Eartheater

by Dolores Reyes

  “Music?” the yoke asked, like he knew.

  I righted myself, switched on the radio. I scanned several stations and found nothing worthwhile. Then I hit on a Gilda song. Mamá had liked Gilda. She was always telling me about how Gilda had been a kindergarten teacher. I shut my eyes and pictured my old lady humming around the house. The only time I ever saw her happy was with music on and my old man out. There, on that mission I didn’t want to go on, my old lady came to me in the voice of a kindergarten teacher who sang with a red-lipped smile and made it all the more bearable.

  When the song ended, the yoke said “Thanks” and I opened my eyes. I laughed.

  “You like Gilda too?”

  “Thank you for coming all this way to do this,” he said.

  Suddenly, he didn’t look that much like a yoke anymore. I tried to think of him as Ezequiel. His name.

  “I’m hungry,” I said, “but I can’t eat right now anyway.”

  He said nothing, kept driving. I thought he’d gone somewhere else, that he didn’t care what I had to say. But then he pulled up to the curb and came out with:

  “See that?”

  He pointed at something outside, on his end of the car. I craned my neck to read the sign: GRILLED MEAT PASTA FRIES. Leaning over, I caught a whiff of a scent that went straight to my head. I don’t know if it was the deodorant he wore or some hair product, but I liked it so much it made me smile. I sat back down.

  “You do your job and we’ll come here after. There’s no rush.” Ezequiel smiled too.

  He started the car. My feet didn’t feel wet anymore.

  María’s house was pretty. Way prettier than mine, anyhow. I didn’t know where we were and didn’t care to ask. Ezequiel and his aunt looked my way like they were expecting me to say something and I, not knowing what to say, peered out the window at the grass, at the earth.

  Then, the woman told me her daughter used to take her mate outside while she read over photocopies from nursing school. The woman nearly burst into tears. I told Ezequiel to stay there with his aunt and walked out. The door was ajar and I only had to push open the screen door, which was heavier than it looked.

  Their property was smaller than mine, but nothing grew freely there. The grass was mown and weedless. The plants, small in their pots and flowerbeds, barely grazed my knees. I started round the house, questing for something, I’m not sure what.

  I felt the screen door open and close, then saw Ezequiel and his aunt headed my way.

  “Come, I’ll show you,” she said. And then: “Here. This is where my little girl used to study and drink mate.”

  She pointed at a spot on the property not unlike the rest, save for a chopped tree trunk hemmed by taller grass. I shifted the trunk, uncovering a couple of pill bugs and a centipede that scuttered away. The trunk was upturned; once against the earth, its damp side now faced the sun. There were a few live critters there too, unmoving, stunned by the unexpected light.

  Beneath, stripped of green, was earth.

  I asked them to leave, and waited. No one would ever watch me eat dirt again. I stood motionless till I heard the screen door close shut. Alone, I could slip off my shoes, sit down, rake my hand through the earth and feel it on my legs; for a moment, returning my body to its own. I didn’t shut my eyes but conjured the photo Ezequiel had shown me of María. A lovely, black-haired girl. Beautiful when she smiled. I thought of her patients, glad to be touched by a girl like that.

  The earth is always cold at first. But in my hand and, later, in my mouth, it grows hot.

  I set some aside, gathered it up. Brought it to my mouth and swallowed. I shut my eyes, feeling the earth warm up and scorch me inside, then ate some more. Earth was the poison that would carry me to María’s body, where I needed to be.

  I lay on the ground, eyes shut. I had learned darkness could birth forms. I tried to make them out, to think of nothing else, not even the pain radiating from my stomach. Nothing but a glimmer where I focused my gaze till it turned into two black eyes. And gradually, as if crafted by the night, I saw María’s face, her shoulders, hair born of the deepest darkness I had ever seen.

  Thankfully, the earth didn’t hug her body. She wore a pale dress over her skin, which made her look younger. She lay somewhere. Alive.

