Curva Peligrosa Page 3

  In the winter, the prairies resembled the moon’s surface. The land looked different covered with layers of snow, all vegetation lifeless and wearing pale shrouds. It seemed as if only browns and blacks and grays had ever existed. When snowplows swept through, they created hills and dales that didn’t exist in the summer. Daily these shapes shifted. The main source of vitality during these wintry months was Curva’s greenhouse. It exploded in all seasons with tropical warmth, sounds, and color, its vibrations felt as far away as Berumba, where Suelita Flores lived.

  Suelita—prostitute and fortuneteller—had taught Curva the arts of divination. Now, lured by the greenhouse, Suelita began to dream of this far-off place to the north and of her former apprentice. The dreams became so strong that they interfered with her bedding of the local men, sending her off into reveries. Some of them complained: Suelita, they said, I’m not spending my money to have sex with your shadow. Wake up! But by then she was too involved with her former pupil to pay attention.

  Curva’s world tugged on Suelita so much that she couldn’t help stalking Curva, whispering in her ear, urging her towards this man or that one, and, in a sense, living vicariously through her former pupil. Like everyone in Weed and beyond, Suelita was especially drawn to the hothouse. Lit throughout the night by a generator and in the winter heated by propane, to some, the structure seemed to float above the land as if it were a temporary visitor, not quite of this world.

  In the daytime, the sun bounced off its windows, the reflected light almost blinding passersby. At night, it could be seen glowing for miles, summer or winter, challenging even the moon’s intensity. As alive as the organisms existing within its boundaries, the greenhouse appeared to breathe in and out, expanding and contracting. There were times when viewers swore it had grown overnight. The feeling it conveyed reminded Berumba residents of when their own town felt like the center of the world, everything blooming and abundant, caught in a time warp where nothing changed.

  But the Weedites were most affected by it, a beacon that could orient them during the darkest night or the worst blizzard. A miniature geyser burst out of the earth at its center, a fountain that mysteriously appeared one morning and gushed day and night, even in winter. The sound of water ceaselessly burbling, stronger than a babbling brook, made the dry, dusty prairies seem less arid.

  Some thought Curva had tapped into the former inland sea that had dominated the area millions of years earlier. In their minds, the endlessly flowing agua connected her to that earlier time, giving the woman some primal influence. Sporadically, streams inexplicably appeared and disappeared like phantoms in her vicinity. Sinkholes also turned up, creating craters that were there one day, gone the next. The earth was like putty around her, responding to her presence, as unpredictable and uncontrollable as she was.

  Even in sleep, the villagers felt the greenhouse’s presence. Its contents grew in their hearts, causing them to dream again—and in color—of exotic lands, monkeys swinging boisterously through leafy jungles, bearded men zipping by on Persian carpets, and parrots squawking in a musical language. Suelita entered their visions, too, fornicating night and day, her heavy breathing exciting them. And they could hear their own farm animals, rutting in the barns.

  Men and women turned to each other in sleep and groped under their nightclothes, touching and being touched, arousing and being aroused. Those who didn’t have partners, like Edna MacGregor and her brother Ian, fondled themselves. An ecstatic howl rose over the town before dawn, almost in unison.

  Though none had visited the southern hemisphere, they longed for the moist humidity of the tropics and its balmy days and nights. These sensual images kept them going through the long, cold winters and the driest summers. Curva offered them visions of a different way of life, so their previous existence no longer satisfied them.

  While the rest of the area clung to winter, a few bare sticks poking out of the ground, inside Curva’s nursery, flowers that looked like magenta butterflies caught on thin stems fluttered as did a whole chorus of dancers wearing yellow ball gowns. The villagers learned later that the trapped butterflies and female dancers were really orchids. Tulips, zinnias, mums, and many other flowers bloomed there, too. Some plants had strange names they’d never heard of before: blessed thistle, burdock root, chamomile, comfrey, savory, golden seal—Cannabis sativa.

  Curva had brought many bulbs with her, picked up in her travels on and off the Old North Trail, and had spent hours coaxing them to sprout. Totally immersed, she dug and fertilized and transplanted, hovering over her tiny seedlings, talking to them (vamonos mis bebes), urging, coaxing, trying to give them the best possible conditions for growth. They responded to her attention by spawning abundantly.

  In the dead of winter, she produced the reddest, ripest tomatoes and the greenest, plumpest avocados. While her neighbors grew tomatoes themselves during the short summer season, they had never seen an avocado and were eager to taste its flesh, uplifted by a squeeze of lemon.

  The constant demands of the greenhouse, animals, and farm work absorbed Curva, not leaving her much time to spend in town. She visited only to pick up the necessities. Yet her door was always open, and she never knew who might appear. Sometimes a villager stopped by. At other times, it might be another voyager from the south, compelled to follow Curva’s trail north. She’d dropped seeds along the way that, overnight, grew into lush foliage. The heady scent offered a reward for those determined enough to follow it. And, of course, her visitors weren’t limited to the living. She had a following among the dead as well, whose taste for life was reawakened in her presence.

  The only one she wasn’t eager to see was Xavier.

