The Butterfly’s Daughter (41 page)

Luz stirred and sleepily waved her away. Mariposa held her breath and stepped back. When Luz was quiet, she went to the closet. The door squeaked on its hinges. She froze and glanced back at Luz. She opened it fully and very quietly pulled the box of Abuela's ashes down from the shelf where Luz had put it. Mariposa
smiled when she saw all the adornments Luz and her friends had taped to the box. Young girls could be so silly. She knew they meant no harm, but she thought pinning all that garbage onto the box bordered on the disrespectful. She intended to fulfill her obligation as a dutiful daughter and create a beautiful altar at her mother's gravesite today, one that respected their traditions. It would be the most beautiful
ofrenda
in the cemetery, worthy of her mother.

Quickly and without making a sound, Mariposa tore off the paper flowers, labels, cards, and booties and tossed them into the trash basket. Then, grabbing her purse, she slipped from the room with the ashes, closing the door soundlessly behind her. She made her way down the dark back stairs to the kitchen at the rear of the house. Here the fire was burning and she found her sister-in-law, Estella, with her hands already molding a firm ball of masa flour in her hands.

“Good morning,” she said in Spanish.

Estella glanced up from her work, then as quickly returned her gaze to the table. “You're up early. There is coffee on the stove.”

“Thank you.” Mariposa helped herself to a mug and poured a cup of the steaming black, rich coffee. She took her first sip, sighing with pleasure. “Mmm . . . good,” she murmured. “We talked too much last night. We'll be sleepy at the vigil tonight!”

“We'll be fine.”

Mariposa resigned herself to her sister-in-law's frostiness and quietly sipped more coffee. She could feel the adrenaline flowing stronger than the caffeine. Being home again invigorated her as she planned all that she had to accomplish today.

Estella pounded the flour in her hand, left to right. “I'll have tortillas made soon. There is some juice. Oranges. Sit down. Breakfast will be soon.”

“I'm not hungry. I have to get going. I've got so much to do before tonight.”

“You can't work all day on an empty stomach.”

“I'll eat. Don't worry. Where can I find the lumber and a hammer?”

“Manolo gathered all that you need and put them in the pushcart. It's in the shed out back. If you wait a few minutes he'll be down to help you bring it to the cemetery.”

“I've pushed a cart before. I can do it again. I'll let you know if I need help.”

“Manolo and Luz will not be happy you went without them.”

“They will understand why I need to do this.”

Estella harrumphed and pounded the masa flour on the table. “He had the hole dug for the ashes. It is ready.” She paused and looked at the box in Mariposa's hands. “Is that them?”

“Yes.”

Estella made the sign of the cross. “God be with you today.”

“My daughter . . .”

“Do not worry. We will take care of her. You do what you must do.”

“Thank you,” Mariposa said fervently, meaning it. She swallowed her sister-in-law's shunning with her coffee. She was restless, determined to start her day. She rinsed her cup and headed out without delay.

The sky was a soft gray and the air was damp and chilled. She wrapped her heavy shawl around her shoulders and headed across the yard. Though the building was in the heart of town, the yard was spacious and dominated by an enormous, spreading avocado tree. A few other fruit trees she couldn't identify were scattered around the several older outbuildings that were in need of repairs.
One was the chicken house. When the hens spied Mariposa they trotted in their straight-legged manner and scratched the earth, demanding a meal. She knew the hungry girls would follow her into the shed, so on finding the can of food, she tossed a handful of pellets to distract them. They skittered off and began pecking.

Mariposa found the wood cart in the shed behind the building as Estella had promised. The shed was tilting with age but solid on the inside. Manolo had all the supplies she needed to build an
ofrenda
neatly piled into the pushcart. She mentally thanked her brother for this kindness. There was so much to be done by nightfall but she could do it on her own. She had to. It was the least she could do to honor her mother.