  But there was something else, too: confinement. Light didn’t enter freely where she was. María breathed, fearfully. No part of her smiled. The dress, which started at her shoulders, was lost in a clutch of blankets that appeared to trap her.

  María gazed at me. Her face, a keen of sadness. Pain radiated from her black eyes.

  As I watched her, I remembered my aching stomach. But I wasn’t ready to return to my body. I concentrated on her and tried to stay, to figure out where she was. But there was only darkness. On the back wall behind the bed where María stared out at me were words I couldn’t read. Could I read at all? Not in dreams. The letters went strange. Restless. By the time I grasped one word, the next had changed. It was almost impossible to read in dreams.

  I crashed head-on into her body, which put me in a shitty mood. I couldn’t move beyond that room to the place where her open eyes were, with a dread that hurt like a kicking. The pain came back, and my body returned to where it wasn’t meant to be. I couldn’t stay, it was agonizing, airless. I was so close to María, but it was no use.

  Whenever I felt like leaving, I’d crash into her again. I wanted to move away, to look at her, feel her. Knowing she was alive, the pain mattered less. I gathered up all my strength so that I could break loose. I stopped looking her in the eyes so that I could move backward, farther, toward the wall and the words that, this time, I made no effort to read. Instead, I pretended to snap a photo of them with my cell phone. That’s when I saw the phrase CARRY YOUR CROSS. A door instantly creaked open. I felt an intense fear. That was the last of it.

  I opened my eyes.

  I left the vision feeling breathless, as though I’d been locked up with her for days.

  I struggled up. I was thirsty. My throat and mouth, parched. I felt dizzy. The thirst made me dumb.

  “Water,” I croaked as I saw Ezequiel walking toward me.

  The woman strode behind him.

  “Water,” I said again. Then, mouth dying of thirst: “She’s alive.”

  They led me to the bathroom. I shut the door on them. I guzzled down water with the same compulsion as I had during recess back when Señorita Ana used to look after us and tap water was the tastiest thing in the world.

  I sought my reflection in the mirror and in it found something I already knew: I’m like her, I said to myself. I know her name and I know she’s alive. I want to find her. I look like María. My lips, my hair. There’s earth in the color of my skin, and some of María too: eyes like a knife wound in flesh. I won’t leave her there, alive, forgotten among shadows.

  Fries, lots of them. And a milanesa. Got any?”

  I ordered my favorite food, the same meal I had every birthday. Back in the day, I used get out of bed and put shoes on so no one would scold me, then leave my room to look for my old lady.

  The faucet would be on all the way, the water crashing down on a dark mountain of potatoes. The water turned the dirt to mud and then into a clouded river that flowed toward the kitchen drain. I used to be a pro at peeling potatoes with nothing but a Tramontina knife, but I never touched them on my birthday. “I’ll do it,” my old lady would say, nudging me out of the way with her arm. But seconds later there I would be again. I liked to see the potatoes all chopped up, to watch them frying. To smell them.

  Milanesas, one each. Sometimes, when our old man wasn’t home in time for dinner, Mamá would set his milanesa aside on a plate between two squares of paper towel. Not the fries, though. “Screw him,” she’d say, and Walter and I would split our sides laughing. Those were the best birthdays ever.

  Ezequiel ordered some sort of meat with a side of salad. Salad? That cracked me up. They sold all kinds of things in that joint and this john or
ders lettuce.

  “To drink?” asked a straight-haired girl a year or so older than me as she took our order down in a notepad, not looking at us.

  Ezequiel ordered a beer I’d never heard of. A dark beer from a weird brewery. They brought it stat, chilled. I loved everything about being there, about washing away the sadness of the earth in my body with beer and fries.

  “You know we’ve got to go back, right?” said Ezequiel halfway through his beer.

  I nodded yes. I was aware. María was alive but I didn’t know how to figure out where she was. I didn’t need to eat more earth to sense the dread in her open eyes. Her earth was still in my body.

  “But right now I’m exhausted,” I said, as they brought over a tray full of fries.

