Natalia Serrano-Chavez

Hembra

The neighbor’s cat had given light to a litter of all girls, the day I met you. Diana had pounded on our metal door with a rock, running it over the bars like soap, eager for me to go see them with her. 

Raqi! She shouted, Raqi! 

The roosters were screaming with her. The heat from that summer was sticky and suffocating, and it made sweat kiss the back of my neck everyday. It had gotten me out of bed early and I was in the backyard, throwing water onto my body and fighting with my tangled curly hair.

Next door, the kittens were beautiful and made us feel like mothers. Like me, they had just been bathed and perfumed with baby oil. These kittens weren’t malnourished like the ones out on the street–you know, the ones tongue-kissing death and fighting other animals for the trash we throw out. They had some meat on their bones and their eyes were still shut, inchoate and sound. Two were orange, three were white. We named a white one Chele and spent the day coming in and out, carrying them in our arms and crowning the others with names when the inspiration sparked. Nati, Bo, Izote, and Isopo came later. 

It was my cousin’s birthday party in San Dionisio that evening, and both Diana and I knew what this meant: new territory. New boys, new glances, new chambre. It had taken days to convince Diana’s mom to let her go with me. She didn’t let her out of the house unless it was for chores or playing near the cantón or buying her a bag of Palito chips from down the road. Her mom knew that children could be taken away as easily as they were brought in. Diana was left at her doorstep when she was a month old. But her mom was the kind of woman who believed that prayer had unwavering dominion, and I played along, reassuring her that her orations would protect us. 

We kissed the kittens goodbye at around 5 P.M. and began getting ready, giggling our way into the houses and to the tune of the neighbor’s evening cumbia. I lathered my hair with a curly hair product Tía Chele had sent from the North and a green headband to clear my face from hair. I picked my hot clothes off the drying line which were under the heat of the  suffocating sun and on my body, they felt rough. Diana let her straight hair down instead of her usual taut bun and dressed in her Sunday best. She lived a couple houses down and even then, her excitement spilled into my living room. 

My Father walked us to the party and on the road, we hid our snickers and kept straight faces because if we looked too happy, we would have to turn around. He wasn’t an angry man, he was just the father of seven boys and one girl. We said buenas tardes to everyone we saw and my Father stopped to talk to my Tío. We then left when they started arguing over the barren terrenos of our late grandfather–I had to drag my Father with us before he laid hands on my uncle. Patacon, a local stray dog, found us and followed us all the way to the party. 

Diana had stolen her Mom’s lipstick, and we put it on before we entered the backyard, out of my Father’s peripheral and everyone else. As we stepped foot into the backyard, some maitra was shooing out a black butterfly underneath the tin roof, screaming that she didn’t want death in her house. 

Sácalo, sácalo! Dios en el cielo, reprendo todo mal espíritu, she chanted, running around, the chickens and ducks and jolotes following her. Brutally, she was chasing and attempting to smack it with a wet rag and instead kept hitting the palos de maráñon. She almost hit one of the little kids playing and cursed him for being in her way. She couldn’t get it to leave and that’s where you came into the picture.

You grabbed the butterfly by the wings and tore it in two. 

Ay no, qué feo, Diana had said but warmth painted my face at the sight. 

I whistled at you–a wealthy whistle like the ones my Father used when he needed the cows to line up. An ostentatious act on my part but I didn’t care. I knew I wanted you the second I saw you. 

Diana pinched my forearm. Your eyebrows perked up and your lips swung into a smirk. We made eye contact for seconds before a maráñon fell next to you and stole your attention from me. I like to think you stared at my hair when I first caught your eye because that would mean all my effort was worth it.

We walked around and greeted the people we knew: a handful of primos and tías, someone who knew Mami from grade school, and the cumplañera. I kissed them on the cheek, careful not to rub my lipstick off.  

