My cousin Paulina is turning three, so I can’t imagine that slaughtering and frying an animal would be very exciting for her, but that’s how parties always are. Every milestone or accomplishment leads to alcohol and obscene amounts of fried meat.
That afternoon, Belén, Mamá Jacinta, and I walk over to the venue where the rest of the family has been preparing all morning. When we cross the town square, the Indian ladies, with long black braids that look like rope, try to sell us nopales. Their thick hair reminds me of Amá. Strangers on the street have offered her money in exchange for her shiny braids.
The women sit on the ground, with a large wicker basket full of peeled and sliced cactus in little plastic bags. How poor do you have to be to sell something that’s free? I can literally walk up to any nopal in town and cut off a paddle. I see Mamá Jacinta do it all the time. The worst part is not even peeling them; it’s getting rid of all the slime.
I’ve always wondered why the bottoms of tree trunks here were painted white, but I’ve never asked about it. I stare at the sad, rusted fountain and wonder if they’ll ever turn the water back on. A girl, with a baby strapped to her back with an embroidered orange cloth, stands up and puts her hand in front of me. “Por favor, señorita,” she pleads. “Una limosna.” She looks about thirteen, so small and bony, I can’t imagine that baby coming out of her. I pray it’s not hers.
“Don’t listen to them,” Belén says. “They’re here begging every day. She should work like everyone else. Typical indias.” Belén practically spits out the words. I don’t understand why she thinks
she’s so much better than they are. She’s just as dark and wears the same frayed red dress every other day.
“Have you looked at yourself?” I mumble. “What?”
“Nothing.”
I turn back to the baby, who is crying now, his face covered with dirt and snot. I give the girl all the change in my pocket. Belén crosses her arms over her chest and shakes her head.
The party venue is owned by los Garzas, the richest family in Los Ojos. According to Belén, they got rich by selling drugs. When I ask her what kind of drugs, all she says is “the worst kind.”
I hear a violent squealing when we approach and look at Mamá Jacinta, my stomach sinking. “They’re killing it right now? I thought it would be dead already.”
“Sorry, mija. We can take a walk and come back if you want.” “Don’t be a baby,” Belén says. “You eat meat, don’t you?” “Yeah, but I’ve never seen my tacos killed before my very eyes.” “Ay, Dios mío, you Americans are so delicate,” Belén says.
“Come on, let’s go for a walk,” Mamá Jacinta says, placing her warm hand on my arm.
“No. It’s okay. Let’s go.”
Tío Chucho and my cousin Andrés drag the writhing pig with a long red rope. Its desperate and brutal cries give me goose bumps. Once they get the poor thing onto a slab of concrete, Andrés stabs it in the heart.
“Good job, mijo,” tío says.
The pig squirms all over the ground, and its squeals become deeper and more anguishing. The blood gushes from its chest. I feel light-headed.
“Are you excited for the chicharrones, prima?” Andrés shouts to me.
“Oh yeah. Delicious. Can’t wait,” I yell back.
When the pig finally dies, Andrés and tío Chucho hang it by its hind legs and bleed it out into a bucket. Once it’s drained, they
begin to cut it into pieces. I try not to look, but I can’t help it—my eyes are drawn to the blood.
After a while, I can hear the pop and crackle of the frying flesh. I’m sick to my stomach, but my mouth still waters. The human body is so weird sometimes. Once all the meat is cooked, tía Estela brings me a plate of rice, beans, and chicharrones.
“Ándale, mija,” she says, and squeezes my shoulder. “You need to put some weight back on.” It’s funny how in the United States I’m too fat, and in Mexico I’m too skinny. I know tía is worried about me. The Montenegro women are all excellent worriers.
I smile and say, “Thank you,” because the rudest thing you can do to a Mexican lady is refuse her food—might as well spit on a picture of La Virgen de Guadalupe or turn the TV off during Sábado Gigante.
I take a few chicharrones, put them in a soft tortilla, and drown them in dark red salsa. I eat them without much difficulty, but when I make my next taco, I see a few thick hairs jutting from the skin. I don’t want everyone to think I’m a spoiled American princess, so I close my eyes and inhale the taco as quickly as possible. I imagine my face a beautiful shade of putrid green when I’m finished, but I’m proud of my triumph.
The dance floor begins to get crowded once everyone is full of pig meat. The music is tinny and crackly—partly because of the cheap sound system—but I still like it. The accordions sound ridiculously joyful, even when the songs are about death. Tía Fermina and tío Raul dance cheek to cheek. Belén dances with Mamá Jacinta’s lanky next-door neighbor. I watch everyone’s jumpy little dances as the sun bakes me into a cocoon of laziness. I start to nod off in my chair when Andrés pokes me in the shoulder and tells me we’re going to ride horses.
“Come on, prima,” he says, pulling me up.
