Goddess of Filth

by Castro, V.

  “Yes, sir. It will be quite an adventure.”

  “Fantastic. Is that your father’s chicken I smell?”

  “Yes, sir. Why don’t we go fix you a plate?”

  I was relieved when they walked towards the card table topped with aluminium trays filled with mounds of food and two buckets of sweet tea from Bill Miller.

  Perla wiggled in her chair to a cumbia. Perla and I had become friends when a boy she liked expressed interest in me. I couldn’t speak Spanish, and he was a student from Mexico. Cesar with his slicked back hair, oversized jeans, and NBA jerseys over a T-shirt. His voice so quiet I could barely understand what he said. He was self-conscious trying to hide his Spanglish, hide that he went to special classes to help him to read and speak English. Perla understood him loud and clear. If Perla had a power, it would be languages. She spoke English, Spanish, aced French, and could have had an A in Latin if she didn’t get so bored with it. A language for old men she called it. I gave her my blessing to date him or fuck him. She did both, recounting all the dirty details to us on a Monday. It almost deepened my resentment that we didn’t speak Spanish at home. We sat in a circle giving the term oral tradition a new meaning. Sometimes when I was alone, I would think about her salacious stories with Cesar.

  “I wish Cesar was here,” she said, “I wanna dance! You are all too serious. We graduated! Can we party?”

  That was a year ago, the day I missed high school graduation. My family didn’t care enough to ask about the details before, and if they did, it would have meant paying for the extras that go along with the ceremony. Anyway, it was just another piece of paper, like a birth certificate or a passport to show your place in the world. Deep down I was envious of Fernanda, but if one of us could make it big, that would be everything. Someone had to show us there were opportunities available for barrio girls. I mean, we would never be mistaken for blue bloods because our skin is the shade of brown that camouflages veins. Perla, another one on the honor roll in our school, was in the same situation as me. Being smart is great, but there are a lot of smart people out there. Everybody wants to be somebody, but that shit has a price tag and there is no way to cut corners, not for us. That is why Ruben enrolled in the military after doing so well in JROTC in high school.

  I felt myself nodding off. I didn’t know if it was a dream or if it was real, but the sound of clicking against tiles made my lolling head jerk upright. I looked around the bright room to see where the noise was coming from. It couldn’t be my sisters because they were all in Lake Jackson visiting family. We had no pets or problems with mice.

  The scratching persisted, followed by a low hiss similar to the sound Fernanda had made earlier that night. I couldn’t identify the direction it was coming from until it was right next to me. Four hands, two on either side of my hips and two scuttling towards Fernanda like spider legs. Fingertips as black as frostbitten appendages twitched in exploration. My innards felt like pop rocks crackling and jumping towards my mouth. Before I could move, they caught hold of us, folding our bodies neatly in half and pulling us beneath the bed. I could feel my organs and bones being crushed to powder the deeper I sank. Fernanda remained unconscious, a blanket of floppy hair and skin. I couldn’t shout for help because my lungs were crushed flat.

  My head jerked again, and I awoke in the same position I’d been in before falling asleep. Rods of sunlight brightened the room as Fernanda opened her eyes, smacking her mouth as if all the moisture had been sucked out. Her lips appeared dried and cracked. I scrambled to my knees.

  “Fernanda! You’re all right.” I wanted to thank those sainted candles for this miracle.

  “Lourdes? What happened?”

  Another face looking for answers I didn’t have. My relief deflated a little. I’d hoped she would tell me.

  “What do you remember?”

  She lifted herself to a sitting position next to me. “It was like a nightmare. Everything was on fire and filthy, including myself. I was in the mud barefoot with my legs and hands covered in dirt. And the heat . . . my God, the heat.”

  “You scared the girls real bad. You were in some sort of trance, spoke in Nahuatl and started your period.” She looked between her legs at the hand towel blotched in red. “Sorry, I had to improvise.”

  Without making an expression or sound she buried her head between my armpit and breast to cry, bringing her legs closer to mine. The sobs shook her entire body.