We sang my cousin happy birthday and a drunk tía snuck Diana and I a bottle of Pilsener after. We went further into the backyard with the cows, and we each took a couple sips. I was excited and jitters spread all throughout my body at the idea of taking my first alcoholic sip. We poured out the rest because it tasted too much like expired wheat and it burned Diana’s throat with its taste. I felt like my head was being massaged. My calves felt like the Kolashampan soda I had seen at the table: bubbly and tingly and most definitely lively. Diana and I giggled at the cows mooing in front of us and began mooing back to them. We pet their wet snouts and fed them grass from our hand, their tongues licking our palms and the rest of our youth.

When we went back, you and I ended up waiting in line next to each other to get pupusas. I focused on the tough hands flipping them over on the comal so that I wouldn’t look nervous next to you. The women were rubbing their hands with oil. The kids next to them were playing with some masa and mixing it with dirt. The cheese spilled out of the pupusas and hardened to an amber crisp against the heat. I felt your gaze stay on me the whole time. 

After I requested my pupusas, you asked for my name.  

Loroco y queso, I said, turning over to you, star-struck and maybe a little tipsy, I realized. 

You laughed. A laugh that tickled my belly and spread throughout my body like a firework on New Years. I started giggling with you and at myself. 

I asked for your name but it’s nice to know that we both like de loroco y queso, you said.  Your voice reverberated a depth I hadn’t heard before and had me burning blush to my bones. 

My name is Raquel, I responded, taking a heaping of curtido to my plate. My heart sped up when I saw the teeth in your smile as I recited my name, my cheeks warm like my plate. 

Beautiful. My name is Arturo, you said, offering me a napkin.

We ate at the same table with Diana. You told us you were from around here and when I said we were from Cantón Mundo Nuevo, you offered us a ride home. We were going to stay the night with my cousin since it was late but I thought your offer was limited and rare, and I wanted to feel like a woman. On a date. In your car. 

I’m OK thank you, I want to spend the night here, Diana said to you. 

Ah, it’s nothing. Y vos Raquel? You asked immediately. I can even show you the constellations I just learned about. 

You want to show me the stars?

Or whatever you want, it doesn’t have to be the stars, you said, quickly fixing your offer. 

Before I could answer, you left to talk to some peoples who needed help moving a truck. Diana and I shrieked after. We ran to where the cows were. 

He wants to show me the stars?! What should I do? That’s not a date right? Should I go? What if my Mom or someone else sees me get out of the car? I asked her. 

No, no, that’s not a date. That’s a ride home, algo tranquilo, I hope… but, I don’t know Raqi. You just met him and… and he tore a butterfly apart! She whispered.

But they wanted to take the butterfly out! I rebuttal. 

Yea, take it out, not kill it! What did the butterfly do to him?!

The cows caught you before we did and we jumped. You overheard Diana’s comment and were smiling. 

Do you know what black butterflies mean? You asked us both. We shook our heads no. You smirked the way men do when they get the chance to teach you something and you motioned for us to walk back to the music. 

If a black butterfly appears inside your house, take it as an announcement. It means that someone will die soon or something terrible is going to happen to the people there. If you see it on the street, it doesn’t mean anything unless the butterfly lands near you or follows you, you explained. 

N’ombre those are just dichos, Diana said, what powers could a butterfly possibly possess?

Va. You say that now but when I was younger, a black butterfly flew inside the restroom my cousin was in. He fell inside the hole and on top of a scorpion. And BOOM. Now he’s paralyzed from the waist down because of the poison, you told us. 

Ah no! I shrieked. Diana’s eyes widened and we stared at each other in silence. 

You’re welcome for killing the butterfly, by the way. Wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to the ladies here, right? You asked and when Diana caught your piropo, our eyes widened.  

Have you done that before? Like, killed a butterfly the way you did earlier, I asked, partially curious, partially scared to hear the answer. 

No, that was luck, you replied. 

My drunk tía overheard your comment and gave her two cents, slurring that “luck” didn’t exist. 

Luck is for fools who think the tortilla in their hand will stay there forever, she said. No seas bobo maje; it was your skill that killed that butterfly. You think murderers manage to kill someone out of luck? N’ombre.

The drunks around here got on a high horse when they were intoxicated–suddenly, the alcohol became a microphone and anyone near them, their congregation. She was preaching, taking sips in between her sermon and hiccups. But, you listened to her like she was the pastor and it must have made her feel special because she offered you a drink after. 

