The Hummingbird's Daughter_ A Novel - Luis Alberto Urrea [180]
How many days did she wait for the noose?
She lost track.
The guards brought tin plates of beans to her at seemingly random hours. The first breakfast was alive with small worms. She picked them out of the soupy beans with her nails and flicked them into the corners, then ate the sour beans. Sometimes, Pepe threw her an old chunk of sweet bread, or gave her a cup of watery coffee. He often laughed at her, especially when he insulted her, or touched her body when she was within reach, or stood at the door fondling his crotch. She ignored him.
Her body prickled and burned at all hours. The bites were everywhere. From her navel to her pubic hair was a wide, bat-shaped redness that stung and itched at the same time, but if she rubbed it or scratched it, ribbons of wet flesh peeled off and clogged her nails. She could pry the scabs off her hips, feel the heavy orange water leak out of her skin.
She shivered all day, coughed and retched—some fever brought to her by the night, some wickedness fuming up from the floor, perhaps, or injected into her by the thousand biting mouths that hunted her no matter where she crawled. Her prayers were not answered, or perhaps she did not pray anymore. She had nothing left to pray for. Was her father alive? Was he dead? Was it he who cried out so terribly when the torturers took another man to the screaming rooms? Had Cabora burned? Was Gaby alive? Buenaventura? Segundo? Had Cruz escaped? Not even Huila, in the afterworld, responded when she called.
When Pepe opened her door for breakfast as her fifteenth day in the hole began, he said, “Where is your water?”
“I poured it on myself,” she said.
She was pale white, and thin as a skeleton. It looked to Pepe as if her fevers had already killed her. The witch was already famous for coming back from the dead—perhaps she was dead now. He shivered, looking in at her. He could smell her. She smelled bloody and rotten.
“You are a big mess, girl,” he said. “You are disgusting.”
She could barely get whole words out, but she struggled to speak. “Why, thank you for that kindness, Don Pepe. Surely, God has graced you with the ability to speak to women. You are a prince among commoners.”
Though she wasn’t sure she had said any of it. She might have only made a weird groaning noise. Just this morning, she had watched Indians dance in the sky. Her face pressed to the window slit, staring up at the slice of blue above the stable yards, she had seen Yaquis with deer heads tied to their own heads, Apaches with fearsome crosses on their heads, strange feathered and naked men, women as well, twirling in the sky, whirling above her. And among them, she had seen Cruz Chávez in his white shirt and billowing trousers, and she had called to him: “Cruz! Cruz! I am here! Aquí estoy!” But he had danced on, following the skyborne warriors toward the sea.
“Want more water?” Pepe asked.
“More.”
He took her bucket outside and worked a pump handle. She heard the water spurt into the bucket. She crawled to the open door and looked out into the sun. It hurt her eyes. She covered them with one hand. She extended her other arm to let the sun hit her skin. Pepe saw the scratch marks and the hundred red welts on her wrist.
“Jesus Christ!” he said.
He put the bucket back inside and stood looking down at her.
“You must go back inside,” he said.
“Please.”
She lay facedown on the warm stone. He watched her skinny back shiver. Her hands quaked, but she reached for the sun.
“Please,” she said, “just a minute of sun.”
Pepe scratched his chin.
“Chingado,” he said. He looked around. “What the hell.”
He went over to a wooden stool and hooked his boot toe behind one leg and dragged it over to her and sat. He lit a cigarette.
“Smoke?