American Chica_ Two Worlds, One Childhood - Marie Arana [70]
That night I took the antique gray teeth from my pockets and lined them up on my dresser, next to my prayer card of the Virgin and my shiny black stone. I had a lot to atone for. I had ransacked a tomb, wished a plague of worms on Señora Ruiz’s brain, mistaken a sick boy for a loco. Surely the jaws of hell would creak open and thresh me under. Surely the apus would call a curse on my head.
I stroked Sigurd’s wheat-colored brow for a while, then sat on my bed and thought about Antonio. We had never spoken much about the Virgin or about the power of the apus, but Antonio had always made a point to teach me about my fundamental link to Pachamama—that I was a product of natural forces, that I was another version of earth, that I could prevail against evil if I would only learn how. Was it really possible to open up your belly and take in the world? The bad with the good? Could I bring it all in—the ghosts, the demons, the dead, the loco, the vine, the bruja—breathe them in, and then let them ride off on a beam of black light, into the heart of my stone?
Could I fix Tommy Pineda? He might not be a loco, but Mrs. Birdseye had conceded that he was very capable of making nocturnal flights through Paramonga. Never mind that he was looking for love; the very thought of that thick-necked boy, drooling and lurching through the night air, was terrifying—proof that there were strange forces at work in the world. But was it possible to bring Tommy in through my qosqo, pluck him clean of any negative force, any tiny germ of malevolent intent against our bright-eyed Sigurd, and shoot his sickness deep into my pebble?
I pulled up my shirt, bared my qosqo, and turned so that it faced the stone, unobstructed. Assured that my alignment was perfect, I closed my eyes and thought of that poor benighted boy down the road.
Open up, I willed myself. Bring on the storm. Let the bruja’s vine in. Let me be as still as the earth, as steady as Pachamama.
Nothing. There was a gentle rustle of wind through the casuarinas on the boulevard. Not a voice was heard in the house, no sound save the clickety-clack of knives and forks in the kitchen. I couldn’t tell whether my parents’ dinner was just beginning or ending. There was an eerie quiet through my window, as if the Bowling across the way had been emptied of all revelers, as if the casa de solteros had bolted its doors. Sigurd let out a long sigh, smacked his chops, and shifted his body. He stretched his legs, pointed his toes. Eventually, his eyelids fluttered shut. I sat like that for what seemed a long time, barely breathing, holding on to my shirt, pushing my belly toward the stone, trying to rid my mind of everything but the image of Tommy Pineda’s monumental head.
I have no recollection of how much time passed before I felt the bed jiggle under me. My eyes flew open. The room was trembling. The teeth, the Virgin, and the stone were dancing on the dresser, ticking across the top like a company of infantrymen. Sigurd sat up wide-eyed, then yelped and fled, skeetering down the corridor and banging down the stairs.
The furniture was hopping across the room now, and I could hear glass crash to the floor. My father’s voice boomed through the house. “Terremoto!” he yelled. Earthquake.
Mother flew in the door and grabbed me, her robe flapping like wings on a bat. Then the night went black. Somehow, we made it down the stairs and under the front arch, where my father stood, legs apart, his hands gripping the plaster above him. Vicki and George huddled beneath. We stayed there until the shaking stopped. Out in the garden, the servants were sprawled facedown in the grass.
“Ya,” said Papi finally. “Ya terminó.” It was over.
We could hear