Rosa was the one to tell them our story, and for the most part it was the truth. Our father was missing, our mother had moved to Chiapas, but we had decided to return to our hometown of Oaxaca City. She did not add that we would journey on to el norte, perhaps because it would raise too many questions, or perhaps it was not as firmly planted in her mind as it was in mine. She added one white lie, however, saying we had a cousin to stay with in Oaxaca. I suppose it sounded better, that we had a plan, a place to stay, which we didn’t. Manuel kept his head down, devouring his meal, and I picked at mine, as the pain made my stomach turn. When I glanced up, Lupe was watching me.
“What is your cousin’s name?” she asked, still looking at me.
Without hesitation, I answered with another white lie. “Mundo, and he is my father’s cousin.” Then I placed a large spoonful of beans in my mouth and forced them down.
While this house looked sad and drab on the outside, inside it was bright with color. Besides the windows dressed in multicolored fabrics, even the well-worn, brown sofa was draped along the top with a cloth of shimmering green and yellow stripes. We learned that Lupe and the other young women wove colorful fabrics and made them into all sorts of crafts: belts, purses, miniature dolls, bookmarks, headbands, placemats, and that every other weekend they took them to sell at a relative’s table at the Mercado Benito Juárez. When Rosa and I heard the news that they were driving to Oaxaca at the end of the week and we were welcome to ride along, it took our breath away. While I was anxious to get to Oaxaca City, the thought of a few days rest and a ride into town was more than convincing, especially after hearing that it would take three or four days at the very least to walk there. Even Manuel seemed relieved at the news, nodding in agreement and saying he would be happy to help care for the animals the next few days.
About an hour later, after the long table had been moved back to a far corner and as candles tossed dancing shadows on the walls, I sat beside Rosa on the bench now placed in the center of the room. The spicy smells of the meal still lingered. Everyone else had stepped outside, except for Rosa and Lupe. I could hear hushed whispers beyond the curtained windows, as Rosa stroked my back and Lupe removed the sling that had held my shoulder. If my eyes weren’t open, I would have sworn I was in a tiny boat swaying gently over calm waves. My cheeks burned, and a warmth spread throughout my entire body. I felt more content than I can ever remember: I had just drunk a small glass of tequila.
Slowly Lupe extended my arm, massaging it, stroking the skin. I closed my eyes as her calloused fingers relieved the itches and the aches. But as they found their way to my shoulder, I tensed. Rosa turned my head and pressed it to her shoulder.
“Remember the time Papá took us to Papantla and we saw the men, los voladores, fly?” she whispered. “Remember the colors, the red, orange, and yellow, like large birds in the sky?”
I tried to remember, but the hands were moving firmly around my shoulder and under my arm, pressing, palpating deeper and deeper. I tried to imagine the large colorful bird men swirling far above, but suddenly the room itself was spinning and my stomach was turning as well. Then Lupe’s long braid swung off her shoulder and tapped against my cheek, startling me. I pitched forward, and as I did, Lupe tugged sharply on my arm with one hand and pressed down firmly on my shoulder with the other. I heard a pop, but in the same instant I doubled over and emptied the entire contents of my dinner all over the freshly swept cement floor. I heaved until there was nothing left to come up. And it was then that I realized that both of my arms were wrapped around my stomach and the throbbing in my shoulder was gone. As I caught my breath, I slowly lifted my shoulder up, then down, then side to side. It ached—a deep, dull soreness—but no sharp pulsating pain.
I remember them helping me to the soft, lumpy sofa, and Lupe washing the cut on my thigh. At first it burned, until she massaged the area with something thick and cool. That night I slept deeply, though I heard the stirrings of Lupe’s sons as they rose early and left for the fields. I drifted in and out, hearing their voices as they passed. I knew that two unmarried sons lived in this four-room house with Lupe. The others—two sons and their wives, a daughter and her husband, as well as a baby and three children—lived in the smaller homes. But they all ate together at Lupe’s each evening. I felt such a deep peace and contentment that night, perhaps because of the tequila, but just as potent was that warm, fluid feeling of family.
That first morning when I finally awoke, I found Rosa and Lupe in a small room in the back. A wooden loom leaned against the wall beneath the open window with threads of many colors dangling and swaying in the light breeze. Along one wall, cinder blocks and pieces of wood were fashioned