The town was eerily quiet so early in the morning. The cart creaked loudly as she pushed it through the dimly lit streets. The only lights shone from the local mill, where the sound of constant chugging could be heard from machines grinding the corn. Pairs of women silently walked toward the mill for their day's masa flour to make tortillas. They smiled and waved as they passed. From off in the distance she heard the crow of a rooster. Mariposa wondered about her extended family living on the farm outside town. They would be waking now, the women making tortillas, the children helping with chores before school. She felt a sudden, intense rush of love for them. They were her family—uncles, aunts, cousins. Good, honest people who loved her. She had to remember her connection with them and gain strength from it.

Mariposa felt the whisperings of the past as she walked through the town that had been her playground as a child, and the birthplace of her mother and her mother's mother. How many times had she walked down this very street with her mother holding her hand tight? Never as a child in braids and ribbons did she imagine
how she would let go of her mother's hand and run so far away. Or how desperate and depraved her life would become. Throughout the long, hard days of recovery she'd always believed that at the end of her trials, if she could just persevere, she would find forgiveness. She'd dreamed of holding her mother's hand again and hearing her mother's voice telling her once again that she loved her. This dream had filled the black hole of emptiness inside of her for so many years. And now it was gone.

Her despair stopped her. She bent over and sucked in the cold air, the pain was still so fresh. Sam had told her how memories were stored in the body. To stir bad memories up was dangerous. He warned her not to let them pollute the new life she was creating for herself. Mariposa picked up the wood handles of the cart and concentrated on moving forward, one step after another, using all her strength to push the wobbly cart along the cobblestone street. Her hands felt raw but she continued to push up the hill.

The church was at the end of the road, and the cemetery just beyond. She swerved to the side as a truck ambled past. Inside were two men in jean jackets holding farm tools, and a large, mangy dog sat in the back. They lifted a hand in greeting. She responded in kind.

Last night Manolo told her that Maria had telephoned as soon as she'd learned of Esperanza's death. He'd wept as he told Mariposa how they'd all grieved. Their mother's death had come so unexpectedly for everyone. Too many years of silence could not be reclaimed.

Manolo and Estella had already created a fine
ofrenda
for their mother in their home. Knowing they would, Mariposa had telephoned before she'd left San Antonio and begged her brother to allow her to build an altar at the gravesite alone. At first Manolo
had refused, stating that it was the right of all the family to do this together. But Mariposa had explained in tears how she needed to do this as repentance for all the years of suffering she'd caused their mother. Manolo at last relented.

In her heart, Mariposa knew that the altar was only a symbol of her despair and regret. She was not fooled into believing it would earn her forgiveness. But this gesture was all she had to offer.

Mariposa arrived at the deserted cemetery. She pushed the cart to her family site and found the grave prepared for Esperanza. Manolo had spared no expense and placed a tall stone cross to mark the grave. The black dirt was freshly dug, waiting for her ashes.

Mariposa was unprepared for the shock of seeing the gravesite. The reality of her mother's death chilled her to the bone. She stared at the grave and felt the blackness of the earth open up to drag her down into its depths. She dropped to her knees and dug her hands into the cool soil, breathing deep and gathering her self-control.

Then she began to build.

Female monarchs are capable of producing and laying more than five hundred eggs in a lifetime. The eggs' expected survival rate is as low as 1 percent, which would mean only five of the five hundred eggs survive to become a butterfly.

L
uz awoke on the morning of the Day of the Dead groggy from all the
cervezas
she'd enjoyed the night before. She lay in bed for a moment, capturing images of the party.

After most of the guests had left, Tía Estella and Tías Marisela and Rosa had clustered around the table and discussed the extensive family festivities for the holiday while the men sat at another table and played cards. Luz had watched Mariposa especially. She'd never seen her so animated. From the moment she'd set foot in Angangueo her reserve dissipated and she was a different person. She talked with animation, laughing and opinionated, giving Luz a peek at the flirtatious, flighty young woman she once was. The family treated her with the respect afforded to the child of the deceased. Especially her brother. She and Manolo shared a bond that she didn't have with Estella. There the ties were strained. Yet it didn't mar the evening. Mariposa didn't drink alcohol but her eyes glittered and her face was flushed. In retrospect, Luz wondered at the dramatic swing of Mariposa's
emotions. The excitement seemed to be burning at too high a pitch.

