man saw her hair flying loose, he would be overcome with desire for her. A love that might never die out. Bola de bueyes! The girls of the rancho said you could see the stars in Huila’s hair. Huila kept her devastating secret hidden as an act of charity.
Oh, but her back hurt when she bent to pass through the fences.
As she was bent nearly double, getting her leg through and pulling her skirt along so none of the vaqueros could look up in there and see her bloomers, she saw the tall girl lying in the dirt. Huila went to her and looked down. “Child,” she said.
The girl looked up at her. She was barefoot, as all the children of the workers’ village were. Her legs were scabbed with old mosquito bites, scratches, and holes from where she’d yanked out ticks. None of the children wore undergarments until they were older than seven, and they squatted wherever they were and flared out their rough dresses to make puddles in the dust.
“What are you doing?”
“Ants!” the girl said. “I’m watching ants!”
Huila squinted and finally saw the ants. Well now, her eyes were weaker, too. She hadn’t even noticed the ants.
“Mochomo,” Huila said.
“Ehui,” the girl replied.
So she knew the mother tongue.
“You don’t look like an Indian, child.”
“What do Indians look like?”
Huila laughed.
“Us,” she said.
The girl shrugged and turned back to the ants.
“Who is your mother?” Huila asked.
“The Hummingbird. She is gone.”
“Ah! You’re Nona Rebecca Chávez.”
“I am Teresa.”
Huila looked down at her. “I remember a different name.”
Teresa rolled over and looked up at Huila. Her front was filthy, and she had dirt on her chin. “Huila,” she said.
“Yes.”
“I see you in church.”
“Oh?”
“The Father told us about Saint Teresa. In church. Remember?”
“Yes. Wasn’t she the one who flew? Did she smell like flowers?”
“She loved God more than anyone else in the world, and God let her do miracles. Now I love God more than anybody in the world. I like Saint Teresa. I am going to be her.”
Huila smiled.
“You don’t love God more than I do,” Huila said.
“God loves you as much as He loves me,” Teresita said. “But I love Him more than you do. I do.”
“Mira, nomás,” said Huila. “Pues, qué bueno.”
“Yes, it is good.”
“Don’t kill those poor ants, then.”
“Oh Huila! I am not killing them. I am praying for them.”
Huila laughed.
“All right, then,” she said. “Good luck.”
“Thank you.”
Teresita turned back to the ants.
“You seem more like Saint Francis to me than Saint Teresa,” Huila said.
“No,” said Teresita. “He’s a boy. I’m a girl.”
Huila turned to walk away, paused, and said, “How old are you, child?”
“Six.”
“And is your life good since La Semalú left?”
“No, Huila.”
This life was only meant for us to endure, not to enjoy, Huila thought. Joy was for rich men and Yoris. Huila pulled her rebozo tighter. If you were born to be a nail, you had to be hammered.
“Be strong . . . Teresa.”
“I am.”
Huila walked on, pausing just once to glance back.
Tía had one egg. “One fucking egg for all you fat pigs?” she yelled. The children all knew to say “Sí, Mamá.” She sent her boy out to the mango huerta to steal one of the Urreas’ iguanas. She could possibly be flogged for it; she didn’t know—it couldn’t be as bad as stealing a chicken. But what was she supposed to do? And when the boy came back with a writhing green lizard that whipped them all with its tail, and Tía took her rusty meat-cutter’s knife to saw at the lizard’s neck, Teresita scrambled out from her small spot and rushed out the door. She didn’t understand why, with mangos and peaches, prickly-pear fruits and plums and leftover beans in the buckaroos’ tin plates, Tía could never find anything to eat. Segundo, the big mean vaquero, once even showed her which flowers you could eat. Even if
Oh, but her back hurt when she bent to pass through the fences.
As she was bent nearly double, getting her leg through and pulling her skirt along so none of the vaqueros could look up in there and see her bloomers, she saw the tall girl lying in the dirt. Huila went to her and looked down. “Child,” she said.
The girl looked up at her. She was barefoot, as all the children of the workers’ village were. Her legs were scabbed with old mosquito bites, scratches, and holes from where she’d yanked out ticks. None of the children wore undergarments until they were older than seven, and they squatted wherever they were and flared out their rough dresses to make puddles in the dust.
“What are you doing?”
“Ants!” the girl said. “I’m watching ants!”
Huila squinted and finally saw the ants. Well now, her eyes were weaker, too. She hadn’t even noticed the ants.
“Mochomo,” Huila said.
“Ehui,” the girl replied.
So she knew the mother tongue.
“You don’t look like an Indian, child.”
“What do Indians look like?”
Huila laughed.
“Us,” she said.
The girl shrugged and turned back to the ants.
“Who is your mother?” Huila asked.
“The Hummingbird. She is gone.”
“Ah! You’re Nona Rebecca Chávez.”
“I am Teresa.”
Huila looked down at her. “I remember a different name.”
Teresa rolled over and looked up at Huila. Her front was filthy, and she had dirt on her chin. “Huila,” she said.
“Yes.”
“I see you in church.”
“Oh?”
“The Father told us about Saint Teresa. In church. Remember?”
“Yes. Wasn’t she the one who flew? Did she smell like flowers?”
“She loved God more than anyone else in the world, and God let her do miracles. Now I love God more than anybody in the world. I like Saint Teresa. I am going to be her.”
Huila smiled.
“You don’t love God more than I do,” Huila said.
“God loves you as much as He loves me,” Teresita said. “But I love Him more than you do. I do.”
“Mira, nomás,” said Huila. “Pues, qué bueno.”
“Yes, it is good.”
“Don’t kill those poor ants, then.”
“Oh Huila! I am not killing them. I am praying for them.”
Huila laughed.
“All right, then,” she said. “Good luck.”
“Thank you.”
Teresita turned back to the ants.
“You seem more like Saint Francis to me than Saint Teresa,” Huila said.
“No,” said Teresita. “He’s a boy. I’m a girl.”
Huila turned to walk away, paused, and said, “How old are you, child?”
“Six.”
“And is your life good since La Semalú left?”
“No, Huila.”
This life was only meant for us to endure, not to enjoy, Huila thought. Joy was for rich men and Yoris. Huila pulled her rebozo tighter. If you were born to be a nail, you had to be hammered.
“Be strong . . . Teresa.”
“I am.”
Huila walked on, pausing just once to glance back.
Tía had one egg. “One fucking egg for all you fat pigs?” she yelled. The children all knew to say “Sí, Mamá.” She sent her boy out to the mango huerta to steal one of the Urreas’ iguanas. She could possibly be flogged for it; she didn’t know—it couldn’t be as bad as stealing a chicken. But what was she supposed to do? And when the boy came back with a writhing green lizard that whipped them all with its tail, and Tía took her rusty meat-cutter’s knife to saw at the lizard’s neck, Teresita scrambled out from her small spot and rushed out the door. She didn’t understand why, with mangos and peaches, prickly-pear fruits and plums and leftover beans in the buckaroos’ tin plates, Tía could never find anything to eat. Segundo, the big mean vaquero, once even showed her which flowers you could eat. Even if
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