  I wasn’t sure how to react. The moment to act was over and now shock had settled in. I had only a small sense of belief in the supernatural, which came from a basic human desire to know what else was out there. Since the age of eleven I had walked in and out of Pentecostal and Baptist churches because my stepfather was Baptist. Saw my mother “saved” as I sat in the front pew of a church that could seat about a hundred people. She wore a white cotton robe as the preacher dunked her in a pool of warm water behind the pulpit. A declaration that Jesus ruled her heart. Reluctantly, I went ahead with the same ceremony at twelve to stop her pestering me about my salvation. Nothing changed inside of me when I emerged from the water.

  Voices cried out, bodies swayed, bands played in jubilation to conjure the descending dove, the power of God. Despite the noise and great sense of belief surrounding me, I still felt nothing; only once was there enough guilt for me to think about tossing out my Danzig CD with the black demon on the front that made me think about sex.

  “Purity in mind and purity in heart! You are for your husband and Christ and no one else,” was the preacher’s mantra. Every Wednesday. Every fucking Wednesday—who goes to church on a Wednesday?—I watched my mother who couldn’t carry a note sing happily in the church choir because her man was happy she bounced around up there. I glowered at the sight and sound. It seemed so inauthentic. I stroked Fernanda’s hair as she continued to sob.

  There had to be a logical explanation like Pauline said. I squeezed my eyes shut to remember every moment that had led up to this point. No way did I see what I saw. No, I would push it all down. Think, Lourdes. THINK! I knew Fernanda worried endlessly about how her parents would afford all the extras of university over four years. She had to be the second to graduate in the family. Was this some sort of breakdown before college with all the pressure she felt to succeed? When you come from a family of immigrants, showing your validity, possessing papers, was essential. In some ways I felt lucky no one expected anything of me. The only one who cared if I was a failure or not was myself.

  I had to cheer her up.

  “Hey, this was a Saturday night you will never forget. Don’t worry. Remember the time when we were at the water park at thirteen and I started my period? My legs were pink, and I blamed it on melted raspa. All those boys were there . . . Come on, we need to get you home before breakfast so your mom doesn’t freak out. And you need something for that.”

  I managed to make her laugh as she wiped her tears, but something was whispering behind her eyes. Her pupils still trembled. She appeared confused as she looked around the hallway to find the bathroom, even though we’d spent hours together hanging out at my house.

  “Fernanda, it’s just to the right and tampons in the bottom cabinet.”

  “Thanks. I’m fine. Just dizzy from being hungry. I hardly ate yesterday filling out all these work study applications. Maybe some food after—a bean and cheese breakfast taco or a honey chicken biscuit from Whataburger.”

  “Yeah, sure. Whatever you need.”

  She closed the bathroom door, and I sent the girls a message.

  Everything will be ok. Fernanda is up and hungry!

  I grabbed my bag and shoes to leave. We drove in silence to the 24-hour Taco Cabana to get her food and then straight to her home. The tacos aren’t the best, but they’ll do when you are in a bind. She ate next to me without saying a word, chewing slowly. Fernanda usually gobbled junk food, as her mother despised the stuff.

  When we arrived at her house, I told Fernanda to call me later. Before she stepped o
ut of the car, she opened her mouth to speak with eyes that were her own, puffy from crying. They reminded me of an unsettled sky holding the heaviness of rain that refused to fall. “Thanks.”

  I didn’t want to upset her before seeing her mother, so I didn’t push. She never called that day.

  “Can you please stop checking your phone and help me?” my mother asked, exasperated with dark circles beneath her eyes, the creases around her mouth and eyes sagging downward in a permanent frown. I wanted to scream, “If you are not happy, say something dammit!” But we are not allowed to say those things in the event that we sound ungrateful.

  My stepfather would leave for days at a time with the railroad, leaving the burden of housework and child rearing to us. When he was around, his time was spent cutting the expansive lawn or clearing dead wood from the trees. I looked at two piles of laundry that needed folding and back to the groceries my mother had already hauled onto the kitchen floor. My sisters attacked the contents like gremlins eating past midnight. Where would I begin? I shooed the little ones away to put away the cold contents. My only day off would be filled with more work.

  “What are you making for lunch?” my sister Rosalie asked. I huffed and gave her a weak smile.

  “Whatever you want as long as it’s grilled cheese.”

