the ripples of fabric, and slipped it into her purse.
Candida reached inside her purse and pulled out a silver cylinder. She twisted it, then lowered her hand to her mother’s white face. She smeared the woman’s mouth with bright red lipstick, went beyond her lips and up toward her cheeks like a child who chose not to color inside the lines. She trembled as she hummed a song that Manuel faintly recalled. She took a step back, cocked her head as if to admire her work. She looked to her brother, who moved away from them until his back pressed against the cold wall. He understood as much as he could but was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Candida then rammedthe tube between the dead woman’s hands, where it lay next to the jet-bead rosary and silver crucifix.
She took one last look, smiled, and gently lowered the lid.
Everyone waited outside. The box was lifted onto the men’s shoulders. They carried her with heads down, up the uneven road, kicking at the wild dogs with their now dusty shoes if they dared come near to sniff. As the procession wound its way up and passed
Nossa Senhora do Rosário
, Manuel noticed the sudden rustle of curtains, the occasional sign of the cross and the obligatory cries and sniffles from the men and women behind him. Terezinha walked in front of Manuel, holding on to her aunt’s hand. Manuel drew his wife close to him. Antonio’s arms were secured around his mother’s neck. Manuel saw him pull his mother’s veil over his head too. He whispered, “
Mãe
, how is she going to breathe? Why didn’t they put some holes in the coffin?
“Fish need air to breathe too,” Antonio said with conviction.
BARNACLE LOVE
MANUEL USED HIS FOREARMS to part the stalks of corn. His blood coursed through him. He forged ahead, swiping at the brittle stems, nursing the anger that had pressed on him ever since he had arrived back home and Silvia had said no.
Two weeks ago, with an eagerness that overcame jet lag and saw him abandon his luggage on the front stoop of his crumbling childhood home, he had dashed through the fields to meet with her. She had agreed to go to Canada in her letters, but it wasn’t until he arrived, after some long anticipated and disappointing love-making, that she told him she didn’t want to leave. Not prepared for her excuses, he had stormed through the cornfields, allowing the husks to thrash against his face. She was his intended, but his dream was his alone now. Her futile calls for him to return—“
Manuel! Volta,Manuel!
”—receded as he broke through onto the dirt road.
A week passed. Silvia asked for a second meeting. He came into the clearing once again.
Silvia’s eyes rested in the dark hollows of her face. She looked smaller now.
“I’ll go! Is that what you want … I’ll leave with you as your wife.” She had crawled to him and tugged on his trousers with her chin up, pleading.
He grabbed her shoulders. “I don’t want to begin my new life with a lie!”
She swiped the snot across her cheek. “But I’ve changed my mind. I’ll make a life with you there if that’s what you want.” She reached for his hand and pulled him down as she arched her back. His knees buckled and she placed his hand between the warmth of her legs. She grasped his back to lower him even further.
He withdrew his hand and caressed her face. He whispered, “I thought it was what you wanted also,” as he stood up to leave.
“Your mother said you would stay; that all I had to do was ask you to start a life with me here and that we would all be together. She said she knew you, she knew what you wanted and that everything would be okay.” Silvia looked around now as if expecting someone or something to appear from within the thick crop of corn and save her. “She said it would all be okay.”
He stormed up to Senhora Theresa’s small house on Rua Nova. He walked straight up to the window, and with not even an inkling of restraint, he asked her for her daughter
Candida reached inside her purse and pulled out a silver cylinder. She twisted it, then lowered her hand to her mother’s white face. She smeared the woman’s mouth with bright red lipstick, went beyond her lips and up toward her cheeks like a child who chose not to color inside the lines. She trembled as she hummed a song that Manuel faintly recalled. She took a step back, cocked her head as if to admire her work. She looked to her brother, who moved away from them until his back pressed against the cold wall. He understood as much as he could but was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Candida then rammedthe tube between the dead woman’s hands, where it lay next to the jet-bead rosary and silver crucifix.
She took one last look, smiled, and gently lowered the lid.
Everyone waited outside. The box was lifted onto the men’s shoulders. They carried her with heads down, up the uneven road, kicking at the wild dogs with their now dusty shoes if they dared come near to sniff. As the procession wound its way up and passed
Nossa Senhora do Rosário
, Manuel noticed the sudden rustle of curtains, the occasional sign of the cross and the obligatory cries and sniffles from the men and women behind him. Terezinha walked in front of Manuel, holding on to her aunt’s hand. Manuel drew his wife close to him. Antonio’s arms were secured around his mother’s neck. Manuel saw him pull his mother’s veil over his head too. He whispered, “
Mãe
, how is she going to breathe? Why didn’t they put some holes in the coffin?
“Fish need air to breathe too,” Antonio said with conviction.
BARNACLE LOVE
MANUEL USED HIS FOREARMS to part the stalks of corn. His blood coursed through him. He forged ahead, swiping at the brittle stems, nursing the anger that had pressed on him ever since he had arrived back home and Silvia had said no.
Two weeks ago, with an eagerness that overcame jet lag and saw him abandon his luggage on the front stoop of his crumbling childhood home, he had dashed through the fields to meet with her. She had agreed to go to Canada in her letters, but it wasn’t until he arrived, after some long anticipated and disappointing love-making, that she told him she didn’t want to leave. Not prepared for her excuses, he had stormed through the cornfields, allowing the husks to thrash against his face. She was his intended, but his dream was his alone now. Her futile calls for him to return—“
Manuel! Volta,Manuel!
”—receded as he broke through onto the dirt road.
A week passed. Silvia asked for a second meeting. He came into the clearing once again.
Silvia’s eyes rested in the dark hollows of her face. She looked smaller now.
“I’ll go! Is that what you want … I’ll leave with you as your wife.” She had crawled to him and tugged on his trousers with her chin up, pleading.
He grabbed her shoulders. “I don’t want to begin my new life with a lie!”
She swiped the snot across her cheek. “But I’ve changed my mind. I’ll make a life with you there if that’s what you want.” She reached for his hand and pulled him down as she arched her back. His knees buckled and she placed his hand between the warmth of her legs. She grasped his back to lower him even further.
He withdrew his hand and caressed her face. He whispered, “I thought it was what you wanted also,” as he stood up to leave.
“Your mother said you would stay; that all I had to do was ask you to start a life with me here and that we would all be together. She said she knew you, she knew what you wanted and that everything would be okay.” Silvia looked around now as if expecting someone or something to appear from within the thick crop of corn and save her. “She said it would all be okay.”
He stormed up to Senhora Theresa’s small house on Rua Nova. He walked straight up to the window, and with not even an inkling of restraint, he asked her for her daughter
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