Prayers for the Stolen (4 page)

My mother’s voice started up again behind me.

Sometimes I just think I’ll grow the poppies too. Everyone else does, right? You’re going to die no matter what so you might just as well die rich.

Oh, Rita!

Ruth spoke softly and slowly so when she said Rita it sounded like Reeetaaah. It made me happy to hear someone speak to my mother with such sweetness. Ruth’s voice could heal and soothe.

What do you think? my mother asked.

The voices in the beauty parlor quieted down. We all wanted to hear what Ruth was going to answer. Everyone knew that Ruth was smarter and better than anyone else around here. She was also Jewish. Mrs. Silberstein raised all her garbage orphans to be Jews.

Imagine, Ruth said. Imagine what it’s like for me. I opened this beauty parlor fifteen years ago and what did I call it? I called it
The Illusion
. I called it this because my illusion, or my dream, was to do something. I wanted to make all of you pretty and surround myself with sweet smells.

Because Ruth was a garbage baby she could never get the smell of rotten oranges, the smell of someone’s morning glass of juice, out of her mind.

Instead of making you pretty, what happened? Ruth asked.

Everyone looked down at their painted nails in silence.

What happened?

No one answered.

I have to make little girls look like boys, I have to make the older girls look plain and I have to make pretty girls look ugly. This is an ugly parlor not a beauty parlor, Ruth said.

No one had an answer for this, not even my big-mouthed mother.

Maria’s mother peered in the window of the beauty parlor. They’ve finished, she said through the shattered glass. Maria wants to see Ladydi, she said, pointing her finger at me.

You’re not going anywhere until that nail polish is wiped off! my mother said.

Ruth pulled me toward her, sat me on her lap, and removed the nail polish. The acetone fumes filled my mouth and left a taste of lemon on my tongue.

In the small two-room clinic, the front room had been turned into an operating room. A nurse and two doctors were putting things away into suitcases while Maria lay on a cot under a window. From a bundle of white gauze bandages, her eyes peered out like small black stones. She looked at me with such intensity that I knew exactly what she was thinking. I’d known her all my life.

Her eyes said: Where is the boy? Did he have his thumb removed? Is he okay? What did they do with the thumb?

When I asked Maria’s questions for her, the nurse answered that the boy had left an hour ago. The thumb was removed.

What happened to the thumb?

It will be incinerated, the nurse answered.

Burned?

Yes, burned.

Where?

Oh, we have it here on ice. We’ll take it back to Mexico City and burn it there.

When I returned to the beauty parlor everyone’s nail polish had been removed. It was clear that no one was going to risk going out into our world where men think they can steal you just because your nails are painted red.

As we walked home my mother asked me what Maria looked like. I said I couldn’t see her because of the bandages but that the nurse said the operation had gone well.

Don’t count on it, my mother said. She’s going to have a scar.

We carefully crossed the highway that joined Mexico City and Acapulco and headed up the path to our small hut, which was shaded by an enormous banana tree.

As we walked a large iguana moved out from the underbrush
and crossed our path. The movement made us look down at a long line of bright red ants marching toward the left of the path. We both stopped and looked around. On the other side of the path there was another stream of ants going in the same direction.

Something’s dead, my mother said.

She looked up. There were five vultures circling above us in the air. The birds flew around and around, dipping down close to the earth and rising up again. The smell of death was in their wings.

The birds continued to soar above us as we reached our house.

Once inside my mother walked to the kitchen and took out four little bottles of nail polish from inside her sleeve. She placed a red bottle and three pink bottles on the kitchen table.

You stole nail polish from Ruth?

I didn’t know why I was surprised. Anytime we went anywhere my mother stole something. I just could not believe that she would steal from Ruth.

Shut up and go and do your homework, my mother said.

I don’t have any homework.

Then just shut up, my mother said. Go and wash your hands so you can get them dirty again.

My mother walked over to the window and looked up at the sky.

It’s a dog, she said. Those are just too many damn vultures for it to be a dead mouse.

We lived off my mother’s wages
as a cleaning lady. Every Friday after school my mother and I walked down to the highway and waited for a bus to take us an hour’s drive to the port. She had no one to leave me with at home. Everywhere she went I had to go too.

Before the Reyes family arrived from Mexico City, my mother had to mop the house, make the beds, and put insecticide everywhere in order to kill ants, spiders, and especially scorpions.

When I was a child, she let me be in charge of the insecticide, which came in a spray bottle. As my mother cleaned, I sprayed the insecticide in corners, under the beds, inside closets, and around the sinks in the bathrooms. It made my mouth taste strange for days, as if I’d sucked on a piece of copper wire.

We had a servant’s room behind the garage. My mother used to tie me to the bed with a rope. She did this so that she could get her work done and not worry that I might wander off and fall into the swimming pool. She’d tie me
to the bed for hours with a loaf of white bread, a glass of milk, and some crayons and paper.

Sometimes she would bring me books to look at from the house. These books were usually architecture books on the world’s great mansions, or books on museums.

Of course my mother also stole from the Reyes family. On our way back home on Sunday night I’d see what she’d taken. As the bus hurtled over the burning asphalt toward a land of red insects and women, she’d slowly take things from her pockets and look them over.

In the darkness of the bus I watched as tweezers came out of her blouse and three long red candles were removed from her sleeve.

One night as the lights from cars coming in the opposite direction lit up the inside of the vehicle, my mother handed me a small bag of chocolate eggs.

