The Hummingbird's Daughter_ A Novel - Luis Alberto Urrea [21]
The girl shrugged and turned back to the ants.
“Who is your mother?” Huila asked.
“The Hummingbird. She is gone.”
“Ah! You’re Nona Rebecca Chávez.”
“I am Teresa.”
Huila looked down at her. “I remember a different name.”
Teresa rolled over and looked up at Huila. Her front was filthy, and she had dirt on her chin. “Huila,” she said.
“Yes.”
“I see you in church.”
“Oh?”
“The Father told us about Saint Teresa. In church. Remember?”
“Yes. Wasn’t she the one who flew? Did she smell like flowers?”
“She loved God more than anyone else in the world, and God let her do miracles. Now I love God more than anybody in the world. I like Saint Teresa. I am going to be her.”
Huila smiled.
“You don’t love God more than I do,” Huila said.
“God loves you as much as He loves me,” Teresita said. “But I love Him more than you do. I do.”
“Mira, nomás,” said Huila. “Pues, qué bueno.”
“Yes, it is good.”
“Don’t kill those poor ants, then.”
“Oh Huila! I am not killing them. I am praying for them.”
Huila laughed.
“All right, then,” she said. “Good luck.”
“Thank you.”
Teresita turned back to the ants.
“You seem more like Saint Francis to me than Saint Teresa,” Huila said.
“No,” said Teresita. “He’s a boy. I’m a girl.”
Huila turned to walk away, paused, and said, “How old are you, child?”
“Six.”
“And is your life good since La Semalú left?”
“No, Huila.”
This life was only meant for us to endure, not to enjoy, Huila thought. Joy was for rich men and Yoris. Huila pulled her rebozo tighter. If you were born to be a nail, you had to be hammered.
“Be strong . . . Teresa.”
“I am.”
Huila walked on, pausing just once to glance back.
Tía had one egg. “One fucking egg for all you fat pigs?” she yelled. The children all knew to say “Sí, Mamá.” She sent her boy out to the mango huerta to steal one of the Urreas’ iguanas. She could possibly be flogged for it; she didn’t know—it couldn’t be as bad as stealing a chicken. But what was she supposed to do? And when the boy came back with a writhing green lizard that whipped them all with its tail, and Tía took her rusty meat-cutter’s knife to saw at the lizard’s neck, Teresita scrambled out from her small spot and rushed out the door. She didn’t understand why, with mangos and peaches, prickly-pear fruits and plums and leftover beans in the buckaroos’ tin plates, Tía could never find anything to eat. Segundo, the big mean vaquero, once even showed her which flowers you could eat. Even if she wasn’t allowed to steal squash from the gardens, nobody cared if she stuffed her mouth with yellow petals. They’d laugh and say she looked like a deer.
Tía had stopped waiting for word from Cayetana long ago, and she had even abandoned her hope that one day a letter might come with money in it. That little whore! She had left this half-breed bitch in her house and hadn’t had the decency to leave a pound of beans or a chicken. Nothing. What was she supposed to do, boil rocks?
Teresita peeked in the door to find Tía stirring a pot. Tía studied the ash clinging to her cigarette, and tapped it onto her tongue. Ssss! “What do you want?” she said.
“Is that the iguana?” Teresa asked.
“What the devil do you think it is, you idiot? Did you see any other food here? Did you think I’d murdered my own children to make stew to feed you?”
“No, Tía.”
“No, Tía.”
“Am I an Indian?”
“We are the People.”
“But what am I?”
“A little pig that eats too much.”
“Tía . . .”
“Don’t bother me with stupidity. What am I, what am I! What kind of ridiculous question is that?”
“I just want to know, Tía.”
“If you’re so curious, go ask your good friend Huila! Can’t you see I’m busy?”
Ssss!
“Does it taste good, Tía? The cigarette?”
Tía studied the crooked cigarette and smiled.
“This mierda is the only good thing in my life,” she said.
Teresita had learned to put her body to sleep at night. Her smacks and bruises ached when she lay down—Tía liked to spank, and she wasn’t shy about using the wooden spoon. Teresita had to take charge of the uproarious parts of herself too naughty to be quiet at bedtime. Each night,