Jennifer Clement - Prayers for the Stolen

Her small bed was there. It was raised up from the ground on a pile of bricks. This kept her away from the mouse-sized cockroaches that crawled around the floor at night. The wall was covered with dozens of huge, thick nails on which she’d hung her clothes so that her wall looked like a collage of cloth. I could see several pairs of plastic flip-flops and a pair of tennis shoes lined up in a row under her bed. There were two empty baby bottles lying on the pillow and a shoebox on her bed.

I opened the shoebox.

The jungle heat filled my mouth. Ants and spiders were running through my blood.

There were a few photographs in the shoebox. I looked deep into the small black eyes of the man who had squeezed the sweet girl out of Paula’s body. The photos were of a man and his family. The man was dressed in a red-and-white checkered shirt, jeans with a wide leather belt that had an oval silver buckle. He was also wearing black, high-heeled cowboy boots. These people were from the north of Mexico. Their clothes told that story. It was McClane.

I took the photographs out of the box and stuffed them down into my jeans. At the bottom of the box there was a small notebook, which I placed into my back pocket.

My mother appeared in the doorway.

It’s horrible to think, but someone must have been watching Paula for years, my mother said. They were just watching her grow up.

She was holding the bottle of tequila in one hand and the bag of potato chips in the other.

She’d been picked out a long time ago, my mother said. She’d been watched the way we watch an apple on a tree: we watch it grow until it’s ripe and then we pick it.

As we walked home, I could feel the dry, thin cardboard photographs tucked down the front of my jeans as I moved. My mother had left her flat, white plastic sandals behind and was wearing Concha’s bright green plastic flip-flops that had a red plastic flower attached to the front straps. My mother followed my eyes and looked down at her feet.

Well, Ladydi, she said, Concha’s not going to use them anymore, right?

My mother was carrying the bottle of tequila and the bag of chips.

We walked in silence for a while and then my mother suddenly turned her head and spat on the ground.

If anyone wants to create a symbol or a flag for our piece of earth on Earth it should be a plastic flip-flop, she said.

When we got home the front door was open and Mike was sitting inside our house waiting for us. It seemed strange to me that he would wait inside. People did not do that. They did not go inside a house and sit down when there was no one home. Our house even smelled strongly of his cologne, which had a minty smell, like chewing gum.

He sat in the kitchen with the refrigerator door wide open the way people sit in front of a fire. Two telephones rested on his thigh. I could see that Mike had begun to grow out his hair, which he had shaved off a few years ago, so that it looked like small bushy tufts of black grass all over his head.

So, you were confused and thought this was your house? my mother said to Mike.

She placed the tequila and chips on the kitchen table.

Shut that door! she commanded.

Now don’t get angry, Little Mother, he said, standing up quickly and closing the refrigerator door with one swipe of his hand.

Mike called all the older women on our hill Little Mother . Even my mother, who didn’t take sweetness from anyone, seemed to like it. I knew she was about to scream at him for coming into our house, snooping around and opening up the fridge, but the words Little Mother stopped her. It was as if the words caressed her and could make her purr.

On our mountain a refrigerator was our most important appliance, piece of furniture, or whatever one wanted to call it. It was our door to the North Pole, polar bears, seals, and glaciers. On a hot day everyone sat around it with the door wide open. During the day we kept our pillows inside to cool them. The cotton pillows rested among cans of beer, a box of eggs, and packets of cheese wrapped in plastic. At night, for an hour or so, our heads would rest on cool cotton. When one side of the pillow warmed up, we’d just flip it over. The pillow cooled down our minds and dreams. My mother was the inventor of this idea. Everyone on the mountain did it.

The refrigerator was one of the main things my mother prayed to. She said that a cold beer could make you love a refrigerator.

My mother poured herself a small shot of tequila and opened the bag of chips with her teeth.

So, what’s up? she asked Mike.

Mike explained that he would meet me down on the highway on Monday morning, which was in two days, and that we’d take the bus together to Acapulco. I had an appointment to meet the family I was going to work with at eleven in the morning. I should pack a bag and be ready to stay there.

I left my mother drinking in our little house and walked Mike some of the way down to the highway. I wanted to ask him about Maria. Now that we no longer went to school, I rarely saw Maria. I didn’t like to go to Maria’s house because it was hard to face the fact that her mother, Luz, had been my father’s mistress. Everyone on the mountain knew the scandal, and Mike knew, of course, as he knew everything about everyone. The only person who did not know who she was, was Maria. The only person who did not know that her harelip had been God’s curse was Maria. I wanted to tell her she was my half-sister and wanted her to love me even more as her sister, but I was so afraid that she would hate me if she knew who she really was.

I told Mike to tell Maria that I wanted to see her. I asked him to tell her to meet me at the schoolroom late that afternoon.

Mike skipped down the mountain to a tune of three cell phones all suddenly ringing at the same time. It was as if the reception dead zone had opened in the air and a phone signal came down on him like lightning.

When I turned to walk back to my house, I remembered the photographs that were still stuffed down the front of my pants. I reached in and took out the square photos printed on soft cardboard.

There were six photographs. One was of a man, who I assumed to be McClane, standing on an airstrip next to a small plane. Two other photographs were of women standing against a wall in groups. Paula was in both of these. Another photograph was of McClane standing in front of a row of medieval suits of armor. It looked as if he was inside a castle.

The last two photographs in the group were of a large red horse trailer. It was a small unit capable of holding two or three horses, the kind that can be pulled by a pickup truck or an SUV. One of the photographs had been taken with care to show the blood spilling out of the door.

When I got back home, my mother was in a frenzy killing flies with a flyswatter. The weather had been so hot over the past month there was an epidemic of flies. These were the fat, juicy kind of flies, with spiky fur on their backs. When this fly bites it leaves a big red welt that hurts for days. There were black, bloody specks all over our kitchen table and floor.

Get down on your knees and pray for the flyswatter, my mother said. Who left the goddamned door open?

You know, I said.

My mother gave me a look, a nasty look, and continued to swat at the flies. I recognized the flyswatter she’d stolen from the Reyes’ house at least two years ago. Pray for the flyswatter, she said.

My mother hated those flies but she loved to kill them. It was a happy bloodbath in that small kitchen.

She knew, what we all knew, the flies always win.

I ran past my mother and the dead black-and-red flies, and hid Paula’s photographs in my room under my mattress.

When I walked back out to the kitchen, my mother was sitting at the table with the flyswatter lying across her lap. Bloody pieces of squashed flies were embedded in the plastic netting. She was taking a deep swig, almost half the bottle of beer, in one great swallow. Then she pulled the bottle from her lips. It made a hollow sucking sound.