The Butterfly’s Daughter (43 page)

“It's amazing,” she told Mariposa. “It certainly makes a statement.”

Mariposa grinned wide and heaved with relief. “It does, doesn't it?”

“Oh, wait. I've got something for it.” Luz opened her bag and retrieved the funny skeleton that she'd purchased. Abuela used to love silly toys and Luz knew she'd get a kick out of this one. She walked up to the grave and laid the skeleton down near the gravestone.

“Luz, no,” Mariposa said, coming up behind her. “That's a plastic toy. I only want natural things on the grave.” She bent to pick up the toy and handed it to Luz. “You can put this on the
ofrenda
at the house.”

Luz stuffed the plastic skeleton back into the bag. Her hands rolled up the paper, squeezing it tight.

High in the oyamel forests, when the sun goes down the butterflies rush to the trees to secure a safe place to roost for the cold night. The microclimate created by the thick forest protects them against drops in temperature. Loss of the surrounding buffer zone allows penetration into the core sanctuaries by wind, rain, and snow. This can be deadly to the monarchs.

T
he sky was black and a cold wind whistled through the trees. Inside their room, Mariposa and Luz dressed for the Day of the Dead celebration. Estella had lent them traditional shawls so they would blend in with the local people at this important festival. They'd eaten a simple meal and showered, and now felt refreshed. Mariposa was calm and seemingly back to her normal self, but Luz still sensed she was in a state of hyperawareness. Mariposa's eyes glittered as bright as the stars.

Before they'd left on this trip, Sam had taken Luz aside and asked her to keep an eye on Mariposa.

“She's still fragile,” he told her. “So much is happening all at once. She is not really ready for this trip.”

On this eve of the Day of the Dead celebration, Luz would present her
ofrenda
to the family. She knew the offerings she'd made for the box of ashes might be seen as childish, but Yadira had
explained to her how, when the family gathered together for the gravesite vigil, they each took turns sharing stories. Luz's intention was to tell the story of her journey to Angangueo. She'd practiced telling a story about each of the seemingly silly offerings and explaining how they represented important milestones of Abuela's journey home. She felt a glow of satisfaction as she imagined their faces while they listened, sometimes smiling at her humor, like when she told of the car breaking down, sometimes solemn, as when she related how she'd met her mother at Tía Maria's house in San Antonio. She also planned how, when she was finished, she would offer to them—her newfound family—the gift of the cardboard box holding Abuela's ashes.

Luz wanted to do it properly, with a quiet respect for tradition and decorum. She dressed in jeans and a plain black sweater and went to stand before the mirror hanging over the bureau. She carefully wound her long hair into the traditional, single braid of the women of the village. Next, she wrapped several ribbons of bright colors through the braid in a fashion Yadira had taught her. Finally, she wrapped herself in a heavy red-and-purple-striped wool shawl. She looked at her reflection and thought that if Abuela's spirit came home tonight, it would be pleased.

From out in the streets she heard the sound of guitars playing music in the distance. Voices and laughter signaled that the villagers were starting to gather for the celebration. The festival was beginning! Her heart skipped with excitement as she went to the wardrobe closet. The door was loose on the hinges and she was careful opening it. There was no light switch, so she reached up and let her hand search the top shelf for the box of ashes. She pushed back an extra pillow but the box was not where it had been. Concerned, she stretched up on tiptoe and, batting her
hand to reach the back wall, discovered that the box was gone.

Her heart began to beat in panic. Where could it be? She pushed back the few clothes hanging in the wardrobe and scanned the floor. She saw her black dress shoes, her backpack, Mariposa's boots, and a trash basket. A piece of bright paper, oddly familiar, caught her eye. She pulled the basket out from the closet and brought it into the light. She stared into it with uncomprehending eyes. There were the adornments that she and her friends had made for the
ofrenda,
tossed into the trash as nothing more than junk. How did they get there? she wondered. She reached in and pulled out one of the baby booties. The tiny bit of pink cotton was soft in her hand. Who would do this?

In an instant, she knew.

Her temper skyrocketed as she turned on her heel and went to the bedroom door. “Mariposa!” she called out.

Mariposa hurried in from the next room. She looked stunningly regal in a long, black skirt with a thick navy and black woven shawl wrapped around her shoulders and neck. She, too, had pulled her hair back into a traditional braid, but she refrained from using the bright ribbons of a young girl.

“Luz, what?” she asked, rushing in. “Is anything wrong?”

“Where are the ashes?” Luz demanded.

