The Curse
by Kendra Paredes Hayden
(First appeared in ESC! Magazine)
María’s husband died a few days earlier, and one of her main consolations was that he had
the decency to die leaving her in financial comfort.
“I want to buy a plot for myself in the new cemetery near Ajalpan,” she told her son, Juacho.
“I don’t want to spend eternity with your father or his family.”
She wasn’t accustomed to making calls that weren’t important or to having long
conversations. Often to the surprise of those with whom she conversed, she abruptly
conveyed the message and hung up.
“Mamá, he’s only been dead a few days. Can’t we talk about this later?” Juacho said.
“What about the space that’s reserved for you, the space next to your husband and the rest
of your family?”
“My family. No, they are your family not my family.”
“Ay, Mamá.”
“I’m telling you. Rats run through the mausoleum. The tombs aren’t sealed properly, and the
stench of rotting bodies horrifies me.” She pulled her lips over her toothy mouth and flared
her nostrils.
“What difference does it make where you lie after you’re dead? Who knows the difference?”
he yawned.
“I spent fifty years with your father. I will not spend eternity with him or his family.” She
raised her voice and shook her head. “Forget I asked. I’ll do it myself.”
“I’ll do it. I’ll do it,” he said, but she had already hung the phone up.
María looked around the wide hallway where she stood. She ran her index finger along the
top of the table beside her and inspected her fingertips for dirt. The extra refrigerator on the
other side of the hall hummed. Fruit flies floated lazily above a basket of guayavas, bright
red and orange cactus fruit, and cherry-like capulinas.
Normally, the voices of the Indian servants filled the kitchen. But it was Sunday evening.
On Sundays only, after she made sure everything was immaculate and in its place, María
dismissed them for the evening to visit their families. María, Oralia her daughter, and
Teresa her sister, lived in the seven-bedroom Spanish Colonial home in the town of
Tehuacán in Mexico.
María was exhausted after her husband’s funeral. All she wanted was a hot bath and her
clean bed. As she walked to the bathroom, the doorbell buzzed. She was tempted not to
answer but thought someone may have seen her through the front gates. Besides,
everyone in town knew she was home. Where could she go so soon after her husband’s
death? She would be in mourning for at least a year.
She peered through the abundance of plant life that filled the large courtyard. María loved
her garden with its sweet smelling gardenias, Huele a Noche trees and jasmine vines.
There were so many plants and flowers in her garden she sometimes had trouble
distinguishing one plant from another.
After a short pause, the doorbell buzzed several times irritating her and also giving her an
ominous premonition. She wondered who it could be. It was Sunday, she reasoned, and
everyone knew she was in mourning. Usually, the parakeets and canaries she kept in
cages hanging from the patio ceiling twittered and twilled, but even they did not sing or
move. They were as still as the 200 ft. Araucaria pine trees. The hairs on her arms rose to
attention. She rubbed them back to rest.
Oralia and Teresa were in their rooms. Oralia peeked out of her door.
“Who is it, Mamá? Who is so impatient?”
María shrugged her shoulders and turned her mouth into a downward frown. She walked to
the center of the patio to get a better view of the front gates.
Teresa came out of her room. “This has something to do with Chemo.”
“Ay, Teresa,” María said. She had a feeling in her stomach that Teresa was right.
The three women squinted to see the red gates leading to the street. After a moment of
seeing what was in front of them, but unable to process the scene, their eyes widened.
They covered their mouths with their hands. At least thirty policemen pointed machine guns
in the three women’s direction.
“I told you it had something to do with Chemo,” Teresa whispered. “He’s always in
trouble.” Her head wagged with slight Parkinson’s Disease. She crossed her arms over her
chest and covered her mouth with her hand.
“He’s my son, Aunt Teresa,” Oralia said, raising her voice. She pushed her long gray hair
off her face.
“Quiet, Teresa, Oralia. I have to think,” Maria said. She wiped her sweaty palms along the
sides of her apron as she walked to the gates. Oralia and Teresa followed behind her.
María wished she could faint. She’d seen many women of her generation faint at the
slightest provocation. María believed they pretended. It was a good idea, she thought. It
would be better to wake up when the worst was over after someone else dealt with the
problem. Nevertheless, María never fainted in times of crisis. She couldn’t even pretend it.
In fact, her thoughts always became clearer. Her back straightened. Her legs stayed
strong.
She spoke with a clear voice, “What is this? What do you want?”
“We have a warrant for the arrest of Sergio “Chemo” Román Del-Morel,” the officer in
charge said. “We also have a warrant to search the entire house for drugs.”
He was a runt of a man - brown as a bean. From the back he looked like a child, but from
the front, his face was heavily line. His eyes were bloodshot. He puffed his chest out like a
rooster and raised his gun. All three women gasped. María fumbled for her keys hanging
from her waist, and placed the key into the lock.
“My grandson disappeared weeks ago. I have no idea where he is.”
She barely finished her sentence before the police spilled through the gates like ants
marching into an ant hill.
“We were told by a very reliable source that drugs are hidden in this house,” the officer said.
“Please, sir. My husband just died a few days ago. This house is still in mourning.”
“I’m just following orders. But I warn you. Never let your grandson set foot inside this house
again. He’s been dealing drugs out of here for years. I’ve been told to take the drugs.
Nothing else. If he enters these premises again, however, the government will confiscate
your house, everything in it, and any assets you own.”
With his gun, he pointed his men toward different areas of the house. The sound of the
officer’s boots running on the floors sounded like applause.
A few weeks before Juaquin died, he told his grandson, Chemo, “I know what you’ve been
doing in my house. You’ve been selling marijuana.”
Juaquin’s body was as twisted as the red flowering bougainvillea vines that covered the red
gates leading to the street. His jaw jutted painfully to one side. About ten years earlier he
had been on a bus heading for Mexico City. He visited there often because he was the
personal physician to the president of Mexico. He also used the time to visit his mistress
and his other children. One fatal day, while traveling the steep and dangerous mountain
passes before entering the Valley of Mexico, the bus driver lost control and crashed.
Panicked passengers trampled Juaquin crushing practically every bone in his body. He
was never the same.
With a cocky grin Chemo said, “Grandfather, don’t listen to rumors.” He reeked of that
burnt marijuana smell. María noticed he’d taken on a new facade as if he thought he were
the man of the house now.
