There’s a Brazilian samba she stamps to in bare feet, waving her arms until she is flushed and exuberant with the rhythm of the drums. When she presses Ivanito to her chest, he can feel her heart jumping like it wants to come out of its cage.
When his sisters return from their camping trip, Ivanito can tell by their faces that something is wrong.
“We’ve seen Mamá this way before,” Milagro whispers.
“What way?” Ivanito asks, but she hushes him.
After Abuela Celia leaves, their mother rips the telephone from the wall and locks them all in the house. Ivanito continuesto eat the ice cream his mother serves them but Luz and Milagro dump it in the sink. Undeterred, Felicia stubbornly refills their bowls.
The twins tell Ivanito stories of what happened before he was born. They say their father ran from the house with his head and hands on fire. That Mamá sat on the living-room floor laughing and banging on the walls with metal tongs. That the police came and took her away. That the kitchen curtains burned from the plantains she left frying on the stove.
That night Ivanito stands by his sisters’ bedroom window transfixed by the branches of the tamarind tree, so black against the sky. He repeats something he heard his mother say: “The moon glares with a vivid indifference.”
His sisters bristle. They tell him that he’ll end up crazy like Mamá, that he’s starting to show her symptoms. Luz says that families are essentially political and that he’ll have to choose sides.
Ivanito senses even then that something has come between them. He will never speak his sisters’ language, account for his movements like a cow with a dull bell. He is convinced, although he couldn’t say why, that they’re united against him, against his happiness with Mamá.
In his room, the wallpaper comes alive in the moonlight. Ivanito imagines the vines and tendrils, taut and violent as a killing rope, snaking along the floor to his bed, wrapping him in place, tighter and tighter, choking off his breath while his sisters sleep.
* * *
As the summer of coconuts wears on, Felicia’s obsessions grow like something botanical, dense and violent. She insists that the sun will damage her son’s lungs.
“We inhabit the eye of the swamp, Ivanito,” she warns, tighteningthe shutters against malevolent rays. “We are breathing the final village.”
Celia comes to their house with packets of food and encourages her grandson to eat, but Ivanito rarely touches the croquettes or the pork tamales she brings. He doesn’t want to betray his mother.
On the last day of August, his grandmother packs his clothes: his bathing trunks with the elastic band broken at the waist, his buckled sandals, the round straw hat he’s taken to wearing indoors. His mother promises that they’ll go to the beach tomorrow. Tomorrow, after they rest. But they don’t rest.
The minute Abuela Celia leaves, his mother becomes very animated. She mops and scours the kitchen floor until her hands are crinkly. She presses the bed sheets as if expecting a lover and sweeps the veranda clean of the summer’s dust. She throws open the shutters with finality.
Ivanito goes with her to the bodega. This time, they buy a whole chicken, two pounds of rice, onions, green peppers, and all the sweet plantains in the store. His mother cooks an
arroz con polio
and leaves the plantains warming in the oven for their dinner.
Down the street, a gardenia tree is lush with blossoms. Ivanito steadies the ladder as his mother clips an armful of flowers. He watches as she floats the white gardenias in her bath and rubs her thighs and breasts with walnut oil. She sets her hair and brushes it until the luster returns. Then she slips on a peach satin negligee, another token from his father, and examines her face in the dressing-table mirror. It’s the only mirror left in the house. The others were broken during her marriage.
“Mirrors are for misery, nothing more,” his mother
When his sisters return from their camping trip, Ivanito can tell by their faces that something is wrong.
“We’ve seen Mamá this way before,” Milagro whispers.
“What way?” Ivanito asks, but she hushes him.
After Abuela Celia leaves, their mother rips the telephone from the wall and locks them all in the house. Ivanito continuesto eat the ice cream his mother serves them but Luz and Milagro dump it in the sink. Undeterred, Felicia stubbornly refills their bowls.
The twins tell Ivanito stories of what happened before he was born. They say their father ran from the house with his head and hands on fire. That Mamá sat on the living-room floor laughing and banging on the walls with metal tongs. That the police came and took her away. That the kitchen curtains burned from the plantains she left frying on the stove.
That night Ivanito stands by his sisters’ bedroom window transfixed by the branches of the tamarind tree, so black against the sky. He repeats something he heard his mother say: “The moon glares with a vivid indifference.”
His sisters bristle. They tell him that he’ll end up crazy like Mamá, that he’s starting to show her symptoms. Luz says that families are essentially political and that he’ll have to choose sides.
Ivanito senses even then that something has come between them. He will never speak his sisters’ language, account for his movements like a cow with a dull bell. He is convinced, although he couldn’t say why, that they’re united against him, against his happiness with Mamá.
In his room, the wallpaper comes alive in the moonlight. Ivanito imagines the vines and tendrils, taut and violent as a killing rope, snaking along the floor to his bed, wrapping him in place, tighter and tighter, choking off his breath while his sisters sleep.
* * *
As the summer of coconuts wears on, Felicia’s obsessions grow like something botanical, dense and violent. She insists that the sun will damage her son’s lungs.
“We inhabit the eye of the swamp, Ivanito,” she warns, tighteningthe shutters against malevolent rays. “We are breathing the final village.”
Celia comes to their house with packets of food and encourages her grandson to eat, but Ivanito rarely touches the croquettes or the pork tamales she brings. He doesn’t want to betray his mother.
On the last day of August, his grandmother packs his clothes: his bathing trunks with the elastic band broken at the waist, his buckled sandals, the round straw hat he’s taken to wearing indoors. His mother promises that they’ll go to the beach tomorrow. Tomorrow, after they rest. But they don’t rest.
The minute Abuela Celia leaves, his mother becomes very animated. She mops and scours the kitchen floor until her hands are crinkly. She presses the bed sheets as if expecting a lover and sweeps the veranda clean of the summer’s dust. She throws open the shutters with finality.
Ivanito goes with her to the bodega. This time, they buy a whole chicken, two pounds of rice, onions, green peppers, and all the sweet plantains in the store. His mother cooks an
arroz con polio
and leaves the plantains warming in the oven for their dinner.
Down the street, a gardenia tree is lush with blossoms. Ivanito steadies the ladder as his mother clips an armful of flowers. He watches as she floats the white gardenias in her bath and rubs her thighs and breasts with walnut oil. She sets her hair and brushes it until the luster returns. Then she slips on a peach satin negligee, another token from his father, and examines her face in the dressing-table mirror. It’s the only mirror left in the house. The others were broken during her marriage.
“Mirrors are for misery, nothing more,” his mother
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