In The Time Of The Butterflies Part 5

Once only did I almost let go, that Christmas. The wedding was planned for February 24th, three days before my seventeenth birthday. Papa had said we must wait until I was seventeen, but he consented to giving me those three days of dispensation. Otherwise, we would be upon the Lenten season, when really it's not right to be marrying.

We were walking to our parish church for the Ma.s.s of the Rooster, Mama, Papa, my sisters. Pedrito and I lagged behind the others, talking softly. He was making his simple declarations, and I was teasing him into having to declare them over and over again. He could not love me very much, I protested, because all he said was that he loved me. According to Minerva, those truly in love spoke poetry to their beloved.

He stopped, and took me by the shoulders. I could barely see his face that moonless night. "You're not getting a fancy, high-talking man in Pedrito Gonzalez," he said rather fiercely. "But you are getting a man who adores you like he does this rich soil we're standing on."

He reached down and took a handful of dirt and poured it in my hand. And then, he began kissing me, my face, my neck, my b.r.e.a.s.t.s. I had to, I had to stop him! It would not be right, not on this night in which the word was still so newly fleshed, the porcelain baby just being laid by Padre Ignacio-as we hurried down the path-in His creche.

You'd think there was nothing else but the private debates of my flesh and spirit going on, the way I've left out the rest of my life. Don't believe it! Ask anyone around here who was the easiest, friendliest, simplest of the Mirabal girls, and they'd tell you, Patria Mercedes. The day I married, the whole population of Ojo de Agua turned out to wish me well. I burst out crying, already homesick for my village even though I was only moving fifteen minutes away.

It was hard at first living in San Jose de Conuco away from my family, but I got used to it. Pedrito came in from the fields at noon hungry for his dinner. Afterwards we had siesta, and his other hunger had to be satisfied, too. The days started to fill, Nelson was bom, and two years later, Noris, and soon I had a third belly growing larger each day. They say around here that bellies stir up certain cravings or aversions. Well, the first two bellies were simple, all I craved were certain foods, but this belly had me worrying all the time about my sister Minerva.

It was dangerous the way she was speaking out against the government. Even in public, she'd throw a jab at our president or at the church for supporting him. One time, the salesman who was trying to sell Papa a car brought out an expensive Buick. Extolling its many virtues, the salesman noted that this was El Jefe's favorite car. Right out, Minerva told Papa, "Another reason not to buy it." The whole family walked around in fear for a while.

I couldn't understand why Minerva was getting so worked up. El Jefe was no saint, everyone knew that, but among the bandidos bandidos that had been in the National Palace, this one at least was building churches and schools, paying off our debts. Every week his picture was in the papers next to Monsignor Pittini, overseeing some good deed. that had been in the National Palace, this one at least was building churches and schools, paying off our debts. Every week his picture was in the papers next to Monsignor Pittini, overseeing some good deed.

But I couldn't reason with reason herself. I tried a different tack. "It's a dirty business, you're right. That's why we women shouldn't get involved."

Minerva listened with that look on her face of just waiting for me to finish. "I don't agree with you, Patria," she said, and then in her usual, thorough fashion, she argued that women had to come out of the dark ages.

She got so she wouldn't go to church unless Mama made a scene. She argued that she was more connected to G.o.d reading her Rousseau than when she was at ma.s.s listening to Padre Ignacio intoning the Nicene Creed. "He sounds like he's gargling with words," she made fun.

"I worry that you're losing your faith," I told her. "That's our pearl of great price; you know, without it, we're nothing."

"You should worry more about your beloved church. Even Padre Ignacio admits some priests are on double payroll."

"Ay, Minerva," was all I could manage. I stroked my aching belly. For days, I'd been feeling a heaviness inside me. And I admit it, Minerva's talk had begun affecting me. I started noting the deadness in Padre Ignacio's voice, the tedium between the gospel and communion, the dry papery feel of the host in my mouth. My faith was shifting, and I was afraid.

"Sit back," Minerva said, kindly, seeing the lines of weariness on my face. "Let me finish counting those hairs."

And suddenly, I was crying in her arms, because I could feel the waters breaking, the pearl of great price slipping out, and I realized I was giving birth to something dead I had been carrying inside me.

