The Moths and Other Stories by Helena María Viramontes Page A

watched her as she prayed for him, and when she lifted herself up from kneeling, he watched her float into the next room where he, Chato, sat, going outside with an empty jar to where the heat had transformed the garbage into tireless maggots. And Chato wanted to stop her, wanted to ask Why are you doing this, watching her come inside the house, like an apparition, going over to where Don Joaquín was breathing heavily, and with her filthy hands Chato watched her force open the newly mended wound and he can almost hear the delicate tearing of each stitch plucking one by one, seeing her, his wife, Amanda, crazy with hate, put the bigger worms in his body to let him rot before his death, watching her replace the gauze neatly, then kneeling to pray once again for this man Don Joaquín, and the carousel is quiet in his heart.
II
    â€œThe cock will pluck the hen tonight.”
    â€œAh, Chato, my friend, how many sons will you sire? Five? Six? Can you even father one, you son of a bitch!”
    â€œShe is big-hipped. She will carry many children.”
    â€œAlways stand up. That way you won’t get pregnant. Look at me, only seven!!”
    â€œFull-moon children are born with horns.”
    â€œLet’s see you kiss the bride.”
    â€œâ€¦then I took off my pants and I told her, ‘Now you put them on,’ and she did. Then I said, ‘See! The pants fit me, not you. Don’t forget that it’s me who wears them…’”
    Only with an escaping nervous laugh did she open her mouth to reveal slightly enlarged gums. And Amanda was nervous. And excited. And frightened by the new arrangement, this idea of marriage. Her family called her wild, like the jackrabbits, timid, not strong, but strong-willed, and none expected her to marry. But married she was to a stranger nearly twice her age.
    In one breath she drifted from the priest, with his matrimonial rosary chains linking them together until death, to the reception where the neighborhood men with their ribboned guitars played music that jumped with dance steps and where she smeared her dress with chile, to finally her husband’s crusty rooms.
    The rooms were humid until she started the fire. With a stove, table, two chairs, shelves and the bed she sat on, it was a house not yet a home and her duty was made clear by the light of the fire burning. Amanda heard the hoofs of his horse, then the creak from the saddle seating a man heavy with drink. She heard his spurs reach the wooden porch; an unsteady pace. The pace receded and became cushioned with distance as he reached the end of the porch, louder as he approached the door, then receded again. Finally, the pacing stopped and she heard him strike a match, imagining him lighting his cigar. She jumped from the bed when the door swung open. He stood there, immobile. To the back of him lay the dry, cold flatlands, thin with hunger. In front of him stood Amanda, frightened, pure, her skin brown and rich like the fertile soil, like the fruitful earth should be, his heartland, only hope, now his wife, amidst the warmth of the fire.
    His hand was like ice on her budding breasts, and he pinched her nipples gently. Amanda was terrified. Unable to move, mesmerized by the sensation of his fingers, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine death. The pain was too great, her mother said, she must bear it, clench your teeth, children are made by pain, her mother said, children are born by pain, but she felt the softness of lips touch the sides of her body, as soft as a cat’s walk. That night he said her name a thousand times without sounds, probing her until his fingers were lost somewhere in maiden hair. The storm came as a surprise, the tropical rainfall between her legs, then he came hard and wet, with a grunt close to her ear.
    Amanda lay there thinking of the moistness, the itch. He finally turned away to sleep, and she thought, so this is love, reaching down to contact her undiscovered