Curva Peligrosa

by MacKenzie, Lily Iona;

  It’s up to Curva to make a choice, Henry said.

  Billie climbed into his truck and gunned the engine. The exhaust shot out a burst of smoke. It settled around Henry’s shoulders like a shroud before dissolving. Henry brushed at his clothes, but he couldn’t get rid of the straw and soot that clung to him.

  Curva on the Old North Trail

  Hola, mi estimado Xavier,

  The campfire slithers across the rocks and sizzles the fish I caught this afternoon—trout. Your favorite. Dios is standing watch. He already ate his share raw. I took out all the bones before I gave him any. He knows he’ll get leftovers too.

  The smell is drawing some of the locals. Squirrels. Rabbits. Deer. I can hear the other animals in the underbrush cracking boughs and the squirrels flying from branch to branch watching. They keep their distance but they’re curious. I see them at times peering through the scrub. Their eyes are bright as baubles, and their noses twitch when they smell the food sizzling on my campfire.

  Today I woke in the dark. It was so warm I hadn’t put up the tent the night before. Manuel and Pedro were screeching Get up! Get up. Dios was licking my face, and for a moment I thought I was in bed with a man. But it was the dog and just as I was ready to have a big one. I had gone to sleep thinking about my horse Alanzo’s huge organ.

  That horse can’t seem to keep it out of sight and dangles it for no reason. Drives me crazy. Sometimes I use other things and pretend I’m riding Alanzo’s cock. You used to laugh when I talked like this, mi hermano. You liked me to tell you such things.

  Then Dios growled and started barking like he was loca. I knew he had heard something. I picked up my .38 just in case and shined my flashlight around. Sure enough, a mother black bear and her two cubs had crept into our camp and were making off with some fish I’d hung from a branch. I didn’t have the heart to shoot. All they were after was food.

  Then Dios started whining and barking again. It made me wonder if something else was out there. Maybe raccoons. Maybe Don Quixote. Maybe you. And the parrots kept ruffling their feathers and pacing in their cage. I decided I’d better hide. I threw on some clothes and stuffed my sleeping bag so it looked like I was still inside. Then Dios and I crept behind some big boulders not far away, waiting and watching. I had my rifle and .38 ready with plenty of ammunition.

  Dios tried to growl. I muzzled him. The fire’s glow gave enough light that I made out two hombres creeping across the clearing and over to my sleeping bag. I thought it was Don Quixote and Sancho until I saw the moon glint off their gun barrels. I took aim with my rifle and shot each in the leg. Their guns flew out of their hands. The bandidos yelled and collapsed on the ground, clutching their legs, cursing. What the hell, they shouted. I sent Dios to pick up their weapons and he brought them to me.

  You would have been proud of the way I strode into the camp and pointed my .38 at them. They put their hands in the air. Mis amigos, I said. I have something you want?

  They just moaned. I motioned for them to move to a nearby tree and made them sit with their backs pressed to it while I tied them up. Dios kept them busy, snarling and nipping, while I made some tight knots and asked how they’d found me. The bandidos said they’d followed me after I won a big rodeo purse.

  I packed up our camp and got the horses ready to leave. We took off at dawn and left my visitors swearing at each other. But it was a close call, and I’ll need to be more careful now about covering my tracks. It’s strange to think I have something that others want to steal.

  Curva and Ana Cristina Hernandez

  Curva felt as if her own heart had been pierced when Billie had told her about the children’s vandalism. His art seemed as palpable as the things in her greenhouse, and she had grown as attached to his work as to her own creations. She would never forget his furrowed brow and the way his voice had caught when he described what they had done.

  Seeking an appropriate punishment for Sabina and Victor, Curva had discussed what to do with the two men, but they weren’t much help. Billie didn’t feel it was his place to discipline Henry’s son or Curva’s daughter. Henry just threw up his hands and asked Curva to take care of it.

  And she did. She didn’t want to inhibit their curiosity, but she wanted to teach them a lesson, so Curva told them they couldn’t have contact outside of school hours for a while. They howled, and Sabina threatened to run away; Victor said he would join her. They said they would take off on the Old North Trail and never return.