After I lost the baby, I felt a strange vacancy. I was an empty house with a sign in front, Se Vende, Se Vende, For Sale. Any vagrant thought could take me. For Sale. Any vagrant thought could take me.

I woke up in a panic in the middle of the night, sure that some brujo brujo had put a spell on me and that's why the baby had died. This from Patria Mercedes, who had always kept herself from such low superst.i.tions. had put a spell on me and that's why the baby had died. This from Patria Mercedes, who had always kept herself from such low superst.i.tions.

I fell asleep and dreamed the Yanquis were back, but it wasn't my grandmother's house they were burning-it was Pedrito's and mine. My babies, all three of them, were going up in flames. I leapt from the bed crying, "Fire! Fire!"

I wondered if the dead child were not a punishment for my having turned my back on my religious calling? I went over and over my life to this point, complicating the threads with my fingers, knotting everything.

We moved in with Mama until I could get my strength back. She kept trying to comfort me. "That poor child, who knows what it was spared!"

"It is the Lord's will," I agreed, but the words sounded hollow to my ear.

Minerva could tell. One day, we were lying side by side on the hammock strung just inside the galeria. galeria. She must have caught me gazing at our picture of the Good Shepherd, talking to his lambs. Beside him hung the required portrait of El Jefe, touched up to make him look better than he was. "They're a pair, aren't they?" she noted. She must have caught me gazing at our picture of the Good Shepherd, talking to his lambs. Beside him hung the required portrait of El Jefe, touched up to make him look better than he was. "They're a pair, aren't they?" she noted.

That moment, I understood her hatred. My family had not been personally hurt by Trujillo, just as before losing my baby, Jesus had not taken anything away from me. But others had been suffering great losses. There were the Perozos, not a man left in that family. And Martinez Reyna and his wife murdered in their bed, and thousands of Haitians ma.s.sacred at the border, making the river, they say, still run red-iAy, Dios santo!

I had heard, but I had not believed. Snug in my heart, fondling my pearl, I had ignored their cries of desolation. How could our loving, all-powerful Father allow us to suffer so? I looked up, challenging Him. And the two faces had merged!

I moved back home with the children in early August, resuming my duties, putting a good face over a sore heart, hiding the sun-as the people around here say-with a finger. And slowly, I began coming back from the dead. What brought me back? It wasn't G.o.d, no senor. It was Pedrito, his grief so silent and animal-like. I put aside my own grief to rescue him from his.

Every night I gave him my milk as if he were my lost child, and afterwards I let him do things I never would have before. "Come here, mi amor," mi amor," I'd whisper to guide him through the dark bedroom when he showed up after having been out late in the fields. Then I was the one on horseback, riding him hard and fast until I'd gotten somewhere far away from my aching heart. I'd whisper to guide him through the dark bedroom when he showed up after having been out late in the fields. Then I was the one on horseback, riding him hard and fast until I'd gotten somewhere far away from my aching heart.

His grief hung on. He never spoke of it, but I could tell. One night, a few weeks after the baby was buried, I felt him leaving our bed ever so quietly. My heart sank. He was seeking other consolations in one of the thatched huts around our rancho. I wanted to know the full extent of my losses, so I said nothing and followed him outside.

It was one of those big, bright nights of August when the moon has that luminous color of something ready for harvest. Pedrito came out of the shed with a spade and a small box. He walked guardedly, looking over his shoulder. At last, he stopped at a secluded spot and began to dig a little grave.

I could see now that his grief was dark and odd. I would have to be gentle in coaxing him back. I crouched behind a big ceiba, my fist in my mouth, listening to the thud of soil hitting the box.

After he was gone to the yucca fields the next day, I searched and searched, but I could not find the spot again. Ay, Ay, Dios, how I worried that he had taken our baby from consecrated ground. The poor innocent would be stuck in limbo all eternity! I decided to check first before insisting Pedrito dig him back up. Dios, how I worried that he had taken our baby from consecrated ground. The poor innocent would be stuck in limbo all eternity! I decided to check first before insisting Pedrito dig him back up.

So I went to the graveyard and enlisted a couple of campesinos campesinos with the excuse that I'd forgotten the baby's Virgencita medallion. After several feet of digging, their shovels struck the small coffin. with the excuse that I'd forgotten the baby's Virgencita medallion. After several feet of digging, their shovels struck the small coffin.

"Open it," I said.