  “I know. Let’s eat. I’ll drive you home.”

  I reached for a fry. I’d been brought a set of metal cutlery wrapped in a paper napkin. But I wanted to touch the potatoes. To sink my fingers into the platter. They were hot but not enough to burn my hand. I grabbed one, took a bite, and remembered the taste of thick-cut fries—so soft their insides were like mashed potatoes. Steam curled up from the fry, and I took another bite.

  I was on cloud nine when Ezequiel said:

  “I’ll come fetch you tomorrow, I’ll bring my car.”

  I didn’t want to look at him. I went on reaching for fries.

  That night I dreamed of Señorita Ana again. She seemed dimmer inside and wasn’t even angry. Her sadness was bright, solitary. I walked up to her, and something inside Señorita Ana lit up when she saw me.

  “I’m all alone here, you know? I can’t go anywhere.”

  It was the opposite of my vision of María. Señorita Ana was in a vast, empty place. Forever on her own.

  She looked much thinner and I couldn’t tell if that was because she wasn’t wearing her teacher’s smock anymore.

  The stench turned my stomach, and Señorita Ana looked at me with pity.

  “The pain,” she said, “it’s not from here but from the earth in your belly.”

  I said nothing but wondered how much dirt I could scarf without wrecking my throat, my stomach, my body.

  I thought to myself that I had to wake up. But I didn’t want to leave Señorita Ana on her own.

  “I’ve got to go. I’m sorry,” I said.

  This didn’t make Señorita Ana angry either. She opened her arms and hugged me, then said:

  “I know, I know. Hurry, Eartheater. María’s still alive.”

  I was waiting for him.

  The sun had just risen and I was waiting for him.

  Walter was in his room again with the combat-boot girl. I’d heard them come in hours ago. I hadn’t snuck a look. He must’ve fallen hard to bring the same girl home twice in a row.

  The light outside was dim now and had started creeping into my room. And I was waiting for him. I knew Ezequiel wouldn’t arrive that early, but I was awake and thinking about what we’d get up to. I wondered if, aside from going to María’s house, aside from scarfing earth and, hopefully, finding the girl, he and I might do something. Which was stupid. Why was I thinking about that kind of thing?

  Unable to sleep, I got up to shower. I went to the bathroom. The towels were missing again. What were my brother and that girl doing disappearing with all the towels? I liked the idea of hunting for one outside, of treading the soil a little before I had to leave. For some reason, I had the feeling I might not come back.

  To reach the clothesline where the clothes hung to dry, I needed to stand by the side of the house. I took a few steps. The touch of the morning grass made me feel as though my feet would never fully leave that place. The ground got moister every day. I raked the grass with my toes so I could spy underneath. The earth was moist too. I touched it. Later, I would eat another woman’s earth. Which was why, I thought, I was staring down at mine. Looking up, I saw him.

  It wasn’t even nine yet, and there he was, stood on the path. Ezequiel, watching me with that smile I loved. And me, a wreck—barefoot, disheveled, barely slept. I dashed into the house for the key to the padlock. I considered pulling some shoes on, but my feet were filthy . . . I had to let Ezequiel in as I was.

  “Sorry,” I said, opening the gate to let him through.

  He followed me up to the house. I made a detour before going in, grabbed the first towel I saw and headed back. He followed me into the house and stood quietly in the living room, like he didn’t know what to do. I gestured at the sofa and asked if he wanted some mate. Though he looked less awkward sitting down, he still gave the impression of carrying something inside that he couldn’t let out. Pained, he didn’t look like a yoke anymore. Just another joe.

  “I was on my way to shower,” I said, setting the warm kettle and mate on a chair for him, and slipping into the bathroom.