  My mother walked in, kicking the door closed behind her as she carried in the last paper bags of groceries. “Why don’t you make lunch for everyone and a little of something else that can be eaten for dinner?” I did as I was told, wanting to say no and look for opportunities for myself. It would have to wait. I pushed it down, like eating cold leftovers.

  Fernanda opened the door as quietly as she could. Her mother slept light. She slipped off her flats while closing the door and held the handle until it locked without the click.

  Taking her steps from heel to the ball of her foot she crept into her room, closing the door soundlessly. She had no energy for anything except crawling into bed. There was a ringing in her head, a spinning like the first time she got drunk with Lourdes. As she lay there with her eyes closed the spinning continued, like a vortex of water draining loudly until that sound morphed into a woman’s voice speaking a language she didn’t comprehend. The languages continued to change, like her brain was flipping between radio stations. Some of the languages she recognized, until it was clear.

  Fernanda. Can you understand me now?

  Fernanda’s eyes snapped open. Who or what was talking within her head? She whispered, “yes.”

  I have traveled a long way. I am here after being drawn to your collective anger and strength, each different in spirit but the same in their power to reverberate.

  “I can’t remember what happened tonight. Just a nightmare. Am I going crazy?” Tears streamed from the corners of Fernanda’s eyes. The feeling of having no control over her mind, the source of her pride, made her want to punch and kick the walls of her room. Hearing voices? Was she on the verge of losing it?

  You’re not crazy. I will show you many things, if you want me to.

  “You are real? No way. If I’m not crazy, show yourself in the flesh. Not like the saints my mother prays to. What are you?” Fernanda sat upright in bed looking around in a panic, hoping to see something. It was hard to believe she wasn’t going insane.

  I am very real. I am female, just like you. Look in your mirror.

  Fernanda scooted to the edge of her bed, realizing the dizziness from before had vanished.

  She slowly bent her body to the left to look into her armoire mirror. She saw her own reflection. Fernanda stepped off the bed and walked closer to her image. Morning light filtered into her room. She blinked. As she drew closer to the mirror, she could see her eyes were not her own.

  “Oh my god. Oh my god! What happened to me?” Fernanda stood gripped in terror seeing the terrible transformation of her eyes into black narrow slits. They now resembled those of a creature.

  Shhhh. Don’t worry. Look closer and inside you will see me.

  Fernanda leaned so close her nose nearly touched the mirror. There, in the center of her pupils, a woman glowed like a firefly. Beautiful. Maybe a fairy? No, that wasn’t right. The voice was stronger than that. This was no Tinkerbell. Fernanda’s fear turned to fascination.

  “Why are you inside of me?”

  For many reasons. I have always had an affinity for humans, for your bodies, and this world needs hope. The ages of building great pyramids, like in my adopted home of Mexico, have long been over. I want to rebuild something new that can be carried in your hand, but as everlasting as those structures.

  “I want to do great things, too. It feels overwhelming at times. I don’t know what to expect or if I am even good enough.”

  You are good enough. In all cultures there are those that work as conduits, healers, shaman, witches . . . so many names. Some are more tolerant of those reaching to the other side while others believe it is an act of evil. As if they alone possess such absolute knowledge, something they can hoard and deal out as they see fit. I am a goddess and you a mortal female with much to learn about life and about yourself. However, these are the very attributes that will allow me to thrive without harming you. At first it will be like you experienced before; I will need control for a time as we test our compatibility. Perhaps we can do great things together?

  Fernanda continued to stare in wonder at her own eyes. “I like that idea.”

  When I went to check on Fernanda on my way to work the following morning, she sat outside in her mother’s flower bed of prized roses, now wilted from the heat. Fernanda’s hair lay limp, parted in the center against her face and shoulders. Her lips, usually bare, were slicked with black lipstick and her eyes were heavily outlined, winged at the sides like I taught her, the way my mother hated because it made me look like a Pachuca. But the makeup was just the first of the oddities. She wore only white cotton panties and a cotton T-shirt. She squatted in a birthing position in the dirt, crimson stains between her legs in full view. Her mother kneeled before her, red-faced and sweating, strands of wet hair curled around her neck. She pleaded in Spanish for her to come into the house. Cars slowed down as they passed. Fernanda mumbled to herself in Nahuatl, not even glancing in my direction when I approached.

