Tortilla Sun (11 page)

“What are these?” I asked, reaching to touch them.

“They are truth catchers made of handblown glass. The artist heats the glass in the furnace and uses a pipe to blow and shape the glass into anything she desires. The light reflected by the catchers carries the truth. You see this one?” She pointed to a turquoise square. “This one captures the light of the first full moon of the year.”

I peered through a peach-colored heart, but all I saw was Socorro’s porch bathed in sunny hues.

“I hear you see things far away, sometimes as far away as the future,” I said, my eyes now fixed on the other pieces of sparkling glass.

Her lips curled into a small smile. “And what else do you hear?”

“Mateo says you could see a
tortilla
on the moon.”

Socorro chuckled. “And what do you think?”

“I don’t really see how a
tortilla
could get to the moon.”

Laughing, she pulled down a yellow truth catcher. “Only the right person can see the truth in the light and what it is saying.” She handed me the round piece of glass. “I want you to have this.”

The golden glass was half the size of a
tortilla
, with several tiny air bubbles suspended inside. But the outside felt smooth, like Nana’s hands.

“Hang it near your window. It will catch the light of the sun when it comes into your room. There, you will see the truth.” She spoke softly.

“What kind of truth?” I wondered.

“The most important kind of truth. You will know when the time is right.”

She crossed the porch and sat in a large easy chair in the corner. “Now, you have another question for me?”

It seemed rude to ask her such a silly question now, after she had been so nice to me—but I really wanted to see Mateo’s map. And to prove to him I was brave. “Your hair … I want to know … how did it get so white?”

Socorro pulled her long hair over her right shoulder and studied it in the fading afternoon light. “I have my father’s hair. He was born in the moonlight, as was I.” She turned her face to me.

“Every year, during the moon’s harvest, the moonbeams turn another strand to white. It is where all my wisdom and power come from.”

“Why is that a secret?” I asked.

“It’s not. I’ve just … no one has asked before.”

I set the truth catcher in the canvas bag. The weight of it anchored the bag to my side as it hung from my shoulder. Before pressing open the screen door, I turned back to Socorro. “Can I come back sometime?”

“Anytime.”

When I stepped outside the gate, Mateo lunged forward. “Well? Did you find out the secret of her hair?”

Maggie pulled on the edge of my shirt. “Tell us about her hair, Izzy.”

Maggie and Mateo stared at me, waiting, as if my words really mattered. As if nothing in the world was more important.

I leaned forward. “It’s the moonlight. She said it gives her wisdom.”

“She doesn’t see ghosts?” Mateo sounded disappointed.

“No ghosts,” I said.

“Is the moonlight going to turn my hair white too?” Maggie asked, her eyes wide with fear.

I knelt in front of her and smiled. “Of course not.”

“Why did you take so long?” Mateo asked.

“No reason.” But I could feel the reason bumping alongside my hip all the way home.

With three weeks left until I had to go back to California, I felt like there were still so many unanswered questions. I hope, hope, hoped the truth catcher would hurry and show me what I needed to see. Maybe it would tell me what the wind had been trying to say for so long, or give me the missing words from my baseball.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Socorro’s instructions to let my story simmer. So for the next few days, I wrote everything down. How the gold and pink hues reflected off the Sandia mountains, the way the moon looked like a feather floating down from the sky, the way Nana’s
tortillas
filled me up, the words I’d heard on the wind.

“What’re you doing?” Maggie asked as she skidded into the room with Frida on her heels.

“Just writing.” I liked the way that sounded. Like I was official or something.

“What’re you writing? Anything about me?” Maggie asked, bouncing on the bed.

“I really don’t have a story yet. Just bits and pieces.”

“Could you write one for me? I’ll be the princess and you can be in it if you want and make sure I get to fly. Oh, and you could talk about the ladder I’m going to build and—”

I raised my hands in the air, laughing. “Hold on. That’s a lot of information. When I learn to write a whole story, I promise to write one for you.”

“How long is that gonna take?”

I flipped through my stack of cards and shrugged. “As soon as I can make any of these fit together.”

Maggie hopped off the bed and leaned over the desk. “So that’s all? You just have to fit those cards together?”