"Let us put in the medal ourselves, Dona Patria," they offered, reluctant to pry open the lid. "It's not right for you to see."

"I want to see," I said.

I should have desisted, I should not have seen what I saw. My child, a bundle of swarming ants! My child, decomposing like any animal! I fell to my knees, overcome by the horrid stench.

"Close him up," I said, having seen enough.

"What of the medal, Dona Patria?" they reminded me.

It won't do him any good, I thought, but I slipped it in. I bowed my head, and if this was prayer, then you could say I prayed. I said the names of my sisters, my children, my husband, Mama, Papa. I was deciding right then and there to spare all those I love.

And so it was that Patria Mercedes Mirabal de Gonzalez was known all around San Jose de Conuco as well as Ojo de Agua as a model Catholic wife and mother. I fooled them all! Yes, for a long time after losing my faith, I went on, making believe.

It wasn't my idea to go on the pilgrimage to Higuey. That was Mama's brainstorm. There had been sightings of the Virgencita. She had appeared one early morning to an old campesino campesino coming into town with his donkey loaded down with garlic. Then a little girl had seen the Virgencita swinging on the bucket that was kept decoratively dangling above the now dry well where she had once appeared back in the 1600s. It was too whimsical a sighting for the archbishop to p.r.o.nounce as authentic, but still. Even El Jefe had attributed the failure of the invasion from Cayo Confites to our patron saint. coming into town with his donkey loaded down with garlic. Then a little girl had seen the Virgencita swinging on the bucket that was kept decoratively dangling above the now dry well where she had once appeared back in the 1600s. It was too whimsical a sighting for the archbishop to p.r.o.nounce as authentic, but still. Even El Jefe had attributed the failure of the invasion from Cayo Confites to our patron saint.

"If she's helping him-" was all Minerva got out. Mama silenced her with a look that was the grownup equivalent of the old slipper on our b.u.t.ts.

"We women in the family need the Virgencita's help," Mama reminded her.

She was right, too. Everyone knew my public sorrow, the lost baby, but none my private one, my loss of faith. Then there was Minerva with her restless mind and her rebellious spirit. Settle her down, Mama prayed. Mate's asthma was worse than ever and Mama had transferred her to a closer school in San Francisco. Only Dede was doing well, but she had some big decisions ahead of her and she wanted the Virgencita's help.

So, the five of us made our plans. I decided not to take the children, so I could give myself over to the pilgrimage. "You sure you women are going on a pilgrimage?" Pedrito teased us. He was happy again, his hands fresh with my body, a quickness in his face. "Five good-looking women visiting the Virgin, I don't believe it!"

My sisters all looked towards me, expecting I would chide my husband for making light of sacred things. But I had lost my old strictness about sanct.i.ty. G.o.d, who had played the biggest joke on us, could stand a little teasing.

I rolled my eyes flirtatiously "Ay, si," I said, "those roosters of Higuey!"

A cloud pa.s.sed over Pedrito's face. He was not a jealous man. I'll say it plain: he was not a man of imagination, so he wasn't afflicted by suspicions and worries. But if he saw or heard something he didn't like, even if he had said it himself, the color would rise in his face and his nostrils flare like a spirited stallion's.

"Let them crow all they want," I went on, "I've got my handsome rooster in San Jose de Conuco. And my two little chicks," I added. Nelson and Noris looked up, alerted by the play in my voice.

We set out in the new car, a used Ford Papa had bought for the store, so he said. But we all knew who it was really for-the only person who knew how to drive it besides Papa. He had hoped that this consolation prize would settle Minerva happily in Ojo de Agua. But every day she was on the road, to Santiago, to San Francisco, to Moca-on store business, she said. Dede, left alone to mind the store, complained there were more deliveries than sales being made.

Maria Teresa was home from school for the long holiday weekend in honor of El Jefe's birthday, so she came along. We joked about all the commemorative marches and boring speeches we had been spared by leaving this particular weekend. We could talk freely in the car, since there was no one to overhear us.

"Poor Papa," Maria Teresa said. "He'll have to go all by himself." "Papa will take very good care of himself, I'm sure, " Mama said in a sharp voice. We all looked at her surprised. I began to wonder why Mama had suggested this pilgrimage. Mama, who hated even day trips. Something big was troubling her enough to stir her far from home.

