“What’s going on?” Marimar asked.
A disgruntled sound vibrated through the crowd.
“Orquídea being Orquídea,” Aunt Reina said through lips so pinched, her lipstick was feathering out like tiny veins.
Marimar counted her cousins, aunts, and uncles, but kept losing track. She leaned over to Rey and mumbled, “I guess this is what twelve years of four husbands looks like.”
“Goals, question mark?” Rey said with caution.
It was an impressive gathering for a woman who had claimed to come from nothing and been wanted by no one as a child. When Marimar had asked why everyone in the family carried the last name Montoya, even though it was the maternal last name, Orquídea simply said that she wanted to leave her mark, and besides, she went through all the trouble of giving birth each time.
The offshoots of Montoyas went as follows:
Marimar and Rey represented their dead mothers, Pena and Parcha Montoya, and the family branch that sprung from their grandfather, Luis Osvaldo Galarza Pincay, who had made the journey from Ecuador to Four Rivers with Orquídea and Gabo the rooster. He’d died when their daughters were small, from something Orquídea called a patatús, and Marimar understood it roughly meant a fright. Pena Montoya was never married, and all Marimar knew of her father was that he’d left before Marimar was born. Parcha Montoya Restrepo, as an act of rebellion, gave Rey the middle name of Montoya instead.
Next was Héctor Antonio Trujillo-Chen, a Puerto Rican-Chinese professor who’d wandered down the hill in order to inquire about the aroma of coffee. He’d been guest lecturing on the subject of agriculture at the community college when he drove by. After his class, he returned to call on Orquídea, who had taken to his lovely eyes and sturdy height, and they were married the following spring. They had three children, who were all present. Félix Antonio Montoya Trujillo-Chen, his wife Reina, their daughter Tatinelly, and her husband Mike Sullivan. Florecida Dulce Montoya and her daughter Penelope. Silvia Aracely Montoya Lupino, her husband Frederico, and their twin sons, Gastón and Juan Luis.
After Héctor passed, from an infection brought on by experimenting with plant hybrids, came Caleb Soledad. Caleb, like most people, ended up in Four Rivers because he’d gotten lost. He had no phone, no quarters hidden in the glove compartment, and the tank of gas, which he’d just filled, had somehow leaked out and left him stranded two miles away from the house. He was a chemist, by way of Texas, driving around the country trying to come up with the perfect perfume. They fell in love in her garden, and when Marimar had first heard this story, she’d definitely thought that meant they’d had sex. The Soledad-Montoya siblings had the same strong brows, angular jaws, deep olive skin, and green eyes as their father. There were the twins, Enrique and Ernesta, and Caleb Jr. None of them had children yet.
Marimar looked around for Orquídea’s fourth husband, Martin Harrison, a retired Jazz musician from New Orleans who had found his way to Orquídea’s front porch because, somehow, he’d heard the sound of her music all the way up the road. He was not among the impatient legion of Montoyas.
It was then that Marimar realized what her aunt Reina meant by “Orquídea being Orquídea.” The pressure behind her belly button intensified. Marimar pushed her way through and darted up to the house, a swarm of dragonflies now trailing around her head. With every step, her heart descended into the pit of her stomach. Her childhood home was nothing like she remembered it, and even though she was expecting some wear and tear, she was not ready for this.
Dark green ivy and vines crept between the wood panels, through shattered windows, all-consuming, as if devouring the house back into the ground. Roots broke through the porch like tentacles, strangling the door handle to shut the way in.
And if Orquídea Divina was still inside, it shut her way out.
Rey marched up the front steps and stood beside her. His fingertips brushed against one of the windows, dragging a finger along a hairline fracture that led to the stamped gold laurel. A single leaf was peeling off the glass.
“Grandma?” Marimar beat her fist against the door. When she pulled her hand back, there was a thorn lodged into the tender side of her palm. It hadn’t even stung.
Rey blinked away his surprise. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it her. “Here.”
She dislodged the thorn, but only a single drop of blood fell.