No, I’m OK. I’m driving, you said. 

I remember thinking your response odd. My Father would drive us home drunk off of cases of Pilseners and we never questioned it. If he killed an animal on the way, he’d take the game and use it for his hangover the next morning. 

Out of fear and maybe a bit of respect, I said no to your offer. I couldn’t leave Diana alone at the party and later at night nor could I have people talking about seeing me get in a man's car. My Father would have flipped the roof of our house if he found out. Then chased you with his machete down the block, telling the neighbors to catch you so he could skin you. And then we would have had to get married right on the spot, I joked.

What’s wrong with that? You replied. 

You must have seen the way my face turned red because you changed the subject immediately after. 

I have sisters, you said, I know the consequences… or the effects, I guess. Maybe I can meet you during the day tomorrow and we can go for a walk? Or go to the river? Whatever you want. 

I love swimming! I blurted out. Yes, I would love that. 

You appeared the next day, just as you said you would. Carrying a plastic bag and wearing blue llinas, you knocked on my metal door and I answered in a second. I had recited my address to you and drew a flimsy map on the dirt floor, digging craters of hope into the earth. I told you to ignore the drunk in front of the tortilla stand because he gets handsy with everyone. I said to greet the anciana who sits outside her house all day waiting for her children to visit her from the Capital. I warned you to salute the soldiers that have begun to patrol the streets in full uniform, armor, and force. 

We walked towards the river following the map in my head and you said you trusted my word. On our way there, everything appeared brighter and the air was fresh like bread. I kept tugging at loose strands and praying they stayed still inside of my braid. You joked about finding La Siguanaba once we arrived and I found it odd that a man like you could trust those stories to be true. 

You have to believe in everything, no? You responded. 

There’s something about that type of faith that I can’t seem to grasp, I told you. 

Let me give you something to believe in then, you whispered and my cheeks fell to my chest with warmth. 

When we arrived, we took off our llinas and let our feet kiss the river. Dirt clung between my toes and you pushed the floating trash aside so it wouldn't touch us. We sank deeper into the water, our conversation following us. I splashed you, and you scooped water with your hands, letting it trickle through your fingers like a waterfall over my head. I ducked my head under when I saw women walking past because if there was one thing that I did have faith in, it was the loud mouths of people. 

Do you come to this lavadero? You asked, catching my movements. 

We turned our gaze to the lavadero behind us. It was one of three near my village. It was also the one I would use every Sunday with Mami to wash my family's clothes. We’d wash the fabrics of eight men and our own. I’d scrub my brother’s poop from their boxers and wring out the water from my Father’s wife beaters with anger. My brothers sometimes joined us but only to spy on Nia Juanita’s daughters who lived on the road near the river. Sundays made me feel like a woman in the worst ways. 

I do, I confessed and said nothing more about washing clothes. 

We spent that first date asking each other a litany of questions while in the water, splashing our answers and holding our breath underneath. You asked of my upbringing, of my favorites lists, you asked me questions that I didn’t know had answers. 

What’s your favorite song? You put forth. 

Querida by Juan Gabriel, I said. 

You want someone to dedicate it to you, huh? You said, chuckling and you reached over to my shoulder with your index finger and poked me. 

Va! No! You’re asking me a question, I’m giving you an answer, I responded laughing. But then, I thought that you dedicating it to me wouldn’t actually be too bad. A moment of silence comfortably fell over before I spoke again. 

Have you done this before? I dug. 

Done what? You said splashing water towards me. 

Gone out with a… girl, I whispered, embarrassed. I dunked my head under, surfacing only when you began to speak.

No, I haven’t. You whistled at me so I thought you were the expert, you said with a smile that beamed like the sun rays.

I’m sorry for that. It just came out, I stuttered. 

Nah. It was on purpose, I like that. I took your signal and here we are, no? You whispered. 