“Shut up and listen for once,” Juaquin coughed. María wiped his mouth with a
handkerchief. “I was not a weak young man. Now that I am old, I am weak.”
María interrupted him before he could make a long speech. “Quit being theatrical. We don’
t have much time. You’ll be dead any time now.”
Juaquin glanced at María.
“Yes, Maria. You think I don’t know I’m dying?” He reached for her hand, and she held it for
a moment. He looked back at Chemo.
“María is right. I’ll be as direct as possible so you understand what you have to do. I was
told by my compadre who is very powerful in the government, that as soon as I die, the
authorities will be coming for you,” Juaquin said. “They’ve only left you alone because of
me. Chemo, you have to leave. Tonight.”
“I have no place to go.” A look of panic crossed Chemo’s face.
“Then go to jail,” María said. “If you’re lucky you might find a dirty mat to sleep on.”
Chemo stiffened. “I don’t have any money.”
“María will give you enough money to get by for a while. After that, it’s up to you,” Juaquin
said. “Be a man. Take care of your own affairs.”
María and Teresa flattened themselves against a wall as the police ran passed them to
search the house.
“You have four sons, María. Shouldn’t we call one of them for help?”
María waved Teresa off as she held on to the arm rest to lower herself into a sitting position
on the patio furniture.
“I don’t know anymore,” she said.
“But María, your sons. They can help. Why don’t you call them?”
“No, they don’t respect Oralia. They never liked her husband or her children.”
She rested her elbow in one hand and covered her mouth with her other hand. She shook
her head as she watched the police raze her garden and as she heard her things crash to
the floor in all the rooms of her house.
María realized she was pregnant with her daughter in 1920. In a dream, her mother stood
behind her.
“Guess what?” her mother whispered. She could feel her mother’s warm breath on her ear.
“It’s a girl.”
María turned to look at her mother, but her mother disappeared before María could see
her. Right after the dream, she woke up. She was a believer of dreams, premonitions and
curses so she didn’t question her mother’s words. And, as it turned out, her mother was
right.
María was terrified. She wondered how she could have let this happen before marriage.
She’d been so flattered, so swept up by his charm, so pleased that he had noticed her. She
asked herself how she could have been so stupid, so girlish, so needy. She thought God
would never forgive her for the sin she committed, the sin of premarital relations with a man.
She was sure she had cursed her child.
She didn’t tell Juaquin about the pregnancy for weeks even after she was sick from morning
to night and her stomach swelled under her cloth dress. She argued with herself. Part of her
wanted to tell him and part of her swore never to tell him.
Her fate was in Juaquin’s hands. If he married her, she and her baby might be all right
despite the curse she had put on her child. She assured herself that she could fight the
curse as long as she didn’t have to worry about the basic necessities of life - food, water
and shelter. If he didn’t marry her, she would be relegated to raising a child alone and eking
out a sorry existence, at times, possibly, living on the streets. She believed no good man
would ever respect her or have her.
She called after him as he walked away from her down the long sterile corridor in the
hospital. Her fingertips tingled and she couldn’t catch her breath as she ran toward him.
She swore to herself that she would not ask for anything. She would not pressure him for
support. The decision would be his alone.
“Juaquin, I need to talk to you.”
“Can it wait, María?” he said, not turning to look at her. “I’m tired.”
She reached to touch his sleeve. “Juaquin, it’s very important.”
He sighed and led her by the arm out a side door to a stone bench by a fountain in the
courtyard. He patted her on the hand once they were seated. She was momentarily
comforted.
“Tell me. Things can’t be that bad.”
He smiled at her, and her heart skipped a beat.
She took a deep breath. She’d rehearsed what she was going to say, but she couldn’t
remember anything. As she exhaled, she said, “I’m pregnant, Juaquin.”
Juaquin let go of her hand. He squeezed the bridge of his nose with his fingers. He ran his
hand down the length of his face distorting his features.
“I am the father.” He said the statement in a flat monotone as if he were realizing the truth,
but hoping he was wrong.
“Of course, Juaquin,” María said. “You know, I was never with anyone else. You know this.
It pleased you, remember?”
He looked past her as if remembering something embarrassing, shameful. She looked down
at her hands. When she looked back up at him, she held her chin high in the air.
“How old are you, María?”
She hesitated for a moment. Her eyes darted from side to side.
“I am almost 18 years old.”
In truth, she was almost 23. She considered herself proud, but not stupid.
“You’re young. I’m 33 years old.”
He took a deep breath and pulled out a gold watch hanging from a chain on his pants.
“Do you have a nice dress?” he asked.
She smiled for the first time in months. “I can make one.”
And, in a blink of an eye, they were married.
Fifty years later, she watched her daughter trying to replant a geranium.
“Mamá, the garden, it’s all torn up,” Oralia said
When Oralia was young, she had a shy pretty way of looking up at people through her
lashes. She still looked at people this way, but it wasn’t attractive anymore. Her gray hair
fell over her eyes, and what was once considered a demure glance, now looked like a
suspicious cast of the eye.
“They found marijuana growing in the garden. They found pounds of it hidden in Chemo’s
closet,” Teresa said. She tilted her head to the side as if waiting for an answer.
“Chemo was always a good boy,” Oralia said as she looked at the geranium in her hand.
Torn roots covered her fingers. Clumps of soil plopped on the ground.
Teresa rolled her eyes and tightened her lips. She looked at María.
“He’ll be back. What will we do?”
What will we do? She could still hear herself saying the same words to her father, Agustín,
the day he left at the beginning of the Revolution of 1910.
At the time, María was ten years old. She did not understand the complexities of war. It was
all so confusing to her. It was true many people were against the oligarchy and its federal
army, and the feudal system that kept the Indians like slaves, but this did not mean the
people worked together. Many times they fought against each other as well as the
government.
She watched guerrilla bands ride into town one day and then ride out. A few days later, a
similar force from an opposing group or the federal army would appear. María didn’t trust
any of them. They all seized supplies or forced women to give them “favors.” All María
understood was that her father was leaving in a hurry and would not be back to help take
care of his family and his sick wife.
“We need you, Papá.”
Agustín looked down at María and stopped packing. He sat down on the bed, chin on chest.
“How can I explain, María? The country is changing. I’ve lived here most of my adult life,
but I’m Spaniard, as they say, a Gachupin. Because of the war, foreigners aren’t welcome
anymore. The people despise us. Just yesterday my good friend was hung in the street. Do
you remember Luis?