  Curva knew it wasn’t an idle threat. Both had expressed an interest in finding the trail, especially after hearing so many stories about it. Speaking in the gravelly voice that made their spines tingle, Curva had often told of her adventures along it. When she described her travels, she seemed another person entirely, not the woman who cooked their meals or washed their clothes. She appeared capable of anything: skinning animals and roasting them over a fire as skillfully as she later prepared their hides for use. It was the one time when they sat still and listened, enthralled with the world Curva depicted in such detail.

  Once, she had recounted setting up camp in a large cave during a snowstorm, only to find she had company—a black bear rolled up in a tight ball, hibernating. The children had stared at her intently, the bear suddenly in their midst, her words capturing its musky smell and rasping breath. Their eyes wide, they had listened to her say she had little choice but to spend the night there. It was either that or freeze in a snowdrift. The bear didn’t wake up, and Curva escaped the next morning, the sun already melting the snow.

  These stories whetted Sabina and Victor’s appetite for exploring, and more than once they had secretly discussed setting off on their own to find the trail. Aware of their interest, Curva reminded them of the poisonous snakes and hungry mountain lions she’d frequently run into, as well as the banditos that roamed there.

  They got the message.

  With Sabina and Victor safely in school, Curva had more time to spend in the greenhouse, a place where she could lose herself. The interior was so lush it was like being in the tropics. The calming sound of the fountain flowed over her, and, for a moment, she was back in her mother’s womb with Xavier, holding his hand, listening to the burbling, both of them awash in amniotic fluids.

  The hothouse had expanded, and one section was now a habitat for Monarch butterflies. Their eggs hatched in a protective wire cage Curva had built so she could watch them evolve. Inside it, she hung branches for the pupa to latch onto and regularly replenished the milkweed, giving the caterpillars plenty of food. She studied the cylindrical chrysalises that dangled from branches. They resembled tiny lanterns, the orange and black butterfly designs already visible in some beneath the opaque skin. Others looked like jade jewels.

  Curva felt akin to these amazing insects, joining in spirit their regular migration to Mexico and back, feeling as if they carried some part of her native country with them. Those she didn’t release in late August resumed their cycle in her nursery. Living through winter would have been difficult if she hadn’t had the butterflies to commune with or the comforting oasis she’d created there. When the resident butterflies emerged and flew freely in the greenhouse, nectar plants—sunflowers, lilacs, snapdragons, and zinnias—kept the insects busy feeding, laying eggs, and hatching.

  The children joined her whenever the butterflies emerged from the pupae. Watching this transformation always moved Curva deeply. She felt the insects held a clue to immortality. She also believed the process they went through was like the human life cycle: the fertilized egg is planted in a woman’s womb. After children are born, they resemble the caterpillar, eating and creeping; when they die, they’re like the dormant pupa in its chrysalis. Then the soul leaves its cast-off body the way the butterfly emerges from its chrysalis—rebirth after death, a never-ending succession.

  This whole process seemed miraculous to her. So did the transformation of dried-up seeds she’
d planted. They eventually sprouted and became plants that produced more seeds—a continuous cycle. But her intense feelings about the butterflies were more complex than having an emotional response to witnessing new life. She knew that most of them would leave soon, just as she would one day leave the earth. So while they seemed an emblem of immortality in many ways, they also represented death: they didn’t live long, and they stayed in her greenhouse only a short time. Curva always felt that something of herself had flown off when they left the safety of her garden. It made her want to keep them close for as long as possible.

  Curva was working in her sanctuary one day when she came across Ana Cristina Hernandez smelling the herbs Curva had planted. Though she was used to unexpected callers from her past, Curva was surprised by this visit from her former employer. Curva rushed over to the woman and embraced her, inhaling the scent of mold and lavender. Curva said, Mi amiga, it’s wonderful to see you!

  Bowed from age, her face crumpled, a burgundy shawl draped over her frail shoulders, Ana Cristina said, And to see you, mi amiga. I’ve been hearing about this greenhouse of yours. I had to see it for myself.

  Curva took her arm and said, I’ll show you everything.