Mariposa's face froze. “What?” she said.

“The ashes! Abuela's ashes, where are they?”

Outside, the church bells began their somber tolling, calling the villagers to the cemetery. Mariposa clutched her hands together and looked to the window, distracted. When she faced Luz again, she'd regained some composure. “Why, we had to put them in the grave, of course,” she said emphatically. “That's where—”

“Who did? You?”

“Well, yes.”

“Why didn't you ask me?” Luz cried. “They were mine!”

Mariposa looked over her shoulder and silently closed the door. “Shhh . . . Luz, don't shout. You don't want the family to hear.”

Luz tightened her lips to keep herself from saying she didn't care who heard. She was too angry and hurt to care.

“It's all very simple,” Mariposa began. “There's nothing to be upset about. Manolo prepared the grave for the ashes and I simply put them into the grave for tonight's festivities. You were sleeping, Luz.”

Luz was furious. Mariposa admitted that she took the ashes and she wasn't the least bit sorry. “You could've woken me up! Those were my ashes to give!”

“Don't be ridiculous, Luz. They weren't
your
ashes. They belong to the family.”

“You tore off all the decorations! You threw them in the trash! How could you do that to me?”

Tía Estella called from downstairs in Spanish. “Come! We're leaving! The parade has begun. Hurry!”

“We'll talk about this later,” Mariposa said.

“I want to talk
now
.”

“Luz, please. We can't make the family late. Come along,” she said urgently. “We'll talk about this later.” Mariposa turned to open the door and with a final pleading glance at Luz, she hurried downstairs to join the family.

Luz looked at all the offerings that she and her friends had made for Abuela's
ofrenda
lying crumpled in her hands. In her mind she could see the smiling faces of Ofelia, Margaret, and Stacie, all singing out,
It's for Abuela!

“Luz!
¡Vámonos!
”

Luz grabbed her purse and stuffed the offerings into it. The music of the parade drew closer and she could hear the laughter and singing in the streets rise to a crescendo. Clenching her jaw and flicking off the light, Luz went down the stairs to join the festivities, her heart as cold as the night air.

A full moon illuminated the misty sky, and in the cemetery below, hundreds of candles, each a meter tall, mirrored its glowing countenance. The hazy smoke of the copal incense hung heavy in the foggy air, tasting of pine and blending with the fragrance of the flowers.

Luz sat alone near Abuela's headstone, wrapped in her heavy shawl. She keenly felt the sting of Mariposa's thoughtless betrayal. She seethed in silent anger as she stared out, huddled in the cold, at the flickering flames of the candles. As she breathed in the scents, she prayed to Abuela to come tonight.

The Zamora family clustered close around the family plot and passed hot
atole,
a sweet drink made with corn flour, to help warm them against the deepening cold of the night. The family slipped into roles with Manolo as the head of the family, Estella in a place of honor beside him, and to his left, Mariposa. The rest of the family, a dozen or more, found a comfortable place to sit around the grave. Everyone made exclamations at how beautiful the
ofrenda
was, congratulating Mariposa on creating such a magnificent tribute.

Mariposa basked in their approval, thanking them for welcoming her back home.

“You brought our mother home to us,” Manolo said with tears in his eyes. “She came home with the monarchs. Sister, we thank you for this.”

“It wasn't only me. Luz helped,” Mariposa told him, and she turned to Luz, smiling.

Helped?
Luz's hands squeezed the shawl tight around her. Mariposa came to sit beside her, carrying a glass of steaming
atole
for her to drink. She smiled at Luz, her eyes luminous in the candlelight.

Luz grabbed her purse and rose without a word. She moved to the opposite side of the grave, taking a place on the ground next to Yadira.

Mariposa, stricken, drew her shawl close around her neck and looked at the ground. Estella's sharp gaze missed nothing and she tilted her head questioningly when she met Luz's eye across the grave, but Luz merely looked away to stare at the flickering flame of a candle. Yadira earned her place as a kindred spirit when she draped her heavy shawl around both their shoulders and linked arms with Luz in sisterly camaraderie.

As midnight approached, the church bells began tolling, guiding the souls home. The candles flickered in the darkness, lighting their way. Luz looked around her as more candles were lit around the cemetery. Soon it looked like a fiery island in the darkness.

Manolo stood and the murmuring of family voices hushed as heads tilted to listen. In a sonorous voice that went from bass to tenor, Manolo recited what sounded to Luz to be an epic poem or a prayer. The family members closed their eyes as they listened, occasionally joining