Luz yawned and looked to her mother's bed. It was empty. She was surprised to find it already made. She'd had a hard time falling asleep, but once she did she must've slept soundly, because she hadn't heard Mariposa dress or stir about the room. Luz pushed back the blankets, seeing that the heavy shawl was gone as well. Then, shivering, she dressed quickly in jeans, a new red sweater she'd purchased in San Antonio at Margaret's urging, and matching thick socks.

She made her way down the narrow stairs to the kitchen. She paused at the threshold. Her three aunts were working in the kitchen preparing mountains of food before a small clay stove. The room smelled of burning wood and spices. The women dressed alike in dark skirts and sweaters, with their hair pulled back into braids. Their hands were busy as they spoke, intent on their work, but all talking stopped when she walked in.

“
Buenos días,
” Luz said with an awkward smile.

“Luz! Come in! Did you sleep well?” her aunt Estella exclaimed in Spanish. She hurried to grab a cup and poured steaming coffee into it, then offered it to Luz.

“
Gracias,
” Luz said, keeping her promise to try to speak in Spanish.

Her aunt muttered something to the other women and they giggled. Luz felt her cheeks color.

Using her hands to indicate the food, Tía Estella spoke with exaggerated slowness so that Luz could understand that she was offering her breakfast.

“
Sí. Yo comprendo. Gracias,
” she replied, and inwardly groaned. It was going to be a long day.

After a hearty breakfast of beans, rice, and eggs, Luz went alone into the living room. It was empty now, scrubbed clean in preparation for the Day of the Dead festival. She prowled listlessly, stopping to admire the bright green pineapple pottery on the side table, feeling a bittersweet twinge in her heart as she remembered the one just like it that Abuela had so carefully pieced back together. Paintings of calla lilies, photographs of the family, and an icon of the Blessed Virgin filled the walls.

Dominating the room was an elaborate altar under a wooden arch completely covered with the big orange marigold heads that Ofelia had told her were called
cempasuchitl
. There were more of them in vases surrounding the altar. Bananas, apples, pumpkins, and candy filled pottery bowls. Several sugar skulls lined the back of the table; to the right was a metal incense burner, to the left were tall, white candles. The altar table was covered in a white tablecloth, and under a large, brightly painted crucifix was a gilt-framed photograph of Abuela.

Luz walked closer and admired the beautiful young Esperanza photographed looking like a plumed bird in her colorful native dress, standing against a white stucco wall. Her glossy black hair fell down over her shoulder in a braid. It was a young woman's face, full of hope and confidence. Luz reached out to touch it.

“You look like her,” said a voice behind her.

Luz turned to see a young woman about her age standing at the door. She was a beautiful girl with large eyes and the family's sharp cheekbones. Her dark hair was cut short and tucked around ears studded in gold. Her eyes shone with warmth as she smiled beneath thick bangs. She was slight in build and carefully dressed in pressed jeans and a black sweater under a leather jacket. Luz remembered meeting her the night before, but couldn't remember her name.

“I'm Yadira,” she said, coming closer. “Your cousin.”

Luz felt a rush of relief that she'd met someone her age who spoke English. “I'm Luz.”

“I know. My mother, she is your mother . . .” She paused in thought. “Half cousin,” she said in careful English. “
¿Comprendes?
I think that make me your half cousin. Or something.” She laughed. “
¡Yo no sé!
”

“I never had any cousins of any kind before so I'll take what I can get.”

“We live at a farm. Not far. I come to say hello. I can practice English, no? It is not so good.”

“It's great,” Luz said, grateful for her attempt.

Yadira smiled with relief. “Today is busy,” she began. “Many work to do.”