We dried off on the river bank and shared my pastel yellow towel. A bag of mango verde appeared from your black plastic bag and you sprinkled lime and alguaste on top. We ate fruit while the sun poured down on us from between the tree branches and we swatted at the mosquitoes trying to bite. We climbed the colorful rocks that acted as a dam for the river and I recounted stories from my youth. Told you about the time I almost drowned in this very river because Diana had clung onto my neck when we were four. And the time a drunk told my Father of some indigenous remedy and it cured my random rashes, when I was six. I ended up talking about the litter of cats next door and you said that next time, you would love to see them. 

Next time? I asked. 

Yes, if you’ll have me, you declared. 

We made plans for the following week and when I told Mami to hide my whereabouts from my Father, she said she had told her mother the exact same thing when she was seeing him. 

A curfew started a couple days after our first date. Diana and I had been playing in front of my house when the soldiers came blaring a siren and announcing the curfew. It was the first time a curfew had been set. Un toque de queda is what they said. Everyone had to be inside by 5 P.M. and had to stay in place until the sun rose. At supper, while tearing his tortillas and dipping them into the mashed beans, my Father gave us his two cents on the news. 

If I see any of you outside this roof after 5 P.M. I’ll kill you myself, he declared. 

Man, if I see a fucking soldier, I’ll kill him, Beto said. I’ll be damned if anyone takes me by the hair. 

Or by the braid, Jose joked.

If you see a soldier coming your way, Raquel, you run to the house, my Father said, demanding my eye contact and I nodded yes to him. 

Of course, Beto had threatened what also threatened us. He had anger the same way this country had poverty–in excess. Mami kept serving us, unmoved by anyone’s threats. She gave me a stack of tortillas to pass around, and my Father refused the ones I had made. Hers were thin and perfectly round, because she had 15 years on me. 

These are too thick, he said.

My Father hated food that wasn’t made by his wife. Be it respect for her or that people didn’t know how to cook, he didn’t eat in anyone’s house but his own. I couldn’t cook, but the few times I had, my plates had been disapproved of and disregarded like a skinny chicken. He said that I was missing a couple of more years of experience and a husband. After some years he said that maybe just maybe, he’d give my food a try. Diana said that men are single-minded and that my Father may not even realize what he’s doing. 

Why a curfew? Maximo asked, taking one of my tortillas with caution. I pinched his forearm and he smacked the back of my head. 

It’s dangerous right now and they’re trying to catch the Left. They’re taking boys to train and girls, for wives. Some maitro that I work with said he’ll tell me when there are soldiers on the street before the curfew, my Father answered. 

Why? Fransisco questioned. 

So none of my boys go missing, he responded. I raised seven men, I won’t lose a single one to some fucking military. 

I don’t think my brothers understood the gravity of my Father’s worries nor could they begin to feel Mami’s fear of losing her babies. She may have had a mute mouth but she bit her lips whenever she was worried. I wanted her to speak up and demand that none of them play with their lives because she would pay the price. Imagine giving birth to eight kids and losing all of them because they didn’t want to listen? And while more questions arose and my Father sternly answered, my mind drifted to you. What if you were taken? What if you had been taken on your way back from my cantón? My skin began to burn at the thought. 

My brothers spent the rest of our meal, spitting their jokes and flaunting their strength, saying that the soldiers couldn’t take them all at once. By the time Mami sat down, the food had gone cold. 

When dinner was over and my brothers were outside feeding our cattle and my Father lay on his maca in the backyard, I asked Mami my questions. 

Why is this happening to us? I posed. 

Mami washed the dishes and I ate my tortillas from before, since they had gone untouched.

There are a lot of bad people, she began. A lot of people who are blinded by greed and power and nothing else. There’s people in this country who can’t even afford a tortilla with salt. Bichos that can’t read. Women disappearing by the second. They should worry about that. I don’t know why this is happening, but in God’s name it’ll be over soon. 

Why do I have to run to the house if I see a soldier? I asked after. 

Mami sighed. And she sighed heavily.

You are a woman, she began, and sadly you’re of age and matured. They would take you and do horrible things just because of that. 

I stayed quiet at her response. I wanted to hug her but it seemed that her mind was somewhere that her body couldn’t be. So, I passed her one of my tortillas and she took it with ease. When the dishes were done, scrubbed of lard and beans, she asked me to read to her a letter that had arrived.

