“But, where?”
Jose sighed and waggled his finger at her again. She laughed, a bit sourly.
“You mean, where would you buy the stuff? In town, of course. There are three or four shops that sell craft stuff. Monica would take you, and love doing it.”
He looked at her and she dropped her eyes to the papers on the table. Her classes were over the Internet, she didn't need to go out and try to mix. Jose had taken her to the library and introduced her to the librarian. Cheba had not been back.
Jose made an exasperated sound.
“¡Mira, tú!”
he said with some heat in his voice. “We are all trying, but you are not.”
Cheba bit her lip and tried to stop the tears. “What should I try? Try to be a
puta
and food?” she asked, feeling the raw anger crowd forward. “I had to leave my village because my papa was a drunk and died. . . walked in front of a truck. My mama died crossing a street . . . another truck, so, I took a truck up to here, trying to get away from the bad luck and a new life. And look what picked me up!”
“Yes. But now you have that new life. A house, a life, things to learn, people to meet . . . What is wrong?”
“It's all wrong!” Cheba shouted. “It's not the right size, or shape; the rugs are dirty! There aren't nice floors to sweep, the kitchen is closed in; the windows too big; the lights too bright; the roads. . .
“I want to feel the dust between my toes, the sun on my back, pick the corn and beans in my grandfather's
milpa
, hear the voices of the village, of the market, of the children.. . .”
More tears threatened and she held them back with her scowl.
“But what did you expect?” he asked her, a puzzled note in his voice. “Of course it would be different!”
She looked around, surprised, and thought back to that day, the day of death when she had carefully stolen ten wallets, carefully, oh, so carefully, and added the money to her little hoard and begun her flight north. What had she expected? Difference, just something different from her real life.
“I guess, different; I wanted something different. No more poverty or living like an animal? To be rich.”
“And in comparison, here you are rich!”
“But it is not rich like I know rich! It is wrong.. . . Everything is different, yes; but evil!” Cheba shook her head and watched Jose take a quick gulp of beer.
“Yeah,” he said, surprising her. “It is.” A grim smile at the look on her face. “Do I look stupid?”
“But if you hadn't fallen in with
La Doña
, you'd have been slaving in the fields, living crowded cheek by jowl in tar paper shacks, hiding from
la migra
, eating worse than you ever have in your life . . . and raped, often, by the men who hire the wetbacks. That man Paco who sold you and your friends to
La Doña
was not interested in taking you
anywhere
good. I don't have to draw you a picture about that, no? So, it kinda balances out.”
Cheba clenched her jaw.
He is right, the trip across the border and to here taught me that!
This piece of logic of Jose's she could follow; she couldn't always understand his thoughts.
“
La Doña
is better than working in the fields? A
bruja
, a
chupacabra
, and I am not a goat!”
“You are a goat.” Jose's voice was flat. “Or you're a bird and she is a cat. We all are. And it is better than the fields. At least she doesn't roast us over fire; just over the coals of our emotions. Rape is rape, and that hasn't changed.”
“There's a lot you don't understand and we've tried to tell you. Not just my
tÃa
has sent me to talk to you.
La Doña
called me in and told me . . .”
“She confides in you,” Cheba observed sourly.
He hesitated and then shrugged.
“I was born here, and my ancestors. One chance, Cheba. You have one chance left. If you don't do what
La Doña
orders you to she will eat you up tomorrow.”
He took another swallow of the beer and Cheba glowered at him; this nice young man who looked so much like the young men in Coetzala and Veracruz and was so very different in how he saw the world. She couldn't help herself.
“You are gringo,
gabacho
, you don't understand!”
“I know that! And it bothers me. What don't I understand? You're
india
; you and your people have lived for twenty, thirty generations as conquered people, on the edge! Where do you get that pride?”
“We still live!” she flashed back at him, and scowled as he dissolved into hearty guffaws. “What is funny?” she demanded.
Jose shook his head. “It's from a TV show, or a movie or something. It's used as a joke and also as defiance.”
“Well,” she said, glowering at him, “I'm defiant and it doesn't sound funny to me.”
Jose shook his head and finished off the beer. “Look, you've survived for generations as a people, now you need to survive as a person. Independent, yes, doing things, being alive, or
La Doña
will eat you up.”
“Then I'll be dead; grateful release!”
“Really? Hasn't
La Doña
taken you into her memory?”
Cheba made an involuntary movement and barely managed to catch the Jarritos bottle before it went flying across the kitchen. She started to say something and paused.
“Yes, you've met George, I see. Take what time you have and can use. My aunt says that the Shadowspawn,
los hijos de sombra
, she calls them in Spanish, were the kings and priests of the old ones before the conquest. So it really isn't new, even to you, from that little Huasteca village.”
“So, they are
chupacabra
and we their goats! Nyyahahaha . . .”
“Yeah, pretty much. We are their
barbacoa
.”
“It's worse than flames what she makes me do!”
Jose looked surprised. “You were a virgin? I'm sorry. It must have been very hard to learn the perversions she likes, not knowing the loving pleasure most of us can share.”
Cheba snapped angrily, “No, I wasn't a virgin! Paco took care of that, he and five other men!” She turned away from his shocked eyes, picking up and draining the soda pop. She hesitated and waggled the bottle at him.
“How do they get the drugs into it? And what is it called?” she asked.
“Drugs?” he asked.
“If she doesn't like what I do she takes away the drugs. I never smoked, drank, did
drogas
! And now I am shaky, angry, confused, and she will only give me the drugs if I do what she says. But I don't know which drug or how it gets into me. If I knew, maybe I could run away. I thought it was in the Jarritos and that she took away the ones with drugs if she was angry at me. But now I don't think that's it.”