“Kind of.”

She grabbed a blank card, and with her tongue sticking out one side of her mouth she wrote:
Flyeng Princis
. Then, she handed me the card. “As a reminder case you forget.”

I tugged on one of her braids gently. “I won’t forget, but Mateo is waiting for our treasure hunt.” And to finally show me the map. “You ready?”

I grabbed my canvas bag, which I’d filled with
tortillas
, and darted outside.

Outside, Frida raced ahead, stopping every so often to sniff the ground as if she were hunting for clues. As planned, we met Mateo by the hammock, then followed the dirt-lined path through the trees. My bag bounced against my hip, my ball tucked safely inside.

Mateo walked in front, clutching the map. “Pancho Villa was a famous bandit from Mexico who robbed a U.S. Army wagon and hid the treasure somewhere near here.”

“Mateo, how do you know about the treasure?” Maggie asked, walking behind us.

“Well, my father told me, and his father told him.”

“Why do you think no one has found it?” I asked.

Mateo put his arm around my shoulders. He leaned into my ear and whispered, “Because ghosts guard the treasure.”

I allowed him to linger for a moment before I pulled away.

“The legend says that Pancho Villa killed his guards and threw them in with the treasure so that it would be guarded forever,” he continued.

“Are they gonna get me, Izzy?” Maggie ran to me and put her arm around my waist.

I gave Mateo a dirty look. “No. Don’t be silly. Ghosts can’t hurt you, Maggie.”

Mateo patted the top of Maggie’s head, “No one will get you. I’m the one who’s going to go after it.” He gave me a crooked smile. “I heard someone found where the treasure’s buried, but was too afraid of the ghosts to uncover it. He was the one who made the map. My great grandfather won it from him in a poker match.”

Putting out my hand expectantly I said, “So a deal’s a deal. I proved I’m brave, so, show me the map.”

Mateo hesitated, but then, head bent low, handed me the map. “For you, brave Izzy.”

I stood straight and winked at Maggie as I took it. It was a wrinkled, brown paper, torn at the edges. It looked more like a small wadded-up lunch sack than a treasure map. Mateo stood over my shoulder as I scanned the words and childlike drawings. In the upper-right corner was a compass rose pointing in the four directions. At the center of the map were five squiggle lines, a hand drawing of three trees to the east of the squiggles, mountains above the trees, and a big
X
next to a cluster of bushes. At the bottom of the map were these barely legible words scribbled in cursive:

There you must soar with fire, to see the treasure you desire.

I held the map up to the sun that was peeking out from behind silvery clouds.

“Does it make any sense to you?” Mateo asked. “I know it’s to the east of the river. But what do you think those words mean?”

“I’m not sure,” I said.

Mateo kicked at the dirt. “There must be something I’m missing.”

“Well the
X
is near a bunch of bushes, we know that, right?” I said.

Mateo huffed and leaned in closer. He smelled of soap and water.

“I want to help.” Maggie reached for the map but Mateo pulled it from me before she could touch it.

Maggie’s bottom lip quivered and I shot Mateo a look that said,
give it back, or else.
“No one ever said she couldn’t see it, just not touch it, right?” I asked.

Mateo reluctantly handed it over. Maggie smiled and stepped closer, gazing at the treasure map. “Hey, they can’t write very good.”

“Who can’t?” Mateo asked.

“Whoever drawed this. That’s a backwards
B
.” She pointed to the small cluster of bushes. “It’s supposed to be one line up
and two loops to the right.” She sang the words. “That’s what my teacher teached me.”

Mateo swept Maggie into his arms and kissed the top of her head. “You’re a genius. That’s it. Now we just have to find a bunch of bushes shaped like a
B
.”

I scanned the thicket of trees and bushes. “You know how many bushes there are around here?” I said.

Frida licked her paws, seemingly bored with all our talk of treasure maps and letters.

“I’m hungry.” Maggie said as she took a pile of treats from her pocket. Frida stood on her hind legs and waited for Maggie’s commands to sit, roll over, and shake. With each successful trick she gulped down a peanut butter treat.

“Come on. Where’s your adventurous spirit?” Mateo raised his eyebrows at Maggie.

