“But the tractor you need, the peons’ houses, the electrics . . .”
“We have savings, and if they’re not for something like this, what are they for? I’ve already used some to buy land there, and look: nothing happened.”
With my mama concerned about the changes that were about to happen, my papa finally informed her, without much fuss, about the properties he had purchased. When there was no explosive response on my mama’s part, to avoid tempting fate—to distract her—he continued explaining the plan.
My sisters could stay in the house when my mama was in the city, and they would join the Monterrey Social Club so they could go to the dances.
My sisters liked the idea. The problem was that my mama had not returned to Monterrey since my grandfather was executed. It was not the city she objected to: it was the journey. She was worried about the dangers of traveling by train. When my papa told her he would send her in the car, though it would take longer, she was no less afraid. Train or car, it made no difference. My papa could hardly criticize her for her fears, for they were well founded. He couldn’t promise her that nothing would happen, that there was no danger, just as he couldn’t promise her that she would be safe if she remained in Linares.
My sisters were very beautiful, especially Carmen, and not by chance: they inherited it from my mama, who, despite having a daughter of marrying age, was very well preserved. My papa knew that the risk of her being snatched while in transit was almost as high as it was for my sisters. And in order to stay as close as possible, watching over her since the incident that made them decide to send my sisters to board in Monterrey, he had not given the Tamaulipas ranches the attention they needed. Carmen’s engagement opened up the possibility of the family living in safety in a new home in Monterrey, at least while he was away on his ranches.
Though my mother swore—and would fulfill her oath—to never spend more than a week away from her home by my papa’s side, they quickly bought a house on Calle Zaragoza, at the time the best location for families of means. It was of modest size but extremely modern: fully electrified, with running water in the kitchen and an indoor bathroom. At first this had seemed extravagant to Beatriz, but she grew accustomed to it almost immediately.
That was how Carmen and Antonio, despite both of them being in mourning for a year—for in Monterrey there had also been many deaths from the Spanish flu—were able to conduct a quite conventional courtship when my mama was in the city. They danced at the Monterrey Social Club; they dined at home with my mama. And when my papa came to visit, the fiancé’s parents would invite them to some family event. When my sister returned to boarding school in my mama’s absence, the couple wrote to each other twice a day, missing one another and impatiently planning the event that would bring their lives together in the winter of 1920.
As it turned out, they didn’t marry until the winter of 1921, though everything had been ready for the wedding for a full year. What happened—and my parents would later point out the irony of initially worrying so much about the young age of their enamored daughter—was that Señora Domínguez, Antonio’s mother, died of acute hepatitis in October 1920, shortly after the couple notified the Church of their engagement in August of that year. Antonio, obliged to remain in mourning for at least a year, postponed the wedding.
“Look, Francisco. You must promise me something,” my mama said to my papa during their son-in-law’s year of mourning. “If I die this year, don’t even think about postponing Carmen and Antonio’s wedding. If we carry on like this, their whole life could pass them by with all this death. Life waits for no one, and death takes us all. Let them marry, and that’s that. Something discreet, if they want. Without much celebration. Honestly, it would offend me if it weren’t discreet; I would be more offended if they grew old before marrying because of my imprudence.”
“Would flowers be allowed in this context?” asked my papa and, after receiving the pinch that he deserved, added, “Don’t even say it; you’ve never been imprudent in your life. And don’t even think about starting now.”
25
The Coyote That’s Coming
The day that Simonopio accompanied Beatriz Morales de Cortés to offer her condolences to the Espiricueta family was the day when he took refuge again in his nana’s bed.
Simonopio had slept peacefully in Reja and Pola’s bedroom all his life, first in a Moses basket and then in a crib. When he was four, they urgently made him a bed.
His godmother had walked in one night, looking for Nana Pola, and saw him lying in his crib, ready to sleep curled up in a ball. She approached to stroke his brow and tuck him in, but then stopped.
“Just look at you, Simonopio! When did you grow so much?” He, of course, offered no reply. “You don’t fit anymore. If you keep sleeping here, you’ll grow all rolled up like a snail.”
Two days later, Simonopio found a large bed with no rails in place of his crib.
He did not want to turn into a snail, and he liked the idea of stretching his legs, but he would miss the bars that kept him inside, that protected him. He knew he would be unable control his movements in order to keep away from the edge. The first night, he could not sleep. After that, he slept but would wake suddenly, startled by the feeling in his stomach of falling into a void. Simonopio was not afraid of hitting the ground; he was afraid of the void. Of falling forever.
In the following months, he developed the habit of sneaking with blanket and pillow into his nana Reja’s bed, where he fell fast asleep between his protector’s warm body and the wall.
Reja, who did not sleep, noticed when the boy climbed in with her, trying not to disturb her, afraid perhaps that she would stop him and send him back to his own bed. But she never did. She did not care if the bed ejected her before her customary time in the mornings, stiffer than usual and groaning a little as she moved and got up, which she had never done before. She was not used to having someone so close, whether in the day or night, but if she was not there to offer comfort to her boy, what purpose did she have in life?
Simonopio was an active child, even when he slept. Sometimes Reja thought he followed his bees in his sleep, just as he did when he was awake: he moved his legs as if running and his arms as if flying. He also preferred to be closer to his nana’s tough, woody skin than to the hard, unyielding wall. As the night wore on, Simonopio gradually conquered more and more territory of the shared bed, leaving her with little space to rest—insufficiently and poorly—on the edge of the cliff. Reja was not scared of the void; she was scared of the hard floor. She was afraid that, when she hit it, her bones would shatter like glass.
Nana Pola could not help but notice so much unusual movement in their bedroom. When months went by and the situation did not improve, she spoke to Simonopio one night, as she tucked him in.
“You can’t go to sleep in your nana Reja’s bed anymore; she’s very old and aches all over. I don’t know what you’re frightened of, Simonopio, but you’re a big boy now. You’re safe here. I bless this room every night. No witches or ghosts can come in here. No monsters can fit under your bed, either, because it’s very low and they’re very big, as they say. And we don’t have any dolls that wake up and walk around at night, because we sent them all off to the storehouse. Now sleep tight.”