Cover and
Copyright Page

Marisol,
Iguana Woman

Man of Steel

Todos Colgados

Fridays
at Western Union

Grave Revelation

Celulistas

Cubreviento

Preludio
a Nezahualcoyotl

Sometimes
They Can Read Lips

Already She Knows

Papá left today. He took his bags and disappeared to her house. He left without a word, no good-bye, not even a note, nothing. He disappeared suddenly, almost as if he had evaporated in the heat. But now that he's gone, our house stands cold and empty, so silent and still without the familiar noise of a father.

Her house is in Mexico, across the river, three blocks from the bridge, a green stone building with paint peeling in large flakes. My tía says people saw Papá there several times, leaving that woman's house-his tie crooked and his white shirt wrinkled-when he should have been at work. I ask myself what I will do without a father, but I am too sad to think. I will expect him home tonight. I will keep a lookout in my heart. I will imagine he is with my mother. I will imagine they are alone in their room, that he whispers to her in the darkness: I am home. I will imagine that this emptiness is only a bad dream. But the truth is he is gone; he is with another woman.

Now, I must get through this painful evening, this intolerable here. I will sit here, beneath the cubreviento, the enormous tree whose thick brown roots reach deep into my heart, and refuse to think about Papá-he is dead. Instead, I will listen to the loud murmur of chicharras, count the army ants that march by in thick, red lines, and peer at the fragile clouds that float across the sky.

But I know Michael will look for me. I know he will want to play. When he cannot find me, he will come here, my favorite spot, and he will know something is wrong. He will want to talk to me, remove my sadness, and ask if I’m in trouble. Trouble is being a child, I will say, and he will not understand. But he will laugh softly and try to make me laugh too.

I know it's true-Michael loves me. He tells his mother he wants to marry me some day. He tells my brothers he thinks I am beautiful. But when we are together, we don't talk about love. Instead, we sit on the thick branches of the cubreviento, inhale the warm darkness of the night, look at the moon and the stars, and dream about falling off the earth.

So, I wait for Michael. And while I wait, I close my eyes and think about how much I love this monte-its wildness and crude beauty, its tangle of dry brush, nopal, sunflowers, and mesquite trees stooping in the heat. Around me the chicharras drone, the sun's hot evening light stings me, and my sadness refuses to leave. Sometimes the sorrow of children feels heavy as the earth. I yearn to say this to Papá.

But it will be Michael who finally comes. I will hear him breaking through the brush and sunflowers, and I will see his smile without opening my eyes. I will see him in my thoughts-his skin golden, his body tall and strong for a twelve-year-old, soft brown eyes in a willful boy's face, something already manly about him. I will forget the differences in race, that he's Anglo and I'm not, that I'm brown and he's not. And as he sits beside me, I will open my eyes and glimpse the red, orange, and pink sunset, the last traces of daylight, stretching in delicate strands across the horizon.

He will ask me if I want to play and I will say no. Suddenly, I will want to cry because Papá has another woman, but I will refuse to cry in front of Michael. Instead, I will smile and tell him Papá was carried away by a serpent-woman hiding in a dust cloud, and now he is lost somewhere in the deserts of Mexico. I will tell him serpent women are everywhere, and I will ask if he ever noticed them, beautiful women with glassy, black eyes walking the empty streets hunting for men. He will say no, but he will know I am telling him, in my own peculiar way, that Papá has another woman.

Then we will sit against the rugged bark of the cubreviento, look up at the disappearing blue of the evening sky, and I will wonder why the colorful flames of the sun must die and why the earth must feel so lonely in the darkness. Michael, knowing it is almost dark and that we must both go home, will lean against the trunk of the cubreviento, his face almost touching mine, and tell me what he has never told me-that he will marry me when we grow up. I will feel his warm breath on my cheek and he will look at me and I will feel peculiar. After several long, quiet moments, he will ask if we can lie on the ground and keep a lookout for stars. I will say yes, and we will stretch out on the warm floor of the monte, the grayness of dusk spilling gently on to us.

Then he will ask if he can hug me the way grown-ups hug, because one day we will be married. I will tell him that I will never get married because men always break women's hearts. Michael will say he could never be that kind of man. Then he will ask if we can pretend we are grown up and married, if we can pretend the cubreviento is our house and the ground our bed. An odd silence will spread between us as we lie side-by-side on the ground, our hands tucked beneath our heads, and I will not be able to answer. I will watch the evening sky, and when a thin moon rises above the cubreviento, whisper: Yes.

Michael will draw me towards him, gently and softly as if I were a delicate bird, and I will rest my head on his warm chest, his ragged breath making it rise and fall irregularly under my face. I will want to cry, but instead I will whisper that I wish I could disappear into the sky and clouds. Michael will caress me slowly, his finger touching my arms and face so sweetly that the entire sky will shimmer as if a million stars had shattered across its surface.

                          —by Dora Maria Vergara