With the smell of uncertainty perfuming the air, I expected you to stay in the safety of your home. You were your mom’s favorite and the second eldest son. Your father owned a coffee farm and needed all the help he could get to pick the beans. You were a sturdy young man, from a good family, exactly what the military men would destroy. 

The next day, my brothers began to formulate a plan that included building their own weapons. I sat on a tree stump, ruminating about you and the river. There was something that you had said that I could not get out of my head and left me in a brown study. When we were in the river I had covered my cheeks, scared they would burn pink when you complimented the anklet on my foot. 

Sorry, I just don’t want you to see me turn pink, I rambled. 

You’re not. You’re brown, you said. 

I wasn’t sure whether to feel disgusted or flattered at your comment and so I opted into saying nothing, showing nothing. Mami called me morena. How did I know what you meant? 

I like that you’re brown, you clarified and continued, you’re of the earth. 

I heard the crunch of our jocote tree leaves and measured steps, and I hid in the house, thinking it was a soldier, hungry. But, when I heard your voice through the wind, my heart pounded with relief that you were still intact and in your own clothes. You walked in through the backyard in the midst of my brothers throwing a match into a bucket of wood and gasoline to watch it explode. 

They questioned you and you boldly said you were here for me. You stayed near the fence you had walked in from, your palms on top of the branches my Father had chopped and wrapped wire around to seal off the house.

Raquel? Beto asked, what business do you have with her? 

I leaped forward and told Beto you were a friend from school. You just wanted to see the litter of cats. 

Va, he said and scoffed. He read my bluff. The eldest sibling usually can but I didn’t care. You were here in the flesh and not in a military uniform with a rifle in your hand. That was good enough for me. 

We called on Diana and she joined us to view the kittens. They were suckling on their mother’s nipple when we walked in. We kneeled and watched them feed, your eyes glued to their minute mouths, mine on your face.

They’re all hembras, you noted.

Yea, all girls, I repeated. 

I wouldn’t know what to do with that many girls, you laughed. 

Maybe have multiple wives, Diana added. We giggled at each other because no one could afford more than one and when you didn’t laugh, we cackled. 

I thanked the kittens in my head for giving me a reason to see you and we bid Diana goodbye because she would rather be in her home than watch me ogle at a man. Your boldness inspired me and I invited you to the backyard to sit. I picked jocotes for you and you cracked a rock in half. It was similar to the way Maximo had shared an orange with a girl down the street. We talked about our favorite holidays and I confessed that talking to you made me feel like a firework, exploding with comfort and curiosity. At that moment, you placed half of the rock in my hand and when your finger brushed against the cracks of my palm, I felt an unfamiliar warmth. 

It didn’t take us long to begin officially courting and when you said you wanted to take me to your home in San Dionisio the following month, I obliged. Mami knows where I am. My Father as well. Your home welcomed me in and your parrot already knew my name. 

I sat on your cama de junco and its familiar woven texture softened my nerves. Everything was heightened at that moment. The trees rustling outside moved alongside your fingers when you wove them through my hair and undid my braid. Your parrot began singing a cumbia song that I recognized and as his music began, we did as well. I tasted love on my tongue when you kissed me for the first time. 

Your touch was tender, and my skin felt a pull to yours. Everytime your lips found mine, I felt the reverberation of a thousand fireworks explode. We made love devotedly. You made me feel seen–my thoughts, my skin, my worries. You held them by the hand and asked for permission to know me, even more.

When it was over and your sweat brushed my skin, our breaths tangled. We talked up a storm after. It was late and well over 5 P.M. but in that moment, no military man could ruin my felicity. 

How was it that you had made a war disappear at the touch?

I told Mami that I was with child, shortly after. You moved into our home, without hesitation, as though you had already been here. The transition was seamless. I began to grow, you began to work with my Father and the only thing I could stomach was watermelon. You used a machete every evening to chop a watermelon and served it to me in perfect cubes. I felt like a little girl being given her favorite toy. Like I was a queen, deserving of absolute devotion and nothing else. 