María nodded, her lips slightly parted.
“They will come for me if I don’t leave.”
“Won’t they come for us?”
“No.”
“How can you be sure? You’re leaving a household of women alone, my mother, me,
Teresa. That’s dangerous even if there weren’t a war. Who will protect us, and how will we
pay our bills? We have no food.”
Agustín didn’t answer her questions. She clenched her jaw.
“Take us with you.” Her brown eyes tried to meet her father’s blue eyes.
“I can’t take you to Spain.”
“Why not?”
“You’ll fit in better here.”
María noticed a lock of his blond hair fell across his face. He hadn’t shaven in days.
“Are you coming back?”
“I’ll try.”
“What will we do?” she asked as he turned to walk out the door. He never answered.
Teresa pulled María away from her memories. “María, what will we do if Chemo comes
back?”
María closed her eyes and grimaced. Chemo. She was never able to love her grandson.
María believed that Chemo was just another part of the curse. María suspected Chemo
pushed Oralia, even hit her. The curse never let her rest.
Many years earlier, she had vowed to give her daughter a better life than she had had.
Oralia was to become a grand lady of a grand household, the highest of honors for a
Mexican woman. Her presence was supposed to be as strong as the moon. But that
never happened, and María couldn’t understand why.
“I need to think, Teresa.”
Teresa nodded and put her hand on María’s shoulder before she walked away.
María looked at the damage the police made. She grabbed a broom and walked into her
husband’s room where he had taken his last breath days earlier. Clothes hung out of
drawers. Sheets and blankets crumpled on the floor. The closet and armoire emptied.
She thought, “They did me a favor here. Everything goes tomorrow anyway.” She wasn’t
sure she meant that and felt a little guilty, but she would never forget the times Juaquin had
left her for his women. When he left town he would give his sister, Sara, control of the
money so that María had to go to her for household expenses.
She remembered knocking on Sara’s door waiting for her to answer. Her two youngest
children hid behind her skirts. Sara came to the door, but did not invite her in.
“Yes, María. I suppose you need money,” Sara said, hands on her hips.
“Tomorrow is market day. I need to buy some cloth to make the children some clothes.”
“Always the same story.”
“You have no idea how children go through clothes.” María hesitated, then decided to
needle her sister-in-law. “You have never been married with children of your own. How
could you understand these things?”
Sara narrowed her eyes as she looked at María. “How much do you need?”
“Fifty pesos.” Maria shot for a high number. She expected 20 pesos.
From the living room, María heard a man laughing. Sara cocked her ear to the sound of the
man’s voice. She reached in her pocket and counted out 25 pesos.
“Here. I don’t have time for this right now. ”
The two little boys hiding behind María’s skirts caught Sara’s eye before she closed the
door.
“Here, Agustín, Jose Luis, you like Muéganos, no?”
“They don’t need that,” María said, but Sara had already given them the sweet.
“Thank you, Tía,” they said. Sara extended her hand for each child to kiss.
María’s room looked the same as Juaquin’s. She put her hands on her hips and looked
around. It looked like the police had taken everything of any value in the house.
But then she saw her music box, the one Juaquin had given her. It was in a corner upside
down. A waltz from the famous set of waltzes, Sobre las Olas del Mar (Over Waves of the
Sea), tinkled weakly. When she picked the box up, Oralia’s gold locket in the shape of a
heart fell out of the folds of purple velvet.
Maria had always preferred not to think or to talk about memories. Good memories brought
pain because the time was past and would never return. And of course, bad memories
brought pain because they were bad. Instead, her whole life, she chose to live for today,
fight for right now. At the moment, however, she couldn’t block the memories.
She sat on her bed and opened the locket. It was empty. She remembered the day she
gave it to Oralia. Oralia was about 20 years old at the time. Her long eyelashes looked like
a million spider legs. She always wore a hat in the sun so her skin would stay flawless.
She held a letter of acceptance from St. Mary College in her graceful hands.
“I’ve waited all my life to study in the United States, Mamá,” she said.
“Oralia, be practical. It’s dangerous for a young girl to travel alone.”
“I’d be with the sisters at the school. You and Papá could come with me, see that I make it
safely.”
“Why would you want to go to the United States of all places?”
“To learn. There has to be more to life than this.” Oralia spread her arms wide.
“You’re lucky to have this house, your comforts. I had nothing when I was your age. I was
an orphan and I was a burden to my relatives.”
Puzzled, Maria watched Oralia’s demeanor change. Her shoulders slumped. Her chin was
on her chest.
“You don’t understand. I want to experience the world.”
“No, you don’t understand, my little daughter. I have experienced the world, and it’s not a
beautiful place. You’ll understand when you’re older. Women should stay home.”
Later the same day, María gave Oralia the heart-shaped locket.
“See, you can put two tiny photos in it.”
Oralia laughed a little as she held it in her hand.
“I don’t get to study, but I get a locket.”
A few weeks later, the gardener found the locket in the flowers. He returned it to María,
and she never mentioned it to her daughter.
And then another memory popped into María’s head.
Juaquin had said, “I’ve always thought it is very important for a girl to be innocent when she
married. We must make sure Oralia stays pure; otherwise, no one will ever respect her. Don’
t you agree, María?” He opened a book and started to read.
She stiffened her shoulders and took a deep breath. María was pregnant before marriage.
She had cursed herself and Oralia because of the sin she committed. She wanted Oralia to
do everything the right way so the curse wouldn’t have a chance to hit. On one level, María
agreed with Juaquin. Men’s intentions were rarely honorable, especially when sex was
concerned. Oralia was innocent. She should be protected at all costs.
With this thought, they never felt any of Oralia’s suitors were good enough to marry. Esta
esperando el ultimo tren. They were waiting for the best train as the saying goes. So they
discouraged her from marrying. Before María knew it, however, Oralia was 25 years old.
There were no men in her class left to marry.
Oralia did marry when she was 28 years old.
María told her, “Oralia, you’ve been protected all your life. Your only experience comes
from books. You won’t understand this, but I will tell you anyway. That man is cruel. He is
perverted. He is no good. I knew his father and his grandfather. They were the same.
These things can run in families. I don’t know why. Maybe they learn it. Maybe cruelty is just
a seed in their hearts that grows and grows.”
Oralia cut her off and said, “I’m going to marry him. You’ve never approved of anyone
whose ever been interested in me.”
María kept embroidering. She couldn’t look at Oralia.