  Ana Cristina said, Gracias, but I can find my way.

  Almost blind, she used her extraordinary senses to move around the place, hands hovering over flowers and plants. She seemed to feel them into existence and herself as well, capturing their very essence through her fingertips, sniffing and inhaling, listening intensely to them. Then she bent over an ailing bird. Cheep cheep cheep, Ana Cristina said and cupped it in her hands, bringing it close to her ear so she could hear the bird’s response. It’s suffering from lack of will to live, she said.

  Lack of will to live? Curva looked at the bird and then at Ana Cristina. How do you know that?

  It told me. The bird doesn’t like being holed up.

  But if I freed it, the poor thing might die. It gets cold out there.

  It needs its freedom, Curva, just as you do.

  Given how hard she had worked to make the environment nurturing, Curva was shocked that the greenhouse might seem like a prison to the wild things she had collected there. Not only did she provide food for flora and fauna, she also assumed the shelter protected some of its inhabitants from the unpredictable world outside. It hadn’t occurred to her that a benevolent act might have such negative consequences.

  Ana Cristina blew on the bird’s feathers, her breath enlivening the creature. The feathers twitched; its normal breathing resumed. Before long, it spread its wings and flew a few feet. Ana Cristina opened the door and shooed it out. Off with you, she said, and it soared into the prairie dusk.

  Curva watched the bird fly away, silhouetted against the sky, and said, I can’t bear seeing all of the birds leave!

  They don’t have to leave, Ana Cristina said. The rest seem happy here. Just that one bird was not well.

  Relieved, Curva looked around the greenhouse. Knowing she could walk into it at any time and be surrounded by this tropical island, filled with the sights and sounds of her native land, sustained her through the long, hard winters. When the snow piled up in drifts outside, she could completely lose herself in this spot—digging into the grainy soil and tending to her plants and creatures. Neither day nor night mattered, neither past nor present. Time folded in on itself.

  Her heart stirring, Curva glanced at Ana Cristina, now hunched over the orchids, almost drinking them in. Ana Cristina had welcomed Curva into her household when she was only a girl. Offering advice. Taking Curva under her own comforting wing. Curva had learned then that the attachment between Xavier and herself was wrong. She remembered Ana Cristina saying, If you do it with your brother, you could give birth to a pigeon, you know, or a cross between a cat and a dog. Either way, it would be cursed from birth. And then Ana Christina had given Curva lessons on how to protect herself from unwanted bebés.

  When Curva had told Xavier about Ana Cristina’s warning, he had laughed. She’s just superstitious, he said. If you get pregnant, we’ll have a beautiful normal niño or niña. Just like us.

  But Curva became uneasy about their closeness. She didn’t have any scruples about sex; it seemed perfectly natural to her. Yet if she had a child with her brother, it might be abnormal and suffer needlessly. Everyone would look for signs that the niño was marked in some way. No one would let Curva or Xavier forget the circumstances surrounding the birth. Curva also knew that as the child’s mother, she would bear the most responsibility. Not only would she have a child to nurse and care for, but she’d also be judged for making a baby outside of marriage—and with her own brother.

  Too young to be buried under motherhood’s responsibilities, Curva refused to give up her dreams of returning to the Old North Trail—of traveling its length. She wanted adventure. Something more than a conventional life. From that moment, she became determined no man would trap her.

  Ana Cristina had been right all those years ago. Curva watched her straighten up, a surge of affection welling up for the woman who was so like her own madre. Ana Cristina groaned: My bones have gotten rusty. She stood in silence, her hands fluttering at her side, unable to find a place where they could settle comfortably. Curva saw many new lines in the other woman’s face, and the flesh sagged. Curva moved closer and stroked her arm: it felt like fine tissue paper. Then Ana Cristina’s fingers traveled over Curva’s features, picking up on the determined set to her jaw and how weathered her skin had become. She no longer was an innocent young thing under her employer’s protection and needing guidance. Curva was a woman herself now.