  Curva on the Old North Trail

  Hola, mi estimado Xavier,

  The compass I bought works, mi hermano, and I found the trail this time without too many problemas. If we’d had one to begin with, you might still be alive. And knowing the year is 1938 acts as another kind of compass. I can keep track of how long I’ve been traveling and that will help me figure out where I am. So will the passing seasons.

  It’s spring right now, and plants bursting with new life surround me. Wildflowers I’ve never seen before bloom everywhere, making me even more aware of losing you. How can nature be bursting with all this energy when you are muerto? There, I’ve said it. I hate that word.

  I hope you aren’t too angry with me, mi hermano, for continuing on the trail and for having a life you no longer can share. We started this adventure together. We should end it together as well. And that’s why I’m writing you these letters, so you can be part of the experience. It also makes me feel closer to you.

  The Pachecos gave me enough money to keep me going for a while. But it’s hard to be so alone now, though I’m not alone exactly. Every bug you can think of is here. Animals too. And they all want to have a look at me. Some want more than a look. It’s too bad none of them speak. You know what a chatterbox I can be, especially with you. At least the Indians who traveled this trail before me had smoke signals to look forward to now and then. I just have clouds. I pretend they’re signals from the gods.

  I’m grateful for the compass, but I’m still afraid I might get lost again. I don’t always trust these tools. What if I mix up the readings? It comforts me to think you’re watching over me like those clouds in the sky. Still, I’m not sure I can trust you to help me out when I need it. Maybe you’re too angry. I’m also afraid of what’s ahead. I don’t know what I’ll run into on this path I’ve taken. Will it disappear and I’ll die in the wilderness with no one to cry over my bones? I try not to think of the future too much because it scares me even more.

  And there are muchos problemas. The trail isn’t well marked—you know that!—and it hasn’t been used a lot recently. Sometimes I have to chop chop chop at the undergrowth with your old machete. You took it from the hombre that tried to steal our supplies when we started out, remember? But I’m det
ermined to fulfill our dream of following this trail to the end.

  You’ll laugh when you hear I’ve been wearing your coveralls and long-sleeve shirts so I don’t get scratched when I have to bushwhack. It’s hard to find clothes for tall women; I have to make my own or buy them in men’s stores. Your things fit pretty well. I haven’t washed them because they still smell like you, and I can fool myself you’re still alive.

  At night on the trail, I’m convinced you’re one of those brilliant lights above me and you’re better off in the heavens. And maybe you are. Life on this earth can be muy difícile. But all that activity in the sky makes me lonely—the shooting stars and comets grab my attention and then disappear. It’s like seeing whole cities lit up, only they’re too far away for me to touch. That’s when I long for human contact.

  The rest of the time, I daydream a lot. You remember Suelita Flores? It’s her fault I don’t want to be a woman who buries herself in raising los niños and caring for a casa. I never mentioned this before, but Suelita told me about some people who don’t believe in wedding vows or the usual women’s roles. They choose and change lovers whenever they want to. They even have children with many men and raise them in female-headed households.

  After Suelita told me such things, I went around for weeks thinking and thinking. The idea I didn’t need to marry if I didn’t want to amazed me! You won’t want to hear this, either, but I also realized I don’t have to stick with just one man.

  So now I’m really confused. I know, I know, you’re saying, But Curva you’ve always been confused. It’s true I’m sometimes confused about certain things, like reading a compass, and it’s true I don’t want to be the usual female. But I’m not always confused. Yet some day I would like to put down roots—just as plants do. Roots growing out of my feet and traveling underground all the way to Mexico.

  I like that idea and wish you could settle down with me. My poor hermano. Every day I pray for your soul, though I don’t put much stock in such things. Still, it doesn’t hurt. I just hope you haven’t ended up in that other place, the one priests talked about when we went to church as kids.

  Sometimes when I look in a mirror I see your features, not my own. We have the same high cheekbones and firm jaw. And I resemble you even more since you died. Maybe you live inside me now. It’s better than you being under the hard ground.

  I have my gun and a rifle in case I run into bandidos or who knows what else. During my spare time on the trail, I practice shooting. I’m now an expert with a gun, but I only kill when I need some meat.

  Remember when we served with that revolutionary group in Berumba? I saw men go down during the fighting and never get back up. That convinced me I never wanted one of my bullets to kill anyone.

  If you were here, you would say, Okay, Curva, so why do you like guns so much?

  And I would say, I love how smooth they are. I also like how fuerte I feel when I hold them. With one in my hand, I believe I could blast death to smithereens. I’m also not so afraid to be on my own as a woman. I can go anywhere and do anything I want. It might seem strange to you that these guns have opened up the world and made me believe I can face life head-on.

  Oh, Xavier, I miss you terribly and sense you’re guiding me. I can hear you saying, No, Curva, don’t take that path, and No, Curva, those berries will poison you.

  But the nights are dark like the inside of a bone, like the inside of my mind. I write these letters by firelight on scraps of paper I’ve sewn together. A nice little book for me to talk to. My life a necklace of words.

  The fire snaps and cracks. Sparks fly into the air—tiny burning kites.