“Ooohh,
niña
,” exclaimed Jose. “It's the bite itself.
La Doña
is the drug. It's in the spit.”
“¡Ai!”
“See, I told you, they're
made
to prey on us, like jaguars on deer. You remember the night you came here, what happenedâ”
He pointed eastward. She remembered it, the killing hall, and
La Doña
's guests . . . feasting.
“Well, you're lucky the Brézés don't always kill.
I'm
going to live a long time.”
“What do you mean?”
“
La Doña
hasn't bitten me for five days, now. It hurts and I'm restless, and angry . . . and trying hard not to yell at you, you stubborn goat!”
“Oh,” she said. “Then . . . why?”
“Because she says my time as a lucy is over. Now I go back to my life, get married, settle down.
Protected
, you understand? All the people born here are, the renfield families who serve the Brézés. And you could be. Or you could end up dead, or worse than deadâlike George.”
“You look sick,” she said suddenly.
“I'm going to get a lot worse before I get better, and it takes a lot of work and other drugs to stop the addiction.”
He shrugged. “Pain I can stand. There's pain in life, you know that. You let it be your master or you make yourself its master; there is no other way.”
Cheba frowned. The blanched quality she'd noticed earlier was getting worse, and she could see pain lines etching themselves on his face.
“¿Eso te pasa?”
she asked sharply, feeling sick to her stomach as she understood.
He took the bottle to the sink and turned. “Yes. I was born here. I get to live when she is done with me, just like my uncle. You don't. If she had died, you, Monica and Peter would have been killed by her parents.”
“Will . . . will it be very bad? I feel . . . itchy now. And I saw people at home who had no money for their drugs.”
“Yes, it is very bad. Some kill themselves because of the pain; I won't, and I have the doctor to help me as well. Give me your cell phone.”
Jose snatched it out of the air when she tossed it over to him.
“When I call you it will play âTilingo Lingo.' That's loud enough to wake you no matter what.”
He tossed it back to her. “So, I am going through withdrawal. It's getting really bad, I've got a few more days before I begin screaming. Do you take this chance? Or die?”
Cheba looked at the gray and sweating man standing by herâher!
â
kitchen sink. He, and Monica and even Peter had all tried to be nice to her.
No,
she thought,
were nice to me, helped me, tried to support me, teach me . . . and I was mean and nasty and sullen back to them. They are not
her
. I don't dare be that way to
her
.
“I don't know what to do,” she said.
“If that means, yes, then go see Dr. Duggan tomorrow at eight a.m. Say it with words.”
“Yes, yes, I will take care of you. And not because
La Doña
says so; but because you took care of me and I wasn't good back.”
Jose's eyes were dark brown pools of pleading fear, and Cheba put out her hand. Hand in hand they walked through the house. She opened the door and they walked out into the late-summer day.
She looked over at Jose's house and the one beyond it. “Monica is still asleep. Her mother was pretty mad, last night,” she observed in Spanish to Jose.
“It's hard; most lucies don't have kids. Monica tries to make sure they are always taken care of. I don't know what will happen next.
La Doña
will be traveling and she always takes Monica with her.”
He shrugged. “She's sent Peter away somewhere, to do something for her. Poor guy; withdrawal will be hell for him, all alone. You might go with her and Monicaâif you can get along with Monica. Try! Monica is a very nice person, and if you can't make her want you there, you might die, after all.”
Jose walked to his house and gave her a small wave as he walked in.
She stood, troubled, on the doorstep, turning the cell phone over and over in her hands . . . hands that wanted work; a crochet hook, some thread, a pretty collar and some cuffs, a doily growing steadily, extra money as the tourists admired her mother's embroidered napkins and her lacy trims on them.
¡Chupacabra!
she thought.
¡ Y yo, chiva! Cheba, la chiva, cabrita chula!
Calling herself a nanny goat, a cute little kid, didn't really make her feel any better. She went back to the kitchen, rinsed the bottles out and took them to the recycling bin on her back porch. The little orange cat that had belonged to the
brujo
's wife, Elena, peered out at her from under the bush. She called it
imizton
,
that woman's cat
in Nahuatl, and fed it out of pity. She wondered what Elena had called it; Monica hadn't known.
She returned to the house and closed the door, frowning. The house was clean. The annoying rugs that couldn't be swept were vacuumed with the loud machine several times a week, her kitchen spotless.. . . She grimaced, wishing for her grandmother's open-air kitchen, four poles, a thatched roof, a table and a little charcoal stove. Then she looked around the bright little room and scolded herself. It wasn't what she had wanted, or expected, and it was full of the . . . of Elena's things. But Elena had good taste and they were pretty and comfortable things. She should stop being angry, all it did was give her
bilis
.
One day,
she thought,
one day I will find a way to kill
La Doña
, and free myself. Elena nearly killed her, and what she could do, I can do! Until then I will take what I can and use everything I can find. I will be clever before I can be brave; then I will be brave
and
clever.
She nodded sharply and looked down at her clean brown foot, neatly shod in a pretty gold leather sandal, a light anklet around her right ankle with a little charm made out of amethysts. Her lilac pants, ordered with Monica's help off the Internet, were something Monica had called “pedal pushers,” and fit perfectly. She had on a nice shirt in a soft gold color. Her feet were clean, her toenails and fingernails manicured, her hair soft and wavy, pulled up into a long ponytail; she had many luxuries she had never had in her life.
She shook her head thoughtfully, remembering the little stream where she and her mother had bathed every night in the warm, smelly waters that ran into the Gulf of Mexico, carefully using harsh yellow soap under their clothes; never undressing all the way. It had been hard to keep themselves clean, but they had managed that much.
Now,
she thought.
Now, I must make friends with Monica. How can I do that?