Rey grabbed one of the roots that didn’t seem to have any thorns and yanked. It was like trying to pry open an iron fence.
“We’ve tried that,” came a voice behind them.
Tío Enrique, the second youngest of Orquídea’s sons, stuffed his hands into slim fit trouser pockets. “But please, tell us what you would do that we haven’t tried for hours.”
“Shut up, Enrique,” Rey snapped, trying to grab the root that kept the door from opening. He kicked at the vines. He picked up a large rock, but they just seemed to grow thicker, wilder.
Enrique chuckled, more amused than offended at having one of his nephews speak to him that way. Then something cruel gleamed across his features. “Praise the Saints, you finally have a backbone.”
“Ignore him,” Marimar muttered and cupped her hands against one of the least obstructed windowpanes. There was too much dust on the inside. She remembered Monday mornings when they poured Orquídea’s homemade cleaning liquid and scrubbed the whole house from ceiling to floor. The longer she tried to look, the more the vines shook, and the house let out a loud groan.
“What should we do?” Tatinelly asked, her voice like the susurration of leaves on the breeze. “This little one’s starting to get hungry.”
Reymundo did a double take. The last two years had been good to Cousin Tati. She placed her hands on her pregnant belly and sat on the bottom porch steps. Her husband—a thin man with sunburned patches all over his arms and nose—hurried close to her side. He looked like a rabbit caught in a snare. They should’ve all been afraid. They should’ve all been horrified at the state of the house. But there they were, getting angry and frustrated instead.
“Didn’t she hide keys inside the big apple tree when she was mad?” Rey asked. “Maybe—”
“The orchard is withered,” Enrique said dismissively, and stuck out his chest like Gabo, the rooster.
The family gathered closer, staggering along the creaky porch steps. Their bright colors made them look like wildflowers sprouting between overgrown yellow grass.
“What else have you tried?” Marimar demanded.
“Knocking,” Tía Florecida ticked off words on her slender fingertips. “Shouting. Breaking down the door. The house did not like that, but Ricky never listens. I used to sneak out through the back, but it’s all sealed.”
“She just needs time,” Tío Félix reassured them. He had a black mustache though his thick wavy hair had gone salt white.
“You’re right, Daddy,” Tatinelly said in that pretty, soft way of hers. Where Marimar felt like a blowhorn, Tatinelly was a windchime. Marimar had always wondered how her cousin was able to maintain such a calm disposition. Even in the face of the strangest circumstance their family had ever faced, Tatinelly giggled. “Isn’t it curious?”
Rey crossed his arms over his chest. “ ‘Curious’ isn’t the word I’d use.”
“What would you use?” Juan Luis piped up from the crowd in his prepubescent squeak.
“I’d say this is fucked,” Rey said.
Marimar tried to bite down her laughter. The twins and Penelope were delighted at the swearing and repeated the words like cockatiels. The matrons not so much.
Tío Félix nodded, tugging at the tip of his chin. “I’m beginning to get worried.”
“B-beginning?” Mike Sullivan asked. He’d twisted the invitation into an unrecognizable scrap.
“What more did we expect?” Ernesta sighed. “I swore I’d never come back here.”
“Who invites people over and then keeps them waiting outside?” Reina, Félix’s wife asked. Her feathered l
ipstick kept spreading.
“You don’t have to be here,” Caleb Jr., the youngest of the Montoya progeny, reminded her. He had all the heat of a stove burner set to medium. Though he’d left Four Rivers to continue and expand his father’s perfume empire, he loved his mother and would not stand for a negative word about her.
“Aniñado, momma’s boy,” Florecida muttered at her baby brother. “Why don’t we call Sheriff Palladino?”
“What’s he going to do? Tip his hat at the roots and tell the house to have a peachy day?” Enrique waved a dismissive hand.
“I don’t see you doing anything but trying not to get your bespoke shirt dirty,” Caleb Jr. said.
Ernesta shoved a finger against his heart. “Don’t start.”