“I can’t describe the way I feel about this, Oralia. I see only bad,” she said softly.
“If I don’t marry, what kind of life will I have? No kind of life. I’ll have to stay in the house
forever, content with my sewing. I will be like my spinster Aunt Anita, treated as a servant, in
everyone’s way.”
A tear dropped from María’s cheek and fell onto the cloth. The tear bubble magnified the
cloth underneath until it finally burst and absorbed into the material. The curse felt as heavy
as tortillas on a Coapena’s back - the young girls from Coapán who carry tortillas to all the
households in all the nearby towns. The girls set off from their homes with a stack of tortillas
on their backs almost as tall as they are. They trot barefooted to each house, rain or shine,
heat or cold, healthy or sick. They never walk. During their monthly time, they leave drops
of menstrual blood on the sidewalk. For some reason, María thought of these girls. Nothing
else.
María knew women took a great risk when they married. Their fate was in one man’s hands
for the rest of their lives. Many lucky women experienced marriages filled with love,
pleasure, delight. Other women endured loveless marriages filled with disappointment,
resentment, anger. The unluckiest of women experienced violence and fear. She shuddered
when she thought of her daughter’s marriage because María knew which destiny was
Oralia’s - violence and fear.
On Sept. 1, 1951, Oralia married Sergio. It was a beautiful wedding according to tradition.
The whole town was invited.
Old ladies claim that babies come when women smile. María could never imagine that
Oralia smiled with that man. Yet, Oralia had two children, Chemo and Marilaya. When the
children were still small, Sergio, Sr. disappeared, leaving Oralia in debt and homeless. With
nothing but the clothes on her back and her children’s hands in hers, Oralia had no choice
but to return to her parents’ house. Gossips in town whispered, “So the princess has fallen.”
Afterward, Chemo and Marilaya were sent to practically every school in Mexico. Chemo
was always dismissed because of misbehavior or because he ran away. By the time he was
a teenager, he spent most of his time drunk and drugged. And, as far as María was
concerned, Marilaya was a wild-child, a girl who did not understand the consequences of
her actions. She ran off with her boyfriend when she was 17 and visited sometimes.
María stood up and put the locket back in the jewelry box. Hoping to pull herself away from
her thoughts, she cleaned. She picked everything up off the floor. She folded all the clothes
and placed them neatly on shelves or hung them on hangers. She made her bed. She
swept and mopped and dusted.
After a few hours, she realized it was dark outside. Occasionally, she heard footsteps going
past the gates. The house was quiet. She saw a light in Teresa’s and Oralia’s rooms, but
she didn’t hear anything from them. Just then, however, she thought she heard someone
whisper hoarsely, desperately, “Mamá.” She turned to look out the door onto the patio. Her
daughter was running out of her room from her side of the house. Oralia was hunched over
and clutching the collar of her dress.
Maria covered her face with her hands when she heard Oralia call, “Chemo?”
“Please, Mother of God. No.” She jumped when she felt a hand on her shoulder. It was her
sister, Teresa.
She said, “María, Chemo’s here. I knew he was coming back. He probably hopes the
marijuana’s still here. That’s money in his pocket.”
María and Teresa hurried to stand beside Oralia. Oralia turned to look at María.
“Please, mother, I want to let him in. For just a little while.”
Teresa leaned toward María and whispered, “María, you could lose everything. They said
they’d take it all if he ever came in again. We will live like we lived during the Revolution,
María. Don’t you remember? People ate rats to survive.”
“And we weren’t that lucky,” María said, vacantly. These two statements were almost like
standard jokes when Teresa and María talked of old things in better times. It was not funny
now.
She thought over and over to herself, “Ay, my Oralia. My little daughter.”
María remembered when she could heal every trouble in Oralia’s soul. She had to admit it
was a long time ago when Oralia was a child. María knew what it felt like to be afraid and
lonely. She knew pain, suffering, loss. She vowed never to let Oralia recall a time in her life
when she felt this way. At the moment, she tried to understand the expression on Oralia’s
face. Oralia looked as if she’d always been alone in her own black night.
Was it the curse? Did María and Oralia really have to pay now and forever for a sin
committed so many years ago when she was young and vulnerable? Had she fought the
curse too hard and fallen into a trap? Was the devil laughing at her now? Did he
successfully use her as his instrument against Oralia? But, hadn’t she tried to catch Oralia
every time she stumbled? She’d done everything in her power to protect Oralia, to help her,
to try and make her happy. But she’d failed. Everything she did had been wrong. Had María
herself caused Oralia’s tragic life? Did all her good intentions just make things worse?
María reached in her pocket and felt the outline of the heart-shaped locket. She dropped it
as she extended her fingers to reach for Oralia.
She could hear herself saying, “Be a lady, little daughter. Be a good girl.”
She took a step toward Oralia and felt the locket under the sole of her slipper. She could
feel the soft Oaxaca gold bend.
She thought, I guess I never knew what she was talking about. I never understood what
she was living without.
Oralia pleaded, “It would only be for a little while. He needs some clothes. He’s hungry.”
“It didn’t occur to him to get a job, I suppose,” Teresa said.
“He’s not able to work. He’s too nervous,” Oralia said.
“Isn’t that convenient?” Teresa said.
“Aunt Teresa, please. Mother, no one would ever know. He could leave early in the
morning.”
“I . . .,” María started to talk, but Teresa interrupted.
“Oralia, can’t you understand what will happen if they find out? They are probably watching
this house now. María, do not let him in.”
Chemo stood at the gates. The only thing María could see in the darkness was his figure,
both arms outstretched through the iron bars. She shuddered. The curse had arrived in
person.
“Please let me in before the police see me,” he called.
“If you won’t let him in, I’ll go with him then,” Oralia said. She walked toward him.
Teresa said, “You’re crazy. He doesn’t want you with him.”
“I’m going.”
“Wait,” María said.
She reached for the keys around her waist and gave them to Oralia.
“Let him in.”
“Ay, María, no,” Teresa said. She crossed her arms over her chest. Pity was in her eyes.
“We have to let him in. I can’t let Oralia go with him. Can I?”
“No, I guess you can’t.” Teresa peered into the darkness. “I will never understand Oralia.
Will you, María?”
“I guess if you want to understand Oralia, you must ask about me first and then listen
carefully.”
