Mouthful of Birds(6)

I wait all morning and all afternoon locked in the bedroom. I don’t want to eat, or come out, or talk. Manuel looks in every once in a while and asks how I’m doing. I imagine Mom must be climbing the walls, but they all know they can’t call or stop by to see me.

I’ve been feeling nauseated for a while now. My stomach burns and throbs more and more intensely, as if it were going to explode. I have to tell Manuel. I try to stand up but I can’t; I hadn’t realized how dizzy I am. I have to tell Manuel to call Weisman. For a moment I manage to get up. I pause and then fall to my knees. I think about conscious breathing, but my head has already moved on to something else. I’m afraid. I’m scared something will go wrong and we’ll hurt Teresita. Maybe she knows what’s happening; maybe this whole thing is all wrong. Manuel comes into the room and runs to me.

“I just want to leave it until later . . .” I tell him. “I don’t want . . .”

I want to tell him to leave me here on the floor, that it doesn’t matter, he should run and call Weisman, that everything has gone wrong. But I can’t talk. My body is shaking; I’ve lost control over it. Manuel kneels down next to me, takes my hands, talks to me. I can’t hear what he’s saying. I feel like I’m going to throw up. I cover my mouth. He reacts then, and he leaves me alone and runs to the kitchen. He’s gone only a few seconds; he comes back with the disinfected jar and the plastic case that says “Dr. Weisman.” He breaks the safety seal on the container, pours the clear liquid into the jar. I feel like throwing up again, but I can’t, I don’t want to: not yet. I heave, again and again. I gag more and more violently and it’s hard to breathe. For the first time I think of the possibility of death. I think about it for a second and then I can’t breathe at all. Manuel watches me, unsure what to do. The gagging stops and something catches in my throat. I close my mouth and grab Manuel by the wrist. Then I feel something small, the size of an almond. I hold it on my tongue; it’s fragile. I know what I have to do but I can’t do it. It’s an unmistakable sensation that will stay with me for years. I look at Manuel, and he seems to accept the time I need. She’ll wait for us, I think. She’ll be okay, until the time is right. Then he hands me the jar, and finally, gently, I spit her out.





BUTTERFLIES


“You’ll see, my girl is wearing such a pretty dress today,” Calderón says to Gorriti. “It looks so nice on her with those brown eyes she has—its color, you know. And those little feet . . .” They’re standing with the other parents, waiting anxiously for their children to be let out. Calderón is talking; Gorriti is looking at the still-locked doors. “You’ll see,” says Calderón. “Stay here, you have to stick close because they’re about to come out. And yours, how’s he?” The other man pantomimes pain and points to his teeth. “You don’t say,” says Calderón. “And did you do the tooth fairy? With mine it’s no good, she’s too smart.” Gorriti looks at the clock. The doors will open any second now and the children will burst out, laughing and shouting in a tumult of colors, some spotted with paint or chocolate. But for some reason the bell is delayed. The parents wait.



* * *





A brownish butterfly lands on Calderón’s arm and he quickly traps it. The creature struggles to get away, but he presses its wings together and holds it by the ends. He squeezes hard so it can’t escape. “You’ll see, you just have to see her,” he tells Gorriti as he shakes it, “she’s just adorable.” But he presses so hard he starts to feel the tips of the wings sticking together. He slides his fingers down and sees that he has marked them. The butterfly tries to get free, fluttering its wings, and one of them splits down the middle like paper. Calderón is sorry, tries to hold it still so he can get a good look at the damage, but he ends up with part of the wing stuck to one of his fingers. Gorriti watches him with disgust and shakes his head, gestures for him to drop it. Calderón lets go. The butterfly falls to the ground. It moves awkwardly, tries to fly but no longer can. It finally stays still, flapping one of its wings every now and then, but it doesn’t try anything more. Gorriti tells him to finish it off once and for all, and Calderón, for the butterfly’s own good, of course, stomps on it.

He doesn’t even have time to lift his foot when he realizes something strange is happening. He looks toward the doors and then, as if a sudden wind had breached the locks, the doors open and hundreds of butterflies of every color and size rush out toward the waiting parents. He thinks they might attack him; maybe he thinks he’s going to die. The other parents don’t seem to be afraid, and the butterflies just flutter among them. The last one comes out, lagging behind the others, and joins them.

Calderón stands looking at the open doors and through the windows of the main hall, at the silent classrooms. Some parents are still crowding in front of the doors and shouting the names of their children. Then the butterflies, all of them in just a few seconds, fly off in different directions. The parents try to catch them.

Calderón, on the other hand, stands motionless. He can’t bring himself to lift his foot from the one he has killed. He is, perhaps, afraid of recognizing his girl’s colors in its dead wings.





MOUTHFUL OF BIRDS