“I’m tired. I don’t feel like it.” I try to slump back down. “It’ll be good for you.”
“How?” “Trust me.”
Defeated, I follow Andrés to the field next to the venue, where two black horses are tied to a fence.
“This one is Isabela,” he says, pointing to the smaller one. “And this is Sebastián.” Andrés rubs the horse’s side and smiles.
“Nice to meet you.” I pretend to shake their hooves. “They’re married, you know.”
“Married! What are you talking about?” Imagining Isabela in a wedding gown makes me laugh so hard I snort. “Did they have a wedding? Did they waltz? Did she throw a bouquet?”
“Obviously, they didn’t have a wedding, tonta, but they’re a real couple.” Andrés seems annoyed that I find it so funny, that I’m having a hard time believing in romantic love between two animals.
“Really?”
“When they’re separated, Sebastián cries, I swear to God. Big, fat tears!” Andrés looks serious, so I stop laughing. He even crosses himself to make a point.
As Andrés gets the saddles from the shed, I pet Isabela’s back and run my fingers through her coarse black mane. Her coat is so dark it’s almost blue. Her muscles are tight and shimmer in the sunlight. I don’t think I’ve ever seen something so beautiful in my whole entire life. It’s almost bewildering.
I’m surprised by how much I love being on a horse again, to feel its tremendous strength under me. Andrés and I ride toward the river. It’s quiet except for the clacking hooves and buzzing insects in the yellowed grass. A flock of gray birds passes over us and settles in a giant tree. “Doves,” Andrés says. The river is nearly gone now because of the drought. The only water that remains is brownish green and full of garbage—plastic bags, bottles, wrappers, and even a solitary shoe. I shiver when I remember my dream about Olga as a mermaid; I can still see her glowing face so clearly.
The abandoned train station next to the river is boarded up now, the red paint peeling off in giant strips. The tracks are rusted, and the wood is worn. Andrés says the train has been gone for years now. It used to be bustling with people, but the company was crooked and couldn’t sustain itself. I remember Mamá Jacinta
bringing me and Olga here when I was little. She bought us tiny wooden boxes of cajeta that was so sweet and sticky, it hurt my teeth for hours. I also know that Papá Feliciano used to take this train to sell pots and pans in other towns. He died before they closed the line. I guess, in a way, it’s good that he never saw it shut down. He loved that train.
Big fat flies begin biting Isabela’s face and neck when we approach a clearing. She shakes her head to get them off, but it’s no use; even if I swat them away, they come right back. My hand is smeared with blood when I rub her where the flies have landed. I kiss the back of her head when Andrés isn’t looking.
We ride along the river until the sun dips behind the trees and the crickets begin to sing. A field of corn in the distance looks dry and shriveled, and I wonder what would happen if someone flicked a match at it. I could ride Isabela forever, but Andrés says we should get back to the party so Mamá Jacinta doesn’t worry. When I say goodbye to Isabela, I press my face against her side and run my hand over her back. I think I can hear her heartbeat. Suddenly, I remember the time Olga and I rode our great-uncle’s horses the second time we came to Los Ojos. At first, I was too scared, but Olga told me that the horses wouldn’t hurt me because they were magical creatures. And I believed her.
Andrés laughs. “What are you doing?”
I smile. “Nothing. Just giving her a hug.”
—
Tío Chucho walks toward me, holding a beer. “Ándale, mija, let’s dance.” He looks a little wobbly.
“No thanks, tío. I’m not much of a dancer.”
“Nonsense!” he says, and leads me to the dance floor. “The Montenegros are the best dancers in Los Ojos!”
The song is about three girls who drive to a carnival and plummet to their deaths when the truck flips over the side of a cliff. I’m not sure why anyone would want to dance to that. Tío Chucho smells like he’s sweating beer. His shirt is damp and his skin is sticky, but I keep dancing because I don’t want to hurt his
feelings. He’s having a great time, spinning me around and singing along at the top of his lungs.
After the third song, a group of men wearing black masks and holding rifles walks toward the entrance of the venue. Tío lets go of my hand. His face slackens. “Chingue su madre,” he mutters.
“¿Qué, tío? What’s happening?”
“Nothing, mija. I’ll take care of it,” tío says, and walks toward them.
Everyone looks stiff and worried, but no one says a word. It’s suddenly a party full of statues. Andrés just keeps blinking. He looks like he might pass out.
Are they soldiers? Are they narcos? I have no idea.
One of the masked men stares at me the entire time, as if he’s drilling holes into my body with his eyes.
Tío Chucho pulls an envelope from his pocket and hands it to one of the men, who nods toward Andrés. Tío returns to the party looking pale and terrified. When the man finally turns away from me, I notice a faded Santa Muerte tattoo on his forearm.
“What the hell was that?” I whisper to Belén.
“You need to stop asking so many questions,” she says, and turns away from me.