Teresa crossed herself and kissed her thumb. “No, sister, no. Please don’t say that. You’ve
tried so hard.”
by Kendra Paredes Hayden
(First appeared in ESC! Magazine)
María’s husband died a few days earlier, and one of her main consolations was that he had
the decency to die leaving her in financial comfort.
“I want to buy a plot for myself in the new cemetery near Ajalpan,” she told her son, Juacho.
“I don’t want to spend eternity with your father or his family.”
She wasn’t accustomed to making calls that weren’t important or to having long
conversations. Often to the surprise of those with whom she conversed, she abruptly
conveyed the message and hung up.
“Mamá, he’s only been dead a few days. Can’t we talk about this later?” Juacho said.
“What about the space that’s reserved for you, the space next to your husband and the rest
of your family?”
“My family. No, they are your family not my family.”
“Ay, Mamá.”
“I’m telling you. Rats run through the mausoleum. The tombs aren’t sealed properly, and the
stench of rotting bodies horrifies me.” She pulled her lips over her toothy mouth and flared
her nostrils.
“What difference does it make where you lie after you’re dead? Who knows the difference?”
he yawned.
“I spent fifty years with your father. I will not spend eternity with him or his family.” She
raised her voice and shook her head. “Forget I asked. I’ll do it myself.”
“I’ll do it. I’ll do it,” he said, but she had already hung the phone up.
María looked around the wide hallway where she stood. She ran her index finger along the
top of the table beside her and inspected her fingertips for dirt. The extra refrigerator on the
other side of the hall hummed. Fruit flies floated lazily above a basket of guayavas, bright
red and orange cactus fruit, and cherry-like capulinas.
Normally, the voices of the Indian servants filled the kitchen. But it was Sunday evening.
On Sundays only, after she made sure everything was immaculate and in its place, María
dismissed them for the evening to visit their families. María, Oralia her daughter, and
Teresa her sister, lived in the seven-bedroom Spanish Colonial home in the town of
Tehuacán in Mexico.
María was exhausted after her husband’s funeral. All she wanted was a hot bath and her
clean bed. As she walked to the bathroom, the doorbell buzzed. She was tempted not to
answer but thought someone may have seen her through the front gates. Besides,
everyone in town knew she was home. Where could she go so soon after her husband’s
death? She would be in mourning for at least a year.
She peered through the abundance of plant life that filled the large courtyard. María loved
her garden with its sweet smelling gardenias, Huele a Noche trees and jasmine vines.
There were so many plants and flowers in her garden she sometimes had trouble
distinguishing one plant from another.
After a short pause, the doorbell buzzed several times irritating her and also giving her an
ominous premonition. She wondered who it could be. It was Sunday, she reasoned, and
everyone knew she was in mourning. Usually, the parakeets and canaries she kept in
cages hanging from the patio ceiling twittered and twilled, but even they did not sing or
move. They were as still as the 200 ft. Araucaria pine trees. The hairs on her arms rose to
attention. She rubbed them back to rest.
Oralia and Teresa were in their rooms. Oralia peeked out of her door.
“Who is it, Mamá? Who is so impatient?”
María shrugged her shoulders and turned her mouth into a downward frown. She walked to
the center of the patio to get a better view of the front gates.
Teresa came out of her room. “This has something to do with Chemo.”
“Ay, Teresa,” María said. She had a feeling in her stomach that Teresa was right.
The three women squinted to see the red gates leading to the street. After a moment of
seeing what was in front of them, but unable to process the scene, their eyes widened.
They covered their mouths with their hands. At least thirty policemen pointed machine guns
in the three women’s direction.
“I told you it had something to do with Chemo,” Teresa whispered. “He’s always in
trouble.” Her head wagged with slight Parkinson’s Disease. She crossed her arms over her
chest and covered her mouth with her hand.
“He’s my son, Aunt Teresa,” Oralia said, raising her voice. She pushed her long gray hair
off her face.
“Quiet, Teresa, Oralia. I have to think,” Maria said. She wiped her sweaty palms along the
sides of her apron as she walked to the gates. Oralia and Teresa followed behind her.
María wished she could faint. She’d seen many women of her generation faint at the
slightest provocation. María believed they pretended. It was a good idea, she thought. It
would be better to wake up when the worst was over after someone else dealt with the
problem. Nevertheless, María never fainted in times of crisis. She couldn’t even pretend it.
In fact, her thoughts always became clearer. Her back straightened. Her legs stayed
strong.
She spoke with a clear voice, “What is this? What do you want?”
“We have a warrant for the arrest of Sergio “Chemo” Román Del-Morel,” the officer in
charge said. “We also have a warrant to search the entire house for drugs.”
He was a runt of a man - brown as a bean. From the back he looked like a child, but from
the front, his face was heavily line. His eyes were bloodshot. He puffed his chest out like a
rooster and raised his gun. All three women gasped. María fumbled for her keys hanging
from her waist, and placed the key into the lock.
“My grandson disappeared weeks ago. I have no idea where he is.”
She barely finished her sentence before the police spilled through the gates like ants
marching into an ant hill.
“We were told by a very reliable source that drugs are hidden in this house,” the officer said.
“Please, sir. My husband just died a few days ago. This house is still in mourning.”
“I’m just following orders. But I warn you. Never let your grandson set foot inside this house
again. He’s been dealing drugs out of here for years. I’ve been told to take the drugs.
Nothing else. If he enters these premises again, however, the government will confiscate
your house, everything in it, and any assets you own.”
With his gun, he pointed his men toward different areas of the house. The sound of the
officer’s boots running on the floors sounded like applause.
A few weeks before Juaquin died, he told his grandson, Chemo, “I know what you’ve been
doing in my house. You’ve been selling marijuana.”
Juaquin’s body was as twisted as the red flowering bougainvillea vines that covered the red
gates leading to the street. His jaw jutted painfully to one side. About ten years earlier he
had been on a bus heading for Mexico City. He visited there often because he was the
personal physician to the president of Mexico. He also used the time to visit his mistress
and his other children. One fatal day, while traveling the steep and dangerous mountain
passes before entering the Valley of Mexico, the bus driver lost control and crashed.
Panicked passengers trampled Juaquin crushing practically every bone in his body. He
was never the same.
With a cocky grin Chemo said, “Grandfather, don’t listen to rumors.” He reeked of that
burnt marijuana smell. María noticed he’d taken on a new facade as if he thought he were
the man of the house now.
“Shut up and listen for once,” Juaquin coughed. María wiped his mouth with a
handkerchief. “I was not a weak young man. Now that I am old, I am weak.”