  Sometimes I put words on paper and hide them outside the tent. I pretend I’m on a treasure hunt and the messages I find are from you. They make me laugh. My own words follow me around like lost creatures.

  Hola, I say. ¿Cómo esta usted?

  Muy bien, I answer.

  So polite this woman who is visiting me. She has my hair color. My eyes. My smile. Everything. But I don’t recognize her. How can I live with this woman after what she’s done?

  The firelight skitters across the surface of her eyes like a frightened animal.

  I’ve been trying not to remember. Not to remember. That’s what I repeat over and over. Do not remember. No recuerde.

  What is it I’m trying not to remember?

  Better not to ask. Better to pretend it didn’t happen.

  The Bones

  Following the tornado, a deluge complicated the cleanup work in Weed and presented the town with a new problem. When the water subsided, the land was littered not only with household effects and splintered wood, but also with an abundance of bones. The rain and subsequent flood uncovered mounds in the earth that resembled newly dug graves, though clearly no one had been buried there recently. From them, yellowed human bones protruded. Household objects got caught in the skulls’ mouths, eyes, and ear openings. Catherine Hawkins found a wedding photo of her grandparents, their faces framed by a skeleton’s eye sockets. Mr. Hawkins saw another skull wearing a blue hand-crocheted baby bonnet that his wife had made for their last child. It almost set off another heart attack. Many such sightings were reported and commented on, the subject of conversation for months, the reports enlarged and embellished with each telling.

  One man was certain he had stumbled upon remains from another planet that would come to life once the bones came in contact with earthlings. He warned his neighbors to stay clear of the area for fear they would be attacked. Another person, hearing this rendition, claimed the tornado heralded a sign from God of the apocalypse. Still others thought a world located at the Earth’s center was now surfacing.

  Meanwhile, Edna MacGregor, concerned about the bones’ origins, invited authorities in Edmonton, Alberta’s capital, to inspect the site. A close examination revealed that the whole village had been hiding something. An ancient Blackfoot Indian burial ground existed beneath part of the town. The Weedites had heard of people hiding skeletons in their closets, but this took the idea too far.

  The more watchful among them noticed that overnight the bones rearranged themselves in unexpected positions. Several skeletons appeared to be lounging and others crouching. Some were fornicating. These suggestive postures only reinforced the locals’ stereotype of Indians as lazy heathens, doing nothing all day but copulating. To those who witnessed these movements, it reinforced some of the stories floating around about the bones’ unusual origins.

  Inez Wilson and Sophie Smart, eager to see the bones for themselves, joined the other townspeople crowded around this scene. Inez whispered to Sophie, Jesus Christ, we’ve been living all these years among the dead—and they’re not our folk. Sophie nodded, her eyes glazing over. Like many, she felt her firm foundations threatened. They were trespassers on this Blackfoot burial site. They were the outsiders, surrounded by an unknown number of skeletons. Something froze in Catherine Hawkins’s belly to see the baby bonnet she’d knitted for her own child clamped on a skull’s head—an Indian’s, no less. She shuddered thinking of it.

  The bones’ appearance fueled much speculation, but other things also demanded the Weedites’ immediate attention. Not only did they need to clean up the mess and rebuild some of the structures, but in the storm’s wake came a flurry of monarch butterflies, lost, it seemed, blown off course. They already had laid eggs among a flurry of milkweed that sprung from the graves. Some speculated that the Blackfoot had buried the milkweed seeds with the dead. When the cocoons hatched, a cascade of color exploded above the land, butterflies hovering over the fields like poppies bobbing on long, invisible stems.

  And then they were gone, as suddenly as they had appeared, heading south, some deep instinct luring them to Mexico. Curva was intrigued by the stages butterflies went through in order to reach their end state. The whole phenomenon almost made her believe in the church’s ideas about resurrection. She h
ad watched the whole process in her greenhouse, laughing at how roly-poly the caterpillars became from gorging on the milkweed leaves. After they metamorphosed, she closely studied the butterfly chrysalises, examining them from all angles, hoping they would teach her how humans might get wings. It made her wonder if angels gestated that way and folded up their wings in sleep.

  Feeling some kinship with the monarchs—Mexico had fostered both Curva and these magical creatures—she wished to understand how such fragile insects could fly great distances and survive. But though she longed to spend more time examining these colorful mariposas, she had other demands on her time, including Henry’s infant son.

  When Curva heard that Olga had fled with the doctor, she stopped by Henry’s place one afternoon to see how father and son were doing, bringing fresh bread she had just baked and vegetables from her garden. Henry answered the door, holding the squalling child in one arm, a diaper in the other, gripping two huge safety pins between his teeth. He looked like a wild man, his hair flying in different directions, shirttails hanging out of his pants, and his fly unzipped. Curva sized up things quickly. She grabbed the naked baby and diaper and strode over to the kitchen table. Pushing aside dirty dishes, she found a spot for the child. In a flash, she had diapered him, warmed a bottle in a pot on the stove, and cradled the boy in her arms, imitating his sucking motions and singing a Spanish lullaby:

  Cierras ya tus ojitos.

  Duermete sin temor.

  Sueña con angelitos

  parecidos a ti.