Maggie rubbed her stomach. “Mine’s eating my tummy.”

I handed her and Mateo each a
tortilla
from my bag. He held it up to the sky for inspection. “Who made this? It sure doesn’t look like one of Nana’s
tortillas
.”

“Well, then don’t eat it if you don’t like the way it looks.” I threw my head back and walked in front of him. “Can
you
make
tortillas
?”

He laughed and jogged to catch up to me. “Is everyone from California as funny as you?”

“Only about their treasure.”

Bowing, he said, “And the brave Izzy can make a joke.”

Suddenly, the wind swirled through the trees, whispering in my ear.
Come
.

“I have an idea. I’ll walk south along the river, and try to find a cluster of bushes shaped like a
B
, and you can walk north. We’ll cover more ground that way,” I said quickly.

Maggie grabbed my hand. “Will you be sad, Izzy, if I go with Mateo? I just think he can fight off ghosts better.”

“It’s fine.” I breathed a sigh of relief, grateful to be alone to follow the wind.

The wind had a raspy, impatient tone. Thirsty trees bent over the edge of the upper riverbank kissing the heads of white wildflowers sprouting near the sand. I imagined my mother as a little girl saving the fish and giggled to myself. Following the river downstream, I threw rocks and twigs along the way. The stretched-out clouds overhead cast long shadows across the water.

In the distance, something white caught my eye. I stomped along a shaded path overgrown with woody branches until I reached a small wooden cross. It was surrounded by piles of red-and-white plastic roses. The wind twisted through a thicket of trees, finally settling into a faint breeze that stroked my cheek.

Bella
.

“Why did you call me here? And why do you keep calling me ‘Bella’?”

I knelt down and swept my fingertips across the top of the crooked cross. Was someone buried here? Why was there no name across the front? The breeze lingered, waiting to see what I might find.

My heart beat to the rhythm of the pulsing river: quiet and steady. The gentle murmurs of the swaying trees, the gurgling river, and the faint breeze created a symphony of sounds that sang out,
you belong here
.

I laid on my stomach and noticed something silver peeking from beneath the roses. Sweeping the flowers aside, I found a small metal box. The latch was locked.

Maggie and Mateo’s voices came to me on the wind, and soon they were upon me.

“Did you find anything?” Mateo asked. Small scraps of hope fell from his words.

I held up the box. “This was here.” I sat back on my knees in front of the cross.

“What’s inside?” Mateo said.

I shrugged. “It’s locked.” I looked back to the cross. “Is this a grave?”

“It’s a
descanso
,” Maggie said. “It’s for dead people.”

I scooted away quickly.

“Well, not exactly. It marks the place of someone’s death,” Mateo said.

“Whose is it?” I asked.

But in my heart I already knew the answer.

When Maggie and I got home, the house smelled of fresh green chile
enchiladas
and chicken soup. I was happy to find Nana in the kitchen rolling out
tortillas
. Maybe things were finally getting back to the rhythm I had gotten used to—and liked.

Maggie fell asleep in Nana’s room with Frida, so I hurried into the kitchen to talk to her alone.

“Can I help you, Nana?”

“Of course,
mija
.” Nana set a bowl of dough in front of me. I began to roll small balls and set each aside.

Turn. Press. Roll. Turn. Press. Roll.

One
tortilla
looked like it might turn out the way I wanted it to. But the harder I tried, the more it stuck to the counter, and before I knew it, it looked like the letter
D
.

For death.
Descanso
. Dwell. I pushed the dough into a ball and rolled it across the counter. With a sigh I watched Nana press and roll with perfect rhythm.

“I found something at the river today,” I said. “The wind called me there.”

Nana turned back around to finish the dishes in the sink. “What did the wind say?” she asked as if it was the most normal thing in the world to talk to the wind.

I took a deep breath and thought about my words carefully. “It led me to a white cross. Maggie called it a
descanso
.”

“Come. Let us sit.” Nana led me to the living room and lit the candle in her Santa Maria altar. Silver medals and cards with Mary’s picture filled the space. In the back was a wood carved statue of Mary, like the ones I saw in church, with two plastic red roses laid at her feet.