María interrupted him before he could make a long speech. “Quit being theatrical. We don’
t have much time. You’ll be dead any time now.”
Juaquin glanced at María.
“Yes, Maria. You think I don’t know I’m dying?” He reached for her hand, and she held it for
a moment. He looked back at Chemo.
“María is right. I’ll be as direct as possible so you understand what you have to do. I was
told by my compadre who is very powerful in the government, that as soon as I die, the
authorities will be coming for you,” Juaquin said. “They’ve only left you alone because of
me. Chemo, you have to leave. Tonight.”
“I have no place to go.” A look of panic crossed Chemo’s face.
“Then go to jail,” María said. “If you’re lucky you might find a dirty mat to sleep on.”
Chemo stiffened. “I don’t have any money.”
“María will give you enough money to get by for a while. After that, it’s up to you,” Juaquin
said. “Be a man. Take care of your own affairs.”
María and Teresa flattened themselves against a wall as the police ran passed them to
search the house.
“You have four sons, María. Shouldn’t we call one of them for help?”
María waved Teresa off as she held on to the arm rest to lower herself into a sitting position
on the patio furniture.
“I don’t know anymore,” she said.
“But María, your sons. They can help. Why don’t you call them?”
“No, they don’t respect Oralia. They never liked her husband or her children.”
She rested her elbow in one hand and covered her mouth with her other hand. She shook
her head as she watched the police raze her garden and as she heard her things crash to
the floor in all the rooms of her house.
María realized she was pregnant with her daughter in 1920. In a dream, her mother stood
behind her.
“Guess what?” her mother whispered. She could feel her mother’s warm breath on her ear.
“It’s a girl.”
María turned to look at her mother, but her mother disappeared before María could see
her. Right after the dream, she woke up. She was a believer of dreams, premonitions and
curses so she didn’t question her mother’s words. And, as it turned out, her mother was
right.
María was terrified. She wondered how she could have let this happen before marriage.
She’d been so flattered, so swept up by his charm, so pleased that he had noticed her. She
asked herself how she could have been so stupid, so girlish, so needy. She thought God
would never forgive her for the sin she committed, the sin of premarital relations with a man.
She was sure she had cursed her child.
She didn’t tell Juaquin about the pregnancy for weeks even after she was sick from morning
to night and her stomach swelled under her cloth dress. She argued with herself. Part of her
wanted to tell him and part of her swore never to tell him.
Her fate was in Juaquin’s hands. If he married her, she and her baby might be all right
despite the curse she had put on her child. She assured herself that she could fight the
curse as long as she didn’t have to worry about the basic necessities of life - food, water
and shelter. If he didn’t marry her, she would be relegated to raising a child alone and eking
out a sorry existence, at times, possibly, living on the streets. She believed no good man
would ever respect her or have her.
She called after him as he walked away from her down the long sterile corridor in the
hospital. Her fingertips tingled and she couldn’t catch her breath as she ran toward him.
She swore to herself that she would not ask for anything. She would not pressure him for
support. The decision would be his alone.
“Juaquin, I need to talk to you.”
“Can it wait, María?” he said, not turning to look at her. “I’m tired.”
She reached to touch his sleeve. “Juaquin, it’s very important.”
He sighed and led her by the arm out a side door to a stone bench by a fountain in the
courtyard. He patted her on the hand once they were seated. She was momentarily
comforted.
“Tell me. Things can’t be that bad.”
He smiled at her, and her heart skipped a beat.
She took a deep breath. She’d rehearsed what she was going to say, but she couldn’t
remember anything. As she exhaled, she said, “I’m pregnant, Juaquin.”
Juaquin let go of her hand. He squeezed the bridge of his nose with his fingers. He ran his
hand down the length of his face distorting his features.
“I am the father.” He said the statement in a flat monotone as if he were realizing the truth,
but hoping he was wrong.
“Of course, Juaquin,” María said. “You know, I was never with anyone else. You know this.
It pleased you, remember?”
He looked past her as if remembering something embarrassing, shameful. She looked down
at her hands. When she looked back up at him, she held her chin high in the air.
“How old are you, María?”
She hesitated for a moment. Her eyes darted from side to side.
“I am almost 18 years old.”
In truth, she was almost 23. She considered herself proud, but not stupid.
“You’re young. I’m 33 years old.”
He took a deep breath and pulled out a gold watch hanging from a chain on his pants.
“Do you have a nice dress?” he asked.
She smiled for the first time in months. “I can make one.”
And, in a blink of an eye, they were married.
Fifty years later, she watched her daughter trying to replant a geranium.
“Mamá, the garden, it’s all torn up,” Oralia said
When Oralia was young, she had a shy pretty way of looking up at people through her
lashes. She still looked at people this way, but it wasn’t attractive anymore. Her gray hair
fell over her eyes, and what was once considered a demure glance, now looked like a
suspicious cast of the eye.
“They found marijuana growing in the garden. They found pounds of it hidden in Chemo’s
closet,” Teresa said. She tilted her head to the side as if waiting for an answer.
“Chemo was always a good boy,” Oralia said as she looked at the geranium in her hand.
Torn roots covered her fingers. Clumps of soil plopped on the ground.
Teresa rolled her eyes and tightened her lips. She looked at María.
“He’ll be back. What will we do?”
What will we do? She could still hear herself saying the same words to her father, Agustín,
the day he left at the beginning of the Revolution of 1910.
At the time, María was ten years old. She did not understand the complexities of war. It was
all so confusing to her. It was true many people were against the oligarchy and its federal
army, and the feudal system that kept the Indians like slaves, but this did not mean the
people worked together. Many times they fought against each other as well as the
government.
She watched guerrilla bands ride into town one day and then ride out. A few days later, a
similar force from an opposing group or the federal army would appear. María didn’t trust
any of them. They all seized supplies or forced women to give them “favors.” All María
understood was that her father was leaving in a hurry and would not be back to help take
care of his family and his sick wife.
“We need you, Papá.”
Agustín looked down at María and stopped packing. He sat down on the bed, chin on chest.
“How can I explain, María? The country is changing. I’ve lived here most of my adult life,
but I’m Spaniard, as they say, a Gachupin. Because of the war, foreigners aren’t welcome
anymore. The people despise us. Just yesterday my good friend was hung in the street. Do
you remember Luis?
María nodded, her lips slightly parted.