Here, I took these for you, she said.

I ate them in the bus as I looked out the window and into the dense jungle that lined the side of the highway.

After Maria had her harelip operation everything changed. If it had not been for Maria, we might not have noticed the vultures circling above our house as we walked back from the clinic.

I’m going to go and investigate what’s dead, my mother said, moving away from the window where she was looking out at the sky.

You stay here, she said.

I waited for about an hour listening to music on my iPod, which she’d also stolen from the Reyes family, before she came back.

She looked worried and she’d been pulling at her hair on the left side of her head. It was sticking out in a great frizzy clump. I pulled the earbuds, and the sound of Daddy Yankee, out of my ears.

Ladydi, listen, she said. There’s a dead man out there and we have to bury him.

What do you mean?

There’s a damn corpse out there.

Who is it?

He’s naked.

Naked?

You’re going to have to close your eyes and help me put him in the ground. Go get some spoons, the big one, and get out of those clothes, I’m going for the spade out back.

I stood up and took off the clean clothes I’d worn to go to the clinic in the morning and changed into an old pair of jeans and a T-shirt.

My mother returned with the spade that we usually used for digging up anthills.

Okay, she said. Follow me.

I followed my mother. I counted five vultures above us. My mother made a breathless sound, like panting, as we walked. We reached the corpse in a few minutes.

This is too close to the house, I said.

This is too damn close to the house. You’re right.

Yes.

He was dumped here.

Who is he?

Does he look familiar to you?

No.

In this land one can go out for a walk and find a huge iguana, a papaya tree covered with dozens of large fruits, an enormous anthill, marijuana plants, poppies, or a corpse.

It was the body of a young boy. He looked about sixteen years old. He was lying on his back looking up into the sun.

Poor thing, my mother said.

The sun will burn his face.

Yes.

His hands had been cut off and white and blue veins threaded out from his bloody wrists into the dirt like bloated worms.

The letter P was carved into his forehead.

There was a note pinned to his shirt with a large safety pin with a pink plastic clasp. It was the kind of pin used for diapers.

Does that note say what I think it says? my mother asked as she began to dig. Does that say:
Paula and two girls
?

Yes, that’s what it says.

You, get over here! Start digging. We need to hurry.

As the vultures circled above us we dug using the spade, the large spoon, and our hands.

Deeper, deeper, my mother said. We need to dig deeper or the animals will pull him out in the night.

We dug for over two hours and the ground produced transparent worms, green beetles, and pink stones.

My mother scraped at the earth and looked over her shoulder every so often in a panic. I feel eyes are on us, she whispered.

Wouldn’t it have been better to just let the jungle take care of the body? I asked. But even as I said this, I knew the answer.

The police and drug traffickers kept an eye out for vultures. My mother said that the birds were the best informants around. She did not want anyone to come snooping around, looking at her daughter.

After the hole was deep enough we pulled the body into the hole and covered it over with dirt.

I looked at my hands. The dirt had been pushed way deep under my nails and no washing was going to get it out. Not for weeks.

When we finished my mother said, I never thought you were
born to bury a dead boy with me. That was not in the prediction of my life.

Once, when my mother was about twenty years old, she went to Acapulco and paid a fortune-teller to tell her about what was going to happen in her life. This was a fortune-teller who had a small space that she rented between two bars on the main street in Acapulco. My mother told me that she’d been attracted to the woman’s sign, which said:
You are only unfortunate if you don’t know your fortune
.

My mother used to watch tourists from all over the world pay money to hear what this woman said. She knew she had to go. It took my mother years to get up the courage to go inside and pay to have her fortune told.

I was just an Indian from the countryside, my mother said. But that woman kissed my money and whispered to me, Money has no country or race. Once the money is in my pocket I don’t know who gave it to me.

My mother always brought up this experience. That fortune-teller predicted nothing. Anything that happened to my mother was always punctuated with the words: This was not a prediction in my life. As the years went by the disappointment grew deeper as my mother realized that nothing the woman said had come true.

Mark my words, Ladydi, my mother said. One of these weekends when we’re in Acapulco we’re going to go and find that fortune-teller and I’m going to tell her to give my money back.

After the last pile of dirt had been thrown over the dead boy’s body my mother said, Let’s say a prayer.

You say it, I answered.

Get on our knees, my mother said. This is serious.

We both knelt on the white worms, the beetles, and pink stones.

On the happy day that Maria had her mouth fixed and the little baby had his extra thumb removed, this young boy appeared. We pray for rain. Amen.

Then we stood up and walked back to our house.

As we washed our hands in the kitchen sink, my mother said, Yes, Ladydi, I’m going to tell Paula’s mother. I have to. She needs to know.

My mother stood at the kitchen sink. She took out the note that had been pinned on the corpse from her pocket and lit a match to the paper. Paula’s name turned to ash.

Paula never knew her father. To think that there was a man out there someplace who did not know he’d sired the most beautiful girl in Mexico!

Paula’s mother, Concha, never told anyone who Paula’s father was but my mother had her own theory. Concha used to work as a bedroom maid at the house of a rich family in Acapulco.

On the day Concha was fired, she came back to the mountain with two things: a baby in her belly and a wad of pesos in her hand.

There’s nothing worse than a fatherless daughter, my mother said. The world just eats those girls alive.

After we’d washed, my mother and I went over to Paula’s house, which was a short walk down to the edge of the highway.