The Moths and Other Stories (15 page)

“Apá,” he said, slapping his father on the shoulder, “are you gonna lend me the cologne or what?” He rubbed each shoe against his pant leg. His shoulders were now stooped so that he was no longer taller than his father. “Laura and me, we're gonna go to a movie.”

“Ay, qué, mi'jo!” Fierro was relieved. Get him out of the neighborhood. That much he knew if he wanted to save his son's good heart. He slapped the cologne on both sides of Chuy's face. “Ay, qué mi'jo. Laura and you!” The woman pounded on the door. “Got your key, mi'jo? And don't forget to lock the door after…”

“Ay te watcho, Jefito,” Chuy interrupted. Taking a last look at his reflection, he winked at his father and was gone.

The woman pounded on the door again and Fierro opened it. She handed him the hearing aid, and, after a few adjustments, he was able to hear. As he followed her into the kitchen, he wanted to tell her about Chuy. But once he caught the aroma of the beans, he immediately forgot what he had wanted to say.

The woman grated some cheese, then sprinkled it on the boiling beans. After the cheese had melted, she spooned the
beans onto the flour tortillas. Fierro ate the burritos as greedily as the pigeons pecked their crumbs of bread outside. As he licked his fingers, she poured some instant coffee into his tin cup then added some milk and honey. His hands trembled whenever he lifted the cup to his lips, sipping loudly.

“Good,” he finally said. “It's all so good,” and he reached over the table to touch her hand. As he had done for the past several days, Fierro studied her face, the crevices and creases, the moles and marks, studied those things which distinguish one person from another in hopes of finding something which would deliver immediate recognition. But in the end, as always, his mind became exhausted, and once again he failed. Beads of perspiration formed on the temples of his forehead, and the room began to circle and circle around him.

“Macario!?” the woman asked. But before he could answer, he fainted. Kneeling beside him, she looked around the room in confusion and fear, hoping to find something that would revive him and make him well. But all she could do, all she could think of, was to get the dishcloth and place it on his forehead. He began to squirm. Finally, when he was semi-conscious, he whispered to her, his lips feeling heavy and swollen, “Heartaches.”

She helped him to the bed, pulling the blankets aside, and he slipped into sleep, smelling her scent in the sheets. He slept for a while, dreaming of watermelons so cool and refreshing to his lips, until the first abdominal cramp hit and he groped around for her hand. He wanted to ask for water, but his lips were swollen and dried and he couldn't speak. He was extremely thirsty and craved melons: crenshaw melons, honeydew melons, cantaloupe melons, watermelons. The woman bathed him in cool water, but the water could not extinguish the burning in his mouth and stomach. A second spasm hit without warning, his whole body cramping into a fetal position. With the onset of the third spasm, the retching began.

The woman became frantic and paced around and around his bed like a caged lioness. He was dying and she couldn't do anything because he had already made up his mind, and she wrung and wrung her hands in helplessness. When she finally picked up the phone, Fierro, barely able to move, motioned with his finger NO, then pointed to a chair. The
hours passed as she sat next to him, rocking herself back and forth, mesmerized in deep prayer.

His lips were parched but his craving for coolness suddenly disappeared. He turned to look at the woman and finally, after some time, finally, recognized her. Before he could say her name again, he felt an avalanche crush his chest and he could no longer breathe. Fierro desperately inhaled in hopes of catching some air, but the more desperate he became, the less he could breathe. In short fits of spasms, his life snapped.

The pillow fell to her feet and she gently lifted his head to replace it. She tried to arouse him, but he lay still, his eyes yellow and dull. She pressed her ear against his chest. There was no breathing, no heartbeat, just a faint buzzing sound. The woman shook her head sadly as she slowly reached into his shirt pocket and turned off the hearing aid. She began moaning. At first light, and hardly audible, her moaning began to crescendo into high wails of sorrow and disbelief. Shrieking angrily at the God who convinced Fierro to die, the barefooted woman ran out, the screen door slamming behind her.

With her heart beating in a maddening race, Aura sat facing the front door, the gun on her lap. Her sunbonnet still hung limply by the side of her head, and her hands and face were smeared with dry blood and mud. The hours came and went with the ticking of the clock, and she waited, cocking the gun whenever she heard car brakes, her fear swelling to her throat, then releasing the trigger and relaxing once the car had spun away.

The summer of the rattlers. The Vizcano Desert was far away, yet she could almost feel the rattlers coiled up under the brittle bushes waiting for her. As a child she was frightened by their domination of the desert. If they were disturbed, they struck with such force that it was always too late to do anything. Her grandfather had taught her how to look for them, how to avoid them, and if necessary, how to kill them. But the sight of one always made her immobile because she had no protection against their menacing appearance, their slickness as they slowly slithered to a cooler location, or their
instinct to survive. And so she never left the house without grandfather. But he was dead, and she would be soon if she didn't protect herself. Her eyes grew heavy with sleep but she refused to close them, for the rattlers were out there. Somewhere.

Aura finally dozed, her head falling forward until the loud door slam startled her into wakefulness and she groped around for the gun. She could not keep her body from trembling as she stood up from her chair to listen to the sounds coming from outside. She heard running footsteps, panting, and she felt the sweat dripping between her breasts. Someone was on her porch and she prayed to be left alone. She held the gun high with both hands, squeezing, tightly squeezing it as she aimed at the door.