“They will come for me if I don’t leave.”
“Won’t they come for us?”
“No.”
“How can you be sure? You’re leaving a household of women alone, my mother, me,
Teresa. That’s dangerous even if there weren’t a war. Who will protect us, and how will we
pay our bills? We have no food.”
Agustín didn’t answer her questions. She clenched her jaw.
“Take us with you.” Her brown eyes tried to meet her father’s blue eyes.
“I can’t take you to Spain.”
“Why not?”
“You’ll fit in better here.”
María noticed a lock of his blond hair fell across his face. He hadn’t shaven in days.
“Are you coming back?”
“I’ll try.”
“What will we do?” she asked as he turned to walk out the door. He never answered.
Teresa pulled María away from her memories. “María, what will we do if Chemo comes
back?”
María closed her eyes and grimaced. Chemo. She was never able to love her grandson.
María believed that Chemo was just another part of the curse. María suspected Chemo
pushed Oralia, even hit her. The curse never let her rest.
Many years earlier, she had vowed to give her daughter a better life than she had had.
Oralia was to become a grand lady of a grand household, the highest of honors for a
Mexican woman. Her presence was supposed to be as strong as the moon. But that
never happened, and María couldn’t understand why.
“I need to think, Teresa.”
Teresa nodded and put her hand on María’s shoulder before she walked away.
María looked at the damage the police made. She grabbed a broom and walked into her
husband’s room where he had taken his last breath days earlier. Clothes hung out of
drawers. Sheets and blankets crumpled on the floor. The closet and armoire emptied.
She thought, “They did me a favor here. Everything goes tomorrow anyway.” She wasn’t
sure she meant that and felt a little guilty, but she would never forget the times Juaquin had
left her for his women. When he left town he would give his sister, Sara, control of the
money so that María had to go to her for household expenses.
She remembered knocking on Sara’s door waiting for her to answer. Her two youngest
children hid behind her skirts. Sara came to the door, but did not invite her in.
“Yes, María. I suppose you need money,” Sara said, hands on her hips.
“Tomorrow is market day. I need to buy some cloth to make the children some clothes.”
“Always the same story.”
“You have no idea how children go through clothes.” María hesitated, then decided to
needle her sister-in-law. “You have never been married with children of your own. How
could you understand these things?”
Sara narrowed her eyes as she looked at María. “How much do you need?”
“Fifty pesos.” Maria shot for a high number. She expected 20 pesos.
From the living room, María heard a man laughing. Sara cocked her ear to the sound of the
man’s voice. She reached in her pocket and counted out 25 pesos.
“Here. I don’t have time for this right now. ”
The two little boys hiding behind María’s skirts caught Sara’s eye before she closed the
door.
“Here, Agustín, Jose Luis, you like Muéganos, no?”
“They don’t need that,” María said, but Sara had already given them the sweet.
“Thank you, Tía,” they said. Sara extended her hand for each child to kiss.
María’s room looked the same as Juaquin’s. She put her hands on her hips and looked
around. It looked like the police had taken everything of any value in the house.
But then she saw her music box, the one Juaquin had given her. It was in a corner upside
down. A waltz from the famous set of waltzes, Sobre las Olas del Mar (Over Waves of the
Sea), tinkled weakly. When she picked the box up, Oralia’s gold locket in the shape of a
heart fell out of the folds of purple velvet.
Maria had always preferred not to think or to talk about memories. Good memories brought
pain because the time was past and would never return. And of course, bad memories
brought pain because they were bad. Instead, her whole life, she chose to live for today,
fight for right now. At the moment, however, she couldn’t block the memories.
She sat on her bed and opened the locket. It was empty. She remembered the day she
gave it to Oralia. Oralia was about 20 years old at the time. Her long eyelashes looked like
a million spider legs. She always wore a hat in the sun so her skin would stay flawless.
She held a letter of acceptance from St. Mary College in her graceful hands.
“I’ve waited all my life to study in the United States, Mamá,” she said.
“Oralia, be practical. It’s dangerous for a young girl to travel alone.”
“I’d be with the sisters at the school. You and Papá could come with me, see that I make it
safely.”
“Why would you want to go to the United States of all places?”
“To learn. There has to be more to life than this.” Oralia spread her arms wide.
“You’re lucky to have this house, your comforts. I had nothing when I was your age. I was
an orphan and I was a burden to my relatives.”
Puzzled, Maria watched Oralia’s demeanor change. Her shoulders slumped. Her chin was
on her chest.
“You don’t understand. I want to experience the world.”
“No, you don’t understand, my little daughter. I have experienced the world, and it’s not a
beautiful place. You’ll understand when you’re older. Women should stay home.”
Later the same day, María gave Oralia the heart-shaped locket.
“See, you can put two tiny photos in it.”
Oralia laughed a little as she held it in her hand.
“I don’t get to study, but I get a locket.”
A few weeks later, the gardener found the locket in the flowers. He returned it to María,
and she never mentioned it to her daughter.
And then another memory popped into María’s head.
Juaquin had said, “I’ve always thought it is very important for a girl to be innocent when she
married. We must make sure Oralia stays pure; otherwise, no one will ever respect her. Don’
t you agree, María?” He opened a book and started to read.
She stiffened her shoulders and took a deep breath. María was pregnant before marriage.
She had cursed herself and Oralia because of the sin she committed. She wanted Oralia to
do everything the right way so the curse wouldn’t have a chance to hit. On one level, María
agreed with Juaquin. Men’s intentions were rarely honorable, especially when sex was
concerned. Oralia was innocent. She should be protected at all costs.
With this thought, they never felt any of Oralia’s suitors were good enough to marry. Esta
esperando el ultimo tren. They were waiting for the best train as the saying goes. So they
discouraged her from marrying. Before María knew it, however, Oralia was 25 years old.
There were no men in her class left to marry.
Oralia did marry when she was 28 years old.
María told her, “Oralia, you’ve been protected all your life. Your only experience comes
from books. You won’t understand this, but I will tell you anyway. That man is cruel. He is
perverted. He is no good. I knew his father and his grandfather. They were the same.
These things can run in families. I don’t know why. Maybe they learn it. Maybe cruelty is just
a seed in their hearts that grows and grows.”
Oralia cut her off and said, “I’m going to marry him. You’ve never approved of anyone
whose ever been interested in me.”
María kept embroidering. She couldn’t look at Oralia.