  With Ezequiel waiting for me, I couldn’t shower till the water ran out. The way I liked to. Piping hot water to douse my hair and coat it in shampoo. Water running over me and shampoo trickling down my body so I could take in its scent before rinsing off. I grabbed a handful of hair and brought it to my nose. Then, I sniffed my shoulder, the part of my body I liked best. I stood under the water a few more minutes. I crouched for the conditioner and as I reached for the bottle, noticed it was empty. Without conditioner, I couldn’t brush my hair. I thought of the combat-boot girl and had the urge to murder Walter. Kid had never used conditioner in his life. I unscrewed the lid, filled it with water, screwed the lid back on, gave it a hard shake, stepped out of the water and emptied the bottle over my head, making sure to get my tips. I soaped myself. The water wasn’t so hot anymore and I wasn’t so happy with my shower. By the time I was done with the soap, the water was lukewarm. I stood under the shower a few seconds longer, then stepped out. I dried myself off with the towel I’d rescued from outside, a small one that barely covered my body. My hair was still drenched. I held the towel under the open faucet then hung it back on the hook beside the mirror, dripping wet. I took the lid off the bottle of conditioner and left it on the sink. Walter’d get the message. I dressed and left the bathroom.

  Ezequiel looked like a statue. I hadn’t expected him to drink any mate at all, yet he’d got through half the kettle. No sign of my brother or the girl. I sat, sipping mate. I’d hardly toweled myself dry and my hair was dribbling down my shirt. Sitting opposite a guy with a wet shirt on was starting to get on my nerves. I got up and said:

  “Let’s go.”

  “It’s early, but we can ride around a bit.”

  I saw Ezequiel glance at the wet part of my shirt then look away. I leaned back to tie my hair up in a bun, a real high one, at the back of my head. I left the kettle and mate and headed to my room for something to wear over my wet tee, but on the way found tossed on the floor a light black jacket with buttons and red stripes that I really rated. I pulled it on, did up the buttons, turned around, and said:

  “Ready.”

  I didn’t want to eat anything before eating earth. We drove around in the car looking for something to nosh on later.

  “Something sweet?” Ezequiel asked, and I couldn’t help breaking into a wide smile.

  The thought of dulce de leche made my mouth water. As did Ezequiel, his smell. I drank in his scent as he drove. I loved it. I tried to not look at him and to follow the road with my eyes, but his smell got in the way.

  “Not long now,” he said.

  I closed my eyes and only opened them when Ezequiel stopped the car. I thought we’d arrived, but instead we were parked on a street corner in front of a huge bakery with a yellow façade. Ezequiel got out and walked across the front of the car. Seeing that I was still seated, he waved at me to follow.

  We went in. I gawked at the delicious pastries, unsure what he’d pick. Instead, when our turn came, Ezequiel looked at me and asked:

  “What’re you into?”

  Anything with chocolate and dulce de leche, I thought, and tried not to laugh.

  I picked out heaps of pastries,
especially the ones with icing sugar that made your mouth look like a clown’s. I was sure all that food would last me at least three days.

  At the register, Ezequiel paid an elderly, serious-looking man who handed him a bag with a picture of bread loaves on it.

  Outside, Ezequiel passed me the bag. I was dying to open it. In the car, he told me to put it in the back. For later. I set it down carefully. I wasn’t thinking of the earth anymore but about the pastries, like a boozy night out. About fifteen minutes later, we pulled up in front of María’s house.

  I didn’t know her name. To me she was just María’s mother, Ezequiel’s aunt. She said she hadn’t slept a wink and I understood her. I never slept the same again once I started eating earth for other people. The night before, I’d taken two beers from the fridge and left one, half-empty, by the sofa. As I drank, I had tried to focus on the music coming from the PlayStation. I wanted the beer to clear my mind. To not think of María tied up, María penned up. Nor of her mamá. And at some point, I had drifted off.

  And there she was, María’s mom, inching closer. I could tell she wanted to share something, but I wasn’t interested. I was saving myself, fully, for the earth. Even so, she sat facing me and reached for my hands.

  “Hija,” she started, speaking more with her eyes than her mouth. “Daughter . . .”

  I shook my head no. She stopped. But her eyes went on.