The Lightning Queen

by Laura Resau

  “Know what you are, Teo?” Esma looked around, probably for a boulder to stand on. Seeing none, she hoisted herself up onto a low tree branch, then climbed upward. From the topmost branch, she said again, shouting this time, “You know what you are?”

  “What?” I called up.

  Through hundreds of sunlit leaves, her coins flashed, and her voice sang out, “The wings of a bird, my friend! A whole flock of birds! You lift everyone up!”

  The truth is, her words lifted me up, until I was flying inside, right up there with her.

  In the morning sunshine, when Maestra María’s light blue car reached the top of the Hill of Dust, Esma and Uncle Paco and I were waiting for her in front of the church. Now, after another couple weeks of recovery, I was strong enough to hold Esma’s satchel packed with all her belongings in the world. The bundle was no bigger than a melon. Beside me, she held her violin in its case, swinging it nervously back and forth.

  I tugged at the stiff new suit the maestra had bought me. Hopefully, the new shoes wouldn’t get muddy, but in case they did, Uncle Paco had lent me some polish and a rag to bring along. Now he was kneeling at Esma’s feet, shining the pair of heels the maestra had bought her. Without raising his head, he said, “We’ll miss you, Queen.” And then, still polishing, he added, “You and Teo, you changed my thinking about things. About your people and our people. You changed the maestra’s thinking, too. And I bet you’ll change lots of other folks’ thinking.”

  He stood up, wiping his hands on the rag.

  “Thank you,” Esma said, reaching out to take his hand, even though it was stained with black.

  Uncle was not the only one sad to see her go. Earlier that morning, after my other uncles and aunts had tearfully wished her well, I’d leaned over my mother’s petate, kissed her forehead, and said, “Good-bye. I’m taking a trip to the city.” To my amazement, her eyes opened, and she croaked, “My box.” I brought it to her, and she dug around till she found the gold earrings, the swirling half moons. “For the lightning girl,” she said. I held them in my hands, watching my mother in wonder.

  She must have been paying attention these past years, at least a little, through her fog of sorrow. She must have known, somewhere inside, how important Esma was to me. Maybe I couldn’t fix my mother, but I could love her and treasure the pieces of herself that shone through, little by little, here and there.

  Now, beside the maestra’s car, I held the earrings in my free hand, waiting for the right time to give them to Esma.

  The maestra stepped out in a sky-blue dress that matched her car perfectly. She kissed us both. “You two ready?”

  Esma took a long breath and nodded.

  I forced my chin to nod. “Yes, Maestra.” I usually called her Maestra when she came to visit—nearly every evening. It was only when she’d hug me good night, when her face was close to mine, when my eyes were closed, that I shyly whispered Mamá in her ear, and she shyly whispered mijo to me. My son.

  Esma climbed into the front seat, and I climbed into the back and set her satchel beside me on the creamy white upholstery. The car smelled faintly of leather and the maestra’s sweet perfume.

  She smiled at Esma. “You look lovely!”

  She did. She’d washed her best of two dresses—the one covered in roses of all shades of red—and scrubbed herself pink and washed and freshly braided her hair. She shone.

  Still gazing at Esma, the maestra arched her left eyebrow, suddenly inspired. She pulled out her purse, which looked cut from the same creamy leather as the car seats, and took out a handful of makeup. “May I?”

  Beaming, Esma nodded.

  “Close your eyes, dear.”

  Esma obeyed, and the maestra outlined her lids with black, sweeping the corners upward. Gently, she traced Esma’s brows, bringing the arcs into relief. Brushed more black onto the lashes with a tiny brush. Swept rosy powder over Esma’s cheekbones and berry-red cream on her lips. Finished it off with puffs of powder over her nose and forehead and chin.

  “Gorgeous!” the maestra said. “Let Teo see you!”

  Esma turned around in her seat. “What do you think?”

  I blushed right down to my toes. When I found my voice, I stammered, “Nice.”

  But it was more than nice. Esma had transformed into a star, in just a few minutes, right there in the car. Her face held the magic of her songs, evoked caravans trailing up mountains, candlelit fortune-telling, bonfires and violins in the moonlight, films beneath stars, mysterious spices and stories. She looked like herself … only more so.