It took us a while to get to Higuey, since first we hit traffic going to the capital for the festivities, and then we had to head east on poor roads crossing a dry flat plain. I couldn't remember sitting for five hours straight in years. But the time flew by. We sang, told stories, reminisced about this or that.

At one point, Minerva suggested we just take off into the mountains like the gavilleros had done. We had heard the stories of the bands of campesinos campesinos who took to the hills to fight the Yanqui invaders. Mama had been a young woman, eighteen, when the Yanquis came. who took to the hills to fight the Yanqui invaders. Mama had been a young woman, eighteen, when the Yanquis came.

"Did you sympathize with the gavilleros, gavilleros, Mama?" Minerva wanted to know, looking in the rearview mirror and narrowly missing a man in an ox cart going too slow. We all cried out. "He was at least a kilometer away," Minerva defended herself. Mama?" Minerva wanted to know, looking in the rearview mirror and narrowly missing a man in an ox cart going too slow. We all cried out. "He was at least a kilometer away," Minerva defended herself.

"Since when is ten feet a kilometer!" Dede snapped. She had a knack for numbers, that one, even in an emergency.

Mama intervened before those two could get into one of their fights. "Of course, I sympathized with our patriots. But what could we do against the Yanquis? They killed anyone who stood in their way. They burned our house down and called it a mistake. They weren't in their own country so they didn't have to answer to anyone."

"The way we Dominicans do, eh?" Minerva said with sarcasm in her voice.

Mama was silent a moment, but we could all sense she had more to say. At last, she added, "You're right, they're all scoundrels-Dominicans, Yanquis, every last man."

"Not every one," I said. After all, I had to defend my husband.

Maria Teresa agreed, "Not Papa."

Mama looked out the window a moment, her face struggling with some emotion. Then, she said quietly, "Yes, your father, too."

We protested, but Mama would not budge-either in taking back or going further with what she had said.

Now I knew why she had come on her pilgrimage.

The town was jammed with eager pilgrims, and though we tried at all the decent boarding houses, we could not find a single room. Finally we called on some distant relations, who scolded us profusely for not having come to them in the first place. By then, it was dark, but from their windows as we ate the late supper they fixed us, we could see the lights of the chapel where pilgrims were keeping their vigil. I felt a tremor of excitement, as if I were about to meet an estranged friend with whom I longed to be reconciled.

Later, lying in the bed we were sharing, I joined Mama in her goodnight rosary to the Virgencita. Her voice in the dark was full of need. At the first Sorrowful Mystery, she said Papa's full name, as if she were calling him to account, not praying for him.

"What's wrong, Mama?" I whispered to her when we were finished.

She would not tell me, but when I guessed, "Another woman?" she sighed, and then said, "Ay, "Ay, Virgencita, why have you forsaken me?" Virgencita, why have you forsaken me?"

I closed my eyes and felt her question join mine. Yes, why? I thought. Out loud, I said, "I'm here, Mama." It was all the comfort I had.

The next morning we woke early and set out for the chapel, telling our hosts that we were fasting so as not to give them any further bother. "We're starting our pilgrimage with lies," Minerva laughed. We breakfasted on water breads and the celebrated little cheeses of Higuey, watching the pilgrims through the door of the cafeteria. Even at this early hour, the streets were full of them.

The square in front of the small chapel was also packed. We joined the line, filing past the beggars who shook their tin cups or waved their crude crutches and canes at us. Inside, the small, stuffy chapel was lit by hundreds of votive candles. I felt woozy in a familiar girlhood way. I used the edge of my mantilla to wipe the sweat on my face as I followed behind Maria Teresa and Minerva, Mama and Dede close behind me.

The line moved slowly down the center aisle to the altar, then up a set of stairs to a landing in front of the Virgencita's picture. Maria Teresa and Minerva and I managed to squeeze up on the landing together. I peered into the locked case smudged with fingerprints from pilgrims touching the gla.s.s.

All I saw at first was a silver frame studded with emeralds and agates and pearls. The whole thing looked gaudy and insincere. Then I made out a sweet, pale girl tending a trough of straw on which lay a tiny baby. A man stood behind her in his red robes, his hands touching his heart. If they hadn't been wearing halos, they could have been a young couple up near Constanza where the campesinos campesinos are reputed to be very white. are reputed to be very white.