That kicked off chatter that sounded like a swarm of wasps. Everyone was looking to Enrique for answers that he didn’t have. The truth was that none of them knew how to get into the house. They had been gone for so long, they’d forgotten how to play by Orquídea’s rules.
Rey leaned against the warped wooden porch and drew out one of his cigarettes while the squabble continued outside a house being strangled by giant roots. Tío Félix and Tatinelly’s husband, whose name he never seemed to remember, also bummed one.
“Isn’t it weird,” Rey whispered to Marimar, “to think that we’re all related?”
She took his cigarette and pulled on the bitter smoke, drew it deep in her lungs until she felt the heady rush of tobacco. “Cats are related to lions.”
Rey retrieved his cigarette, his hands trembling still. “Which ones are we in this scenario?”
Marimar shrugged. “I don’t want to know.”
“Stop it!” Silvia said, slapping her hips in a way they’d all seen Orquídea do a million times.
Tatinelly shook her head softly, staring past everyone at the yellow grass that blanketed the ground beneath their feet and rubbed her belly in a steady, hypnotic motion. “This can’t be good for the baby.”
“Enough!” Félix shouted. “We aren’t here to fight with each other.”
“For once you’re right, brother. We’re here to collect what is ours.” Enrique shrugged out of his slate gray blazer and shoved it into Gastón’s hands, who handed it to his twin, Juan Luis. The kid put it on, and it fit him like a trench coat.
“Everyone, wait here.” Enrique rolled up his periwinkle blue sleeves up, cursing as he marched down the porch and around back.
Marimar nudged Rey and they followed him.
The buzzing sound of their family faded as they waded through overgrown dry grass. Further back, the orchard really had withered, but not in the way Marimar had expected. Each and every tree was split down the center, like they’d been struck by lightning.
She and Rey exchanged concerned glances, but neither trusted themselves to speak. What had done this? Why now?
The gardens and the greenhouse were brown, wilted bits of what used to be lush green. Dead and rotting and ruined. The stench of it shoved into their noses and mouths.
“There,” Marimar said, pressing her arm across her nose.
Enrique stomped up to one of the small sheds which was in better condition than the main house since it wasn’t covered in vines, but the roof had a visible hole on one side. When he opened the door, it came right off the hinges. Martin took up carpentry in his old age, but the place looked like it hadn’t been used in years. There were stacks of wood and machetes, axes, hand saws, and rusted letter openers littered on the surfaces.
“I can’t wait to sell this slice of hell into a million fucking little pieces.” Enrique’s rage frothed into expletives as his hand closed around what he was looking for.
“See, when I cursed like that, Orquídea would make me eat a jalapeño,” Rey said from the entryway. “Seeds and all.”
Enrique inhaled his resolve. A ray of sun beamed down on him from the hole in the roof. He was King Arthur, except instead of Excalibur, Enrique held up a warped machete that couldn’t be used to slice a palmetto leaf let alone hack through solid wood. He slung the rusted weapon over his shoulder. His jade-green eyes were bright, and he flashed a desperate smile that was all teeth.
“What are you doing?” Marimar stepped into the doorway to bar his way out.
“I’m tired of waiting. That woman has made my life miserable since the day she realized I’d never carry any of her godforsaken superstitions.”
“They’re not superstitions.” She could practically feel her anger licking at her skin right down to her toes. Hadn’t she left Four Rivers and Orquídea’s nonsense behind? Why was she defending it now?
Enrique barked a bitter laugh. “Keep telling yourself that. You’re still children hanging on to her every word. Haven’t you realized? There’s no magic or secrets here. It’s an evil. Anything that has to do with Orquídea dies. That’s what got my sisters and my father. That’s what got Martin.”
“Martin is dead?” Marimar sucked in a sharp breath. She felt cold from the inside, like an ice sculpture was building within her. Martin with his wide, toothy smile. Martin, who had cared for them like they were his own grandkids.
“She didn’t tell you either? He went peacefully in his sleep, at least,” Enrique said, and for the first time there was something like compassion in his deep voice. “See? She doesn’t care about anyone. If you were smart, you’d leave. After we settle up, whatever family I have, they’ll never know any of this or her.”
