?” El Jefe smiled down at Noris.

The journalists noted the special attention we were receiving and came forward with their cameras.