  I handed her the earrings. “From my mother.”

  Esma’s brow rose in surprise, and stayed that way as she fastened the earrings. Then, in a kind of daze, she collected the makeup from her lap and held it out to the maestra. “Thank you … both. Thank you.”

  “You know what?” the maestra said. “Just keep the makeup, dear. Practice a lot before you wear it out anywhere. But you’ll get the hang of it soon. Dios mío, you’re beautiful!”

  Esma stretched her neck to look in the rearview mirror. She stared and smiled in disbelief. Tears filled her eyes.

  “Oh, no, no crying,” the maestra scolded, dabbing at the corners of Esma’s eyes with her hankie. “I won’t have you messing up that makeup now!”

  She spritzed a mist of perfume on Esma’s neck, and then, satisfied, tilted the mirror away, stuck the key in the ignition, and drove us, ever so slowly, down the Hill of Dust.

  It wasn’t until we were halfway down that I noticed my skunk had somehow snuck in and hidden beneath the front seat. “Flash?” I yelped. He leapt and hopped around the car on his three little legs as I tried to catch him.

  Peering into the rearview, looking puzzled and amused, Maestra María pulled to the shoulder and stopped the car.

  “Sorry, Maestra,” I said, opening the door. “I’ll let him out here. He’ll find his way back.”

  “No,” Esma said. “What if he doesn’t? What if he gets lost or eaten?”

  “Oh, he can come with us,” Maestra María said, laughing.

  I was just closing the door when I noticed Thunder, half-flying, half-waddling down the road in a fury of feathers and whistles. Close at her heels, a frantic Spark stumbled down after her.

  Maestra María’s eyebrows softened in surrender. “Let them all in,” she sighed.

  “Really?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Just keep them off the upholstery.”

  I settled them at my feet, and Thunder chirped some satisfied whistles, and we were off.

  For most of the drive, my jaw hung open in wonder. I’d forgotten how many mountains and villages were scattered around my own humble little Hill of Dust. The world was huge beyond belief … and all this was less than a day’s drive from home.

  The last times I’d been on these roads were back when my father was alive. We used to load up the donkey cart with baskets and hats and walk alongside it to the city—a long, hot, dusty trek that spanned days and nights.

  Now, as the looming buildings of Mexico City came into view, I grew nervous. Exhaust smells replaced fresh air. Cars and trucks multiplied, rushing by like a river. An old fear clutched me, and through dark puffs of exhaust, I caught a glimpse of that orange rolling across the street and Lucita’s pudgy hand slipping from mine and reaching for it. I could almost hear that thud of steel against flesh, and see the blood and tears on my father’s lashes. And beside him, that perfect, glistening orange that had somehow survived.

  I blinked, shook myself, then let my gaze rest on Esma’s hand on the open window. I wanted to hold on to it, tightly, so tightly I’d never let it go. I wanted endless days of eating oranges and mangoes with her in the cool shade of trees.

  I looked past her hand, outside the window, and saw we were leaving the wide street flooded with cars and turning onto a peaceful, cobblestoned lane, as narrow as a trickling stream, and dappled with sunlight through leaves. We passed flower-filled parks and gardens and gurgling fountai
ns. Delicious scents poured through our open windows—jasmine and rose nectar, steam from spicy sauces simmering on corner stands. Lining the streets were emerald-canopied trees and houses painted lemon yellows and rich blues and petal pinks, a rainbow stretching before us.

  This neighborhood wasn’t the crushing, suffocating city that loomed in my memory, the place echoing with those words that had set me on fire years ago. What’s one less indio …

  I waited for the burning-drowning wave to hit me.

  It didn’t. Instead, I looked at Esma and the maestra in the front seat, both glowing with excitement. Both so confident in my own powers, my own future.

  My spirit flew above the flames and floods, and from up here, I felt as strong as Esma and Maestra María thought I was. From up here, I knew that somehow, I could make any fortune come true. Lightning now lived in my blood, and I would use it to lift up those who needed me.