  Berumba

  After the civil war started, violence in Berumba increased. Lawless bands of hungry fighters caused mayhem at times, looting and pillaging. Residents had to defend themselves from intruders. The conflict made remaining there impossible, so Curva and Xavier planned to return to the Old North Trail. For protection, they both carried a weapon at all times.

  A few nights before their departure, Curva was sitting on a wicker rocker in the Pacheco courtyard, taking a break after dinner, knitting a pair of socks. The light had almost left the sky, and the only sounds were the birds’ call to sleep. Protected by a brick wall six-foot high, the large patio included a fishpond, a rose garden, weeping willows, and a row of tall bushes that lined the enclosure.

  Lulled by the tranquility and the hypnotic sound of her knitting needles clicking together, Curva dozed off. Some rustling in the bushes next to the wall awakened her. Since invaders recently had been caught scaling the barrier, her first instinct was to reach for a gun. Though groggy, she slipped her .38 out of the knitting bag, pointed it at whoever was moving in the shadows, and pulled the trigger. She heard a sharp intake of breath and a groan.

  Then nothing.

  Upon hearing gunfire, the Pachecos and their visitors crowded into the courtyard, asking what had happened, their voices buzzing around her like flies. Curva tucked the weapon into her bag again and told them she had stopped a thief from running off with the family’s wealth.

  A couple of men dove into the bushes and dragged out a limp body. Cristo santo, one of them said, es Xavier. Muerto!

  Curva fainted.

  The men called for someone to help Curva, who was slumped over in the chair. Ana Cristina heard the cries from the kitchen, grabbed a kitchen towel, dipped it in cool water, rushed to the courtyard, and pressed it to Curva’s forehead, fanning her face and clucking over the young woman.

  When Curva came to, she had to accept what she’d done. Her beloved hermano was muerto and from Curva’s bullet. Xavier stared at her from his prone position on the ground, his neck at an odd angle, his look accusing. Someone lowered the dead man’s lids, covered his body with a white sheet, and carried it into the house. His blood seeped through the wrapper.

  Curva sat there, stunned. Too shaken to cry. Too shocked to do anything but rock back an
d forth, jabbing herself over and over with a knitting needle until she drew blood. Ana Cristina gently took the needle from Curva and dropped it on the ground, pulled the girl to her feet, and led her into the couple’s bedroom, away from the bloodstained patio. Then Ana Cristina told the men to place Xavier’s corpse in the big center hall.

  Curva spent a restless night in the Pacheco’s bed, haunted by the killing. Her madre and padre invaded her dreams, wailing and calling out Xavier’s name. Curva joined their lament, as did the surrounding walls, tears seeping from everywhere and creating meandering streams on the bedroom floor.

  The next morning, both Ana Cristina and Curva prepared Xavier for his final viewing and for the grave. Using a fragrant soap made of rose petals, the two women washed every inch of Xavier’s skin lovingly, respectfully, including his penis—erect even in death. It made them both laugh in the midst of this solemn ritual. The laughter turned into wails, their copious tears baptizing him. His once vibrant skin felt like marble, as if he’d been carved by a sculptor and now lived on as art.

  Ernesto Valenzuela Pacheco gave Ana Cristina his wedding suit for Xavier’s burial, and the women placed a blood red rose in the lapel. The smell of roses lingered in the air for days afterward, and from then on, that sweet scent would remind Curva of that painful day. Grieving deeply and drowning in guilt, she envied Xavier’s dark sleep. He was free now of the daily troubles many people faced—conflicts, hunger, suffering. There also was something mysterious and opaque about death that attracted her. Darkness cloaked everything on the other side, allowing only occasional glimpses of what was beyond. She looked forward to Los Dios de los Muertos, hoping Xavier might visit her then.

  Soon after Xavier’s burial, Curva began gathering supplies she would need on the trail—food, water, tent, axe, utensils—and said goodbye to the Pachecos. No one had asked her to leave. Ana Cristina admired Curva’s shooting skills so much that she wanted the girl to stay and protect the place. But Curva couldn’t bear walking into that courtyard. Each time she did, the scene repeated itself—Xavier lying on the ground, blood pooling around his body. She had to get as far away as possible. And she had to complete this journey they had undertaken together.