  Mrs. Garcia whipped her head towards me with a look that could have been a lashing from a cat-o’-nine-tails.

  “What have you girls been teaching my daughter? Is she on the drugs? The alcohol? I know you probably have secret boyfriends. There is no one to control you in that mess you call a family!”

  I wanted to curse her out on the spot, slap her hard. But it wouldn’t help Fernanda. “Nothing! She isn’t on anything. We only played a game.”

  Mrs. Garcia gasped, placing one hand over her mouth and the other over the crucifix around her neck. “El Diablo! You have been playing with El Diablo! Haven’t you?! Now he has taken her because of her purity. You might not be innocent, but my daughter is. Leave!”

  My cheeks went hot and my fist balled. Just like the time in middle school when I was blamed for a game of truth or dare. I sat in front of my mother and stepfather as they recounted the other parents’ accusations. It was all my idea. I was the corruptor. Was I already having sex? Smoking? Knowing nothing I could say or do would make anyone less mad, I stayed silent and took the blame for the schoolyard game. I carried our sin for being curious prepubescent kids. Fuck her. I walked away because if I dug my heels in, I would be late for my shift.

  I couldn’t sleep thinking about Fernanda. My texts went unanswered, as did my phone calls to her home landline. The girls had as much luck as me trying to contact her, and they were getting freaked out.

  I thought everything was fine when you left her? messaged Pauline.

  I did too. I don’t know what is happening. Keep trying. I wrote back.

  We decided to give it another week before we all showed up at her front door. Pauline, the young woman with the silver tongue, would knock first. Mrs. Garcia had the demean
or of a bloody bull being prodded in a ring. She had no problem calling everyone’s parents to give them an earful for at least half an hour. No one wanted to be on the other end of that conversation or be marked in her bad books. Even Mr. Garcia got ribbed regularly for holding his tongue around his wife, sheepishly replying, “She is the boss.”

  When I slept, I dreamed about a naked woman climbing out of a cenote with thick lips smeared with black and eyes of an ancient beast, a caiman. Double lids blinked over horizontal pupils rolling in every direction, inspecting her surroundings. As they moved, the light reflected off flecks of gold in her irises. Water rolled off her body as steam floated into the air in gossamer wisps. Black hair heavy with water lay flat against her scalp, accentuating high cheek bones on a square, wide face. When she opened her mouth, an elongated tongue covered in raised bumps licked the ground. The tip struck hard, leaving red and blue flames in its wake. The woman took the same stance as Fernanda, bleeding between her legs, pleading to the sky in Nahuatl with eyes facing the back of her head. When she spoke, her open mouth showed teeth worn from gnashing. In her nudity I could see the tips of her nipples glistening with white milky stars made of hot gas. Her skin was the same dark brown as my own, but she seemed to burn from the inside like a human candle.

  Everything about her could be considered a nightmare, but I wasn’t scared. She glowed with fury, beauty, and power. Half woman, half beast, this was no ghost or demon. She was everything I wished I could be. Fire and anger with bitterness wet my lips. My soul wanted to fall to its knees and beg her to tell me her secrets. When she became aware of my presence, turning that caiman gaze straight at me, I awoke startled and sweating, as if I had slept next to a bonfire.

  I persisted in my calls to Fernanda’s home. Her mother told me to stop pestering. They had everything under control. The others had no luck, either.

  Summer is supposed to be lovely, but things seemed pretty bleak. Bad news and bad weather. That summer measured the hottest on record with the lowest amounts of precipitation in recorded history. You could call it being baked in an oven of our own design. Off the coast of Texas colossal storms gathered momentum, sucking the ocean dry to dump onto either the Eastern seaboard of the U.S. or the Caribbean and Mexico. No one knew which way the witches’ brew would be spilled; all people could do was try to prepare, but prepare for what? The unpredictable future of climate change was again up for debate on every channel, in every magazine and newspaper. The volatility of the planet was only matched by the volatility of the debate as the storms continued to threaten havoc. The sun remained in hibernation, yet at night clouds made way for the moon. Its light shone brightly, clear as day against the black backdrop of space, giving us a false sense of calm.