  Soon, the maestra announced, “Coyoacán!” reeling my mind back into the car. “This is Señor Antonio’s neighborhood. Chock-full of writers and actors and artists. He must be a bohemian type.” She turned onto another street and pointed to a brilliant blue house. “Look, that’s where the artists Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera lived. Oh, and keep your eyes out for movie stars like María Félix!”

  My eyes soaked in everything. Ladies strode by in skirts long and short, and even some in pants. The men wore all manner of hats—leather and reed and felt—and their shoes ranged from boots to sandals to the shiny, narrow kind Uncle Paco wore.

  I peered at Esma’s profile as she gazed out the window. This wasn’t new to her. She’d been to the city before to stock up on supplies and rent movies. Still, she looked stunned. Her entire life was about to change, even more than it already had.

  Checking her map, the maestra slowed the car and parked at the side of a quiet street. “And here we are!”

  Esma glanced back at me, gave a nervous smile. We climbed out of the car, making sure my animals stayed inside with only their noses and beak poking out the window crack.

  “So much for the upholstery,” the maestra murmured, putting one arm around each of our shoulders.

  “I’ll clean it,” I assured her.

  She gave a slight shrug and a half grin, then kissed the top of my head.

  We walked a few blocks and slowed at the sign reading 20. It was posted on a wrought-iron gate leading into a lush courtyard bursting with flowers and fruit trees and chirping birds. I’d never seen so many shades of bougainvillea—reds, oranges, yellows, pinks, purples. Beyond the courtyard was a pink three-story house, trimmed in white like icing and half-hidden by flowers and leaves.

  Maestra María smoothed Esma’s hair, freshened up her lipstick, dusted more powder on her face. Then she rang the bell, looking back and forth between me and Esma, smiling, excited.

  An older lady in a checked apron came to the gate and gave the three of us a curious look. “May I help you?” she asked politely.

  Thankfully, the maestra spoke; my mouth was too dry to say a word. Even Esma—bold, brave Esma—seemed struck silent.

  Once the maestra explained that Señor Antonio had offered representation to Esma, the woman nodded with understanding. “Come inside, please.”

  Under the trees of the courtyard, she offered us glasses of bright-red agua de jamaica and told us to make ourselves at home and relax on the blue chairs.

  She must have been a servant, because soon she returned with three elegant young women who looked to be in their teens, not much older than Esma and me. They wore pretty, fitted dresses, much like the maestra’s, only more somber colors—pale gray, black, and brown.

  The servant ducked back inside, excusing herself.

  Extending their hands, the women introduced themselves as Margarita, Carmen, and Dolores. Their hands were cool and smooth, while mine were damp with sweat. Even after sipping the agua de jamaica, my mouth was still too dry to speak; I could only nod in greeting.

  And then, Carmen spoke the words that made my heart stop. “We’re so sorry,” she said, “but our father—Señor Antonio—he cannot see you.”

  I swallowed hard and glanced at Esma. Her face was frozen.

  Unruffled, Maestra María smiled. “Oh, of course, señorita. He wasn’t expecting us. We’d be happy to return tomorrow, or make an appointment for another day.”

  The girls exchanged meaningful looks. “Well, you see, señora,” Dolores said softly, “our mother passed several months ago.”

  “Oh,” Maestra María murmured. “I’m so sorry to hear that, señorita.”

  Dolores continued. “Our father hasn’t—he hasn’t been well enough to see anyone since then.”

  Esma spoke up, her voice trembling. “I’m sorry about your mother, señorita.” She paused, gathering herself. “But we’ve traveled so far, and I’ve tried so hard, waited so long … given up so much. Please, is there any way we can see him?”

  Carmen gave her a kind look. “I’ll ask. Please wait here.”

  We stayed in the courtyard, holding our glasses of cool, sweet liquid. I couldn’t take another sip, afraid I’d choke on it. Esma couldn’t either. She was blinking back tears, trying not to smear her makeup. I was grateful for that makeup. I didn’t know what I’d do if she started crying.

  I strained to hear the voices coming from an open window above us. It was Carmen’s voice, speaking with a lower, man’s voice, grim and weak.