He shoved his niece and nephew out of the way.
Rey flicked his cigarette butt on the ground and whispered in Marimar’s ear, “For the sake of the world I hope he’s sterile.”
“Come,” Marimar said, and pulled her cousin along after their uncle. “He’s not getting away with this.”
The crowd of Montoyas parted to make way for Enrique. Enrique, who had taken all the money his father had left him in a trust and opened up a vodka distillery catering to young celebrities and the playboy millionaires he aspired to be. He wanted nothing more than to own this valley. He’d buy his family out if he had to. There was money in land development, and he could quadruple his fortune if he made the right sale. But there was nothing left for anything to prosper here, not anymore.
He wielded the machete high over his head as he marched up to the door.
“Stop!” Marimar shouted, but Enrique did not listen, and he brought the machete down on the roots that kept the door shut. The vines rippled. The roots twisted. The house let loose a deep, guttural moan. But the machete was like a fist against solid brick. Enrique couldn’t stop now, so he kept hacking away at a root that petrified with every strike. Another thick root reached out and struck him across the face. He grunted and when he recovered there was the shadow of a perfect handprint on his cheek.
On the next strike, Enrique went for the gold laurel leaves on the glass windows and was pushed back with a great force. He turned to the worried faces of everyone around him and, for the first time, something like fear bolted across his eyes.
“Stop!” Marimar shouted again, and this time, even the mountains trembled with the sound of her cry.
“It’d be easier to burn it to the ground,” Rey said, looking down at his lighter. The cherry of his cigarette lit up the angles of his face from where he stood in the shadows. He didn’t mean what he said. He’d loved this house once. He wanted to hate it. He had hated it when he’d been far away. But now that he was here, now that he heard it crying, he wanted to make it stop.
Orquídea Divina had survived in a world that didn’t want her and she survived the magic that claimed the lives of her husbands and daughters. Enrique, though he was her son, didn’t understand her. Most of them didn’t. Not truly. If they had, they’d be inside the house.
Come and collect. Those were the exact words Orquídea had written. They were here to answer an invitation. All of them.
“That’s not how Orquídea works,” Tatinelly said.
Marimar nodded. Any other day, she would have laughed at Enrique
getting punched in the face by magical roots, but they had somewhere to be. Someone waiting for them. She pulled out the invitation again. Come and collect. She thought of the way her grandmother hid things in the hollows of trees. How she spoke to the birds that brought seeds to her windowsills and sent them on errands.
“Remember that time my mom came home drunk,” Rey said, “And even though the locks hadn’t been changed, her key wouldn’t work? Orquídea was in the den and we had instructions to not let my mom in.”
“Yeah,” Marimar said. “I forgot how she finally got in.”
“She said she just apologized and asked nicely, but now I can’t remember if my mom had been talking about the house or Orquídea.”
“Maybe we should ask nicely,” Tatinelly suggested.
They scoffed and laughed at her, but Marimar held on to that thought. No one wanted to be summoned, no one truly wanted to be here. She was sure that not one of the other Montoyas had announced themselves. They’d seen the obstacle and gave up when the answer wasn’t obvious. But perhaps it was obvious.
Tatinelly got up, her belly nearly tipping her over. Rey held out a steadying hand since he was standing closest to her. She walked up the five porch steps and stood in front of the door.
“I’ve come to collect,” she said in her windchime voice.
Instantly, the roots gave way, relinquishing their hold on the doorknob. The house released a deep sigh that shook the entire structure. Dragonflies and lightning bugs flitted in the dark open hall, their hazy glow illuminating the foyer. Floorboards peeked beneath layers of dirt, which must’ve come in with the roots and vines that broke through like ripped stitches.
Marimar and Rey didn’t wait for the others. They were right behind Tatinelly, turning left into the living room, where Orquídea Divina liked to sit, facing the fireplace while drinking bourbon as the sun set behind the valley. Her valley.
The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina Page 6