"Hail Mary," Maria Teresa began, "full of grace ..."

I turned around and saw the packed pews, hundreds of weary, upturned faces, and it was as if I'd been facing the wrong way all my life. My faith stirred. It kicked and somersaulted in my belly, coming alive. I turned back and touched my hand to the dirty gla.s.s.

"Holy Mary, Mother of G.o.d," I joined in.

I stared at her pale, pretty face and challenged her. Here I am, Virgencita. Where are you?

And I heard her answer me with the coughs and cries and whispers of the crowd: Here, Patria Mercedes, Here, Patria Mercedes, Fm Fm here, all around you. I've already more than appeared. here, all around you. I've already more than appeared.

II.

1948 to 1959

CHAPTER FIVE.

Dede 1994.

and 1948.

Over the interview woman's head, Dede notices the new girl throwing plantain peelings outside the kitchen shed. She has asked her not to do this. "That is why we have trash baskets," she has explained. The young maid always looks at the barrel Dede points to as if it were an obscure object whose use is beyond her.

"You understand?" Dede asks her. "Si, senora." "Si, senora." The young girl smiles brightly as if she has done something right. At Dede's age, it is hard to start in with new servants. But Tono is needed over at the museum to take the busloads through the house and answer the phone. Tono has been with them forever. Of course, so had Fela until she started going wacky after the girls died. The young girl smiles brightly as if she has done something right. At Dede's age, it is hard to start in with new servants. But Tono is needed over at the museum to take the busloads through the house and answer the phone. Tono has been with them forever. Of course, so had Fela until she started going wacky after the girls died.

Possessed by the spirits of the girls, can you imagine! People were coming from as far away as Barahona to talk "through" this ebony black sibyl with the Mirabal sisters. Cures had begun to be attributed to Patria; Maria Teresa was great on love woes; and as for Minerva, she was competing with the Virgencita as Patroness of Impossible Causes. What an embarra.s.sment in her own backyard, as if she, Dede, had sanctioned all this. And she knew nothing. The bishop had called on her finally. That's how Dede had found out.

It was a Friday, Fela's day off. As soon as the bishop had left, Dede headed for the shed behind her house. She had jiggled the door just so to unlock it-a little trick she knew-and iDios mio! iDios mio! The sight took her breath away. Fela had set up an altar with pictures of the girls cut out from the popular posters that appeared each November. Before them, a table was laid out, candles and the mandatory cigar and bottle of rum. But most frightening was the picture of Trujillo that had once hung on Dede and Jaimito's wall. Dede was sure she had thrown it in the trash. What the devil was he doing here if, as Fela argued later, she was working only with good spirits? The sight took her breath away. Fela had set up an altar with pictures of the girls cut out from the popular posters that appeared each November. Before them, a table was laid out, candles and the mandatory cigar and bottle of rum. But most frightening was the picture of Trujillo that had once hung on Dede and Jaimito's wall. Dede was sure she had thrown it in the trash. What the devil was he doing here if, as Fela argued later, she was working only with good spirits?

Dede had pulled the door to, letting the old lock catch again. Her head was spinning. When Fela returned, Dede offered her two alternatives. Either stop all this nonsense and clean out that shed, or.... She could not bring herself to state the alternative to the stooped, white-haired woman who had weathered so much with the family. She hadn't had to. The next morning, the shed was indeed empty. Fela had moved her operation down the road to what was probably a better spot-an abandoned storefront on the bus route to Salcedo.

Minou was furious when she heard what Dede had done to Fela. Yes, that's the way she had phrased it, "What have you done to her, Mama Dede?"

"It was disrespectful to your mother's memory. She was a Catholic, Minou, a Catholic!"

Minou would have none of it. Dede had already told her too much about her mother's falling out with the church. Sometimes Dede worries that she has not kept enough from the children. But she wants them to know the living breathing women their mothers were. They get enough of the heroines from everyone else.

Now, Minou stops by at Fela's whenever she comes to visit her aunt. It gives Dede goose b.u.mps when Minou says, "I talked to Mama at Fela's today, and she said ..."

Dede shakes her head, but she always listens to what the old woman has to say.

The strangest time was when Minou came from Fela asking after Virgilio Morales. "Mama says he's still alive. Do you know where he is, Mama Dede?"