I watched you kill chickens and make a multitude of fires for my entire family. You began to be a part of my brother’s jokes and when you said something funny, they told me that I had chosen a good one. And when you offered to wash my clothes with Mami on Sundays, I felt a kick from the baby and me. Suddenly, being a woman felt powerful. 

Now living together, you traced the constellations for me. The Big Dipper looked like a ladle scooping soup. Scorpius, my zodiac sign apparently, didn’t look like a scorpion at all, no matter how hard you tried to paint the picture in my head. Every night, we drew maps in the sky–because I hated limitations and you wanted something that was ours. 

The thought of being a mother still seemed so foreign. I wondered when I’d feel that and realize I am a Mother with a capital M. Maybe after I gave birth or during contractions or when you baptized her with a name. Maybe when the street dogs began to come sniff at our door in curiosity of the new arrival. No, I’m sure I’ll feel it the most when I have to explain to her how to consummate. I'm sure that will be a Marking moment. 

The curfew oppressively loomed over us throughout the entire pregnancy. I was on the edge all the time, scared that somehow when I gave birth, my baby would be taken by hungry men. Or that an arsenal brawl would strike as I was squeezing life out. Throughout it all, Mami kept saying that birthing had made her want to die–that didn’t help. She had told me to be careful with what gender I wanted because men will always want a son. I told her you were different, not like other men. And while I could only imagine the agony of being split open, I thought that the idea of you holding my hand while I gave light, would make me want to live forever. 

On a windy afternoon, just as the sun dipped, and while you served me watermelon, I felt a pierce in my stomach. My skin vibrated in pain and I felt my uterus begin to violently pulse. You dropped the blade and asked me if everything was alright. I was too stuck to speak, my breasts began to ache and my stomach kept sending shocks throughout my body. 

This is it, I remember thinking. 

It felt like my body was torturing me, punishing me, making me scream in despair. Mami was my only midwife and it was well past 5 P.M. and no one would have dared come out of their house to help me give birth. 

I began breathing in sets of three–1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3. You and Mami helped me towards the barn where she had given light to all of her children and while ancestral care caressed me internally, my body was physically tormenting me. My Father rushed into the room, not knowing what to do but to be present. 

My body fell into anguish and my legs wobbled. I couldn’t stay still. I screamed and screamed and nothing subsidized me. I laid on the cama de junco, gripping onto the wood as I yelled. All I did was shriek like the animals. Mami lifted my dress, looked at my vagina and gasped violently. 

What? What? What is it? I panicked. 

We need to go to a hospital, she said, we need to go now. 

We can’t leave the house, my Father yelled. You didn’t know what to do either and when Mami motioned for you to come and look at me. You called out from the top of your voice.

What’s going on? I yelled. I felt a sharp pain up my spine, in my head, everywhere. 

The baby is coming out body first, you whispered.

No. No. No. That can’t be true, I thought. No, this isn’t happening. 

Can you take her to a hospital? Mami pleaded. 

My Father stayed silent and left. He came back with the keys of his truck and he carried me over to it. He hid me in the trunk and you climbed in next to me. We laid flat together as my Father placed a carp over us, hiding us from the world and hungry soldiers outside. Mami couldn’t go with us and she would rather you be there for your child than her. You placed a rag in my mouth so that I could bite down and muffle my screams. 

He began to drive and while I couldn’t see anything, it still felt ominous to be outside at night. It had been a year since the curfew, the war had raged for two. I bit down on the rag anxiously, feeling the baby’s leg on my own. How did this happen? What would happen next? 

The truck stopped and we heard voices speak, my Father’s as well. We were halted by the soldiers, I am sure. A wave of sharp jabs pulsated. My body continued to ache and the baby pushed against my pelvis. I couldn’t see anything at all. We began to drive again and you raised the carp ever so slightly to look in between my legs. 

The leg is purple, you said, with a shake. 

I said nothing. I couldn’t find the words. I was giving birth to a baby during the war. What could I begin to say?

The carp covered us again and the veil brought a bit of comfort. I was being hugged by the darkness and my baby’s dropping leg. My heart started to pound faster than it ever had and I felt your hand slip into mine. At the touch of your hands, my mind drifted over to the black butterfly. And while superstitions were still superstitions, I began to think this was your doing.