“I can’t describe the way I feel about this, Oralia. I see only bad,” she said softly.
“If I don’t marry, what kind of life will I have? No kind of life. I’ll have to stay in the house
forever, content with my sewing. I will be like my spinster Aunt Anita, treated as a servant, in
everyone’s way.”
A tear dropped from María’s cheek and fell onto the cloth. The tear bubble magnified the
cloth underneath until it finally burst and absorbed into the material. The curse felt as heavy
as tortillas on a Coapena’s back - the young girls from Coapán who carry tortillas to all the
households in all the nearby towns. The girls set off from their homes with a stack of tortillas
on their backs almost as tall as they are. They trot barefooted to each house, rain or shine,
heat or cold, healthy or sick. They never walk. During their monthly time, they leave drops
of menstrual blood on the sidewalk. For some reason, María thought of these girls. Nothing
else.
María knew women took a great risk when they married. Their fate was in one man’s hands
for the rest of their lives. Many lucky women experienced marriages filled with love,
pleasure, delight. Other women endured loveless marriages filled with disappointment,
resentment, anger. The unluckiest of women experienced violence and fear. She shuddered
when she thought of her daughter’s marriage because María knew which destiny was
Oralia’s - violence and fear.
On Sept. 1, 1951, Oralia married Sergio. It was a beautiful wedding according to tradition.
The whole town was invited.
Old ladies claim that babies come when women smile. María could never imagine that
Oralia smiled with that man. Yet, Oralia had two children, Chemo and Marilaya. When the
children were still small, Sergio, Sr. disappeared, leaving Oralia in debt and homeless. With
nothing but the clothes on her back and her children’s hands in hers, Oralia had no choice
but to return to her parents’ house. Gossips in town whispered, “So the princess has fallen.”
Afterward, Chemo and Marilaya were sent to practically every school in Mexico. Chemo
was always dismissed because of misbehavior or because he ran away. By the time he was
a teenager, he spent most of his time drunk and drugged. And, as far as María was
concerned, Marilaya was a wild-child, a girl who did not understand the consequences of
her actions. She ran off with her boyfriend when she was 17 and visited sometimes.
María stood up and put the locket back in the jewelry box. Hoping to pull herself away from
her thoughts, she cleaned. She picked everything up off the floor. She folded all the clothes
and placed them neatly on shelves or hung them on hangers. She made her bed. She
swept and mopped and dusted.
After a few hours, she realized it was dark outside. Occasionally, she heard footsteps going
past the gates. The house was quiet. She saw a light in Teresa’s and Oralia’s rooms, but
she didn’t hear anything from them. Just then, however, she thought she heard someone
whisper hoarsely, desperately, “Mamá.” She turned to look out the door onto the patio. Her
daughter was running out of her room from her side of the house. Oralia was hunched over
and clutching the collar of her dress.
Maria covered her face with her hands when she heard Oralia call, “Chemo?”
“Please, Mother of God. No.” She jumped when she felt a hand on her shoulder. It was her
sister, Teresa.
She said, “María, Chemo’s here. I knew he was coming back. He probably hopes the
marijuana’s still here. That’s money in his pocket.”
María and Teresa hurried to stand beside Oralia. Oralia turned to look at María.
“Please, mother, I want to let him in. For just a little while.”
Teresa leaned toward María and whispered, “María, you could lose everything. They said
they’d take it all if he ever came in again. We will live like we lived during the Revolution,
María. Don’t you remember? People ate rats to survive.”
“And we weren’t that lucky,” María said, vacantly. These two statements were almost like
standard jokes when Teresa and María talked of old things in better times. It was not funny
now.
She thought over and over to herself, “Ay, my Oralia. My little daughter.”
María remembered when she could heal every trouble in Oralia’s soul. She had to admit it
was a long time ago when Oralia was a child. María knew what it felt like to be afraid and
lonely. She knew pain, suffering, loss. She vowed never to let Oralia recall a time in her life
when she felt this way. At the moment, she tried to understand the expression on Oralia’s
face. Oralia looked as if she’d always been alone in her own black night.
Was it the curse? Did María and Oralia really have to pay now and forever for a sin
committed so many years ago when she was young and vulnerable? Had she fought the
curse too hard and fallen into a trap? Was the devil laughing at her now? Did he
successfully use her as his instrument against Oralia? But, hadn’t she tried to catch Oralia
every time she stumbled? She’d done everything in her power to protect Oralia, to help her,
to try and make her happy. But she’d failed. Everything she did had been wrong. Had María
herself caused Oralia’s tragic life? Did all her good intentions just make things worse?
María reached in her pocket and felt the outline of the heart-shaped locket. She dropped it
as she extended her fingers to reach for Oralia.
She could hear herself saying, “Be a lady, little daughter. Be a good girl.”
She took a step toward Oralia and felt the locket under the sole of her slipper. She could
feel the soft Oaxaca gold bend.
She thought, I guess I never knew what she was talking about. I never understood what
she was living without.
Oralia pleaded, “It would only be for a little while. He needs some clothes. He’s hungry.”
“It didn’t occur to him to get a job, I suppose,” Teresa said.
“He’s not able to work. He’s too nervous,” Oralia said.
“Isn’t that convenient?” Teresa said.
“Aunt Teresa, please. Mother, no one would ever know. He could leave early in the
morning.”
“I . . .,” María started to talk, but Teresa interrupted.
“Oralia, can’t you understand what will happen if they find out? They are probably watching
this house now. María, do not let him in.”
Chemo stood at the gates. The only thing María could see in the darkness was his figure,
both arms outstretched through the iron bars. She shuddered. The curse had arrived in
person.
“Please let me in before the police see me,” he called.
“If you won’t let him in, I’ll go with him then,” Oralia said. She walked toward him.
Teresa said, “You’re crazy. He doesn’t want you with him.”
“I’m going.”
“Wait,” María said.
She reached for the keys around her waist and gave them to Oralia.
“Let him in.”
“Ay, María, no,” Teresa said. She crossed her arms over her chest. Pity was in her eyes.
“We have to let him in. I can’t let Oralia go with him. Can I?”
“No, I guess you can’t.” Teresa peered into the darkness. “I will never understand Oralia.
Will you, María?”
“I guess if you want to understand Oralia, you must ask about me first and then listen
carefully.”
Teresa crossed herself and kissed her thumb. “No, sister, no. Please don’t say that. You’ve
tried so hard.”
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