The Moths and Other Stories by Helena María Viramontes Page B

stay at a place where she didn’t have to make beds or clean toilets, or wash off graphic depictions of sexual acts penciled on the walls. Although he did not bring her on his trips across the border to Tijuana (using the excuse that it would be dangerous for her since she would probably be jailed along with him if he were ever caught passing
mexicanos
without proper papers), he asked her to come as far as Chula Vista. Perhaps he thought she needed the rest from her duties as wife and mother, and only in complete solitude did she feel like a woman. Too soon would the grape harvest return; the Fresno sun was almost mockingly waiting to bleed the sweat from all five of them. All five.
Mis niños
. Next time she would bring Martha, Yreina and Miguelito. She braided her hair. He had gone attending business in Tijuana and would not be back for two hours. He would pick her up later and they would go tothe saloon tonight. Tomás’ wife wondered if that old barmaid (what-was-her-name-now?) still worked there and she wondered if Tomás left her, would she become like her? Weary of travel, she rested her body on the fresh-sheeted soft bed.
    Olivia had always avoided looking at herself completely in the mirror; her eyes focused only on the part she attended to. She knew age was nesting. The short skirt revealed her skinny legs that knotted at the knees, and her small but protruding belly surpassed her breasts. Yet she tried making the best of it. With a low-cut blouse and wearing her hair down, she would not be called a vieja so often. Like an artist, she began creating her illusionary eyes with the colors of a forest.
    Tomás’s wife dreamt of houses. Big ones that would belong to all five of them. A color T.V. and an island. She dreamt of her mother, dozens of diapers blazing, and an invisible bird with huge wings.
    Two large false lashes were glued expertly on her natural ones. The eyes were traced with liner and the eyelids finely painted with eye shadow. Done. She lit a cigarette and sat in front of the mirror, re-evaluating the masterpiece. Now, not even the make-up covered her deeper wrinkles. Olivia put her cigarette down, wet her fingers with her tongue, and rubbed away the chappedness of her elbows.
    Tomás’s wife stretched out slowly, awakening like a cat. It was later than she had anticipated; she hurried to unbraid her hair and continued brushing it as he entered the room, carrying a bag of sweet bread, two bright pink and green ponchos wrapped in transparent paper, and a toy rifle, resembling his own, for Miguelito.
    â€œFor the niños.” He laid the purchases on the bed. “Tomorrow we have to leave early. I’ll have to return next week.” Only then will the gente be ready and waiting at Los Amigos.” To Tomás’ wife this meant that he would not take her across the border and into Tijuana. She understood him well, although he said nothing; her vacation was cut short. Tomás unbuttoned his shirt, pulled off his dusty shoes, and went into the bathroom. There was a flushing sound of the toilet, then the rush of water in the shower. She put her hairup in a bun, disrobed, and entered the shower with him discreetly.
    The perfume was the final touch. Olivia left some tacos and three dollars on the kitchen table. She never knew exactly when her sons came home nor when she herself would, so she left food and money always. It was a silent contract that they had with one another; she never played mother and they, in turn, never asked her to. Olivia blessed herself, sighed, and hurried to the saloon anticipating Tomás’ laugh.
III
    The promise of night disappeared. He would probably awaken disoriented and bewildered at the unfamiliar room, she thought. But she would assure him that nothing happened because nothing did happen. Tomás had sunk onto the cracked dance-floor tile after that last shot of José Cuervo, drunk, and she had asked his companions to take him to