  But I couldn’t make out any words, especially not over the chattering of the other sisters’ small talk. They inquired politely about where we were from and kept offering us food, insisting we must be hungry after our journey. “No, thank you,” we assured them, too nervous to eat.

  The women were enchanted when they discovered Esma was a real, live Gypsy. Thankfully, they showed none of the distrust that others in the city supposedly had. Perhaps as the daughters of a music agent, they’d met talented musicians from every walk of life. Perhaps they were used to all different kinds of people in this colorful neighborhood of artists. Perhaps they’d simply learned to keep their minds and hearts open.

  “May I touch your jewelry?” the youngest sister, Margarita, asked, marveling at Esma’s beauty, asking question after question about her people’s way of life.

  In any other situation I would have liked these girls, appreciated their curiosity, their warmth, their respect for Esma. Now my mind went to Señor Antonio. I couldn’t help feeling angry with him … but also sad for him. After Grandfather had died, I’d been so lost, I couldn’t imagine going on. I’d even refused to see that sick girl who’d traveled so far. I wished I could go back in time and treat her more kindly.

  Back then, I didn’t think I wanted to be saved, but Esma—and our fortune—showed me otherwise. I thought of Uncle, humbled and shamed last year, and how he wanted to be healed, and let me help him.

  Suddenly inspired, I interrupted Margarita. “Excuse me, señorita, but perhaps I could heal your father.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m a healer. If your father would like to be healed, I could help him.”

  Margarita cocked her head. Hope brightened her eyes.

  Dolores looked at her sister, shrugged a shoulder, as if to say, Why not? “Hold on, let me ask him,” Dolores said.

  More time passed, and now Margarita peppered me with questions about my healing rituals. I answered as best I could, trying to sound confident yet humble, as Grandfather always had.

  While we spoke, dark clouds pooled in the sky and the wind picked up and moisture filled the air. I shivered, shoved my hands into my pockets to warm them.

  Margarita frowned at the sky. “Oh, these afternoon storms!” she sighed. “So good for the plants, but not for much else.”

  “Certainly not the roads,” Maestra María agreed.

  “Would you care to come inside?” Margarita asked, hugging herself in the cool breeze.

  But just then, the other two sisters came outside, their faces long. “We’re so sorry,�
� Carmen said. “Our father—he sends his apologies—but he’s mourning, you see. He says he’s not able to see you.”

  I thought of my mother, how she was still lost in mourning, unable to find her way back. Not wanting to find her way back, even though I’d tried to guide her. Maybe Señor Antonio was like her, too far gone. A deep ache filled me, heavy as a boulder.

  Dolores continued, wind whipping her hair. “My sisters and I—of course we’d love you to heal him—we’re desperate to get our father back. But he’s not interested. I’m so sorry.”

  Rubbing her goose-bumped arms, Carmen beckoned us inside. “Please do come in for a bite to eat, though. Do you need a place to stay for the night?”

  Maestra María was just explaining that we had to tend to the animals in her car when I noticed Esma’s red lower lip tremble. Tears welled up. Suddenly, she bolted to the gate, running in that lopsided way that shot a little pain through my chest. The gate clanked, she was outside on the sidewalk, and her sobs let loose.

  I ran after her as she stumbled toward the car.

  Behind me, Maestra María gave quick apologies and farewells and thanks before following us out.

  When I caught up with Esma, the sky opened and poured out a sudden waterfall of rain that mixed with her tears and made black rivers over her face. Her entire body shook. The only time I’d witnessed her sob this deeply, straight from her soul, was when I’d died.

  That’s when I understood: Her dream was dead. Her fortune, her destiny, her hope.

  Dead.

  There in the rain, for the first time ever, I hugged her. I wrapped my arms around her and pulled her close, and felt her sink into me. I had to save her. But how?

  “Esma,” I whispered into her ear. “Let’s get married. We’ll make a good life together, you and me. You can be my wife.”

  She didn’t answer.

  I kept talking. “Well, we wouldn’t have to do it now. Maybe in a few years? But I want you to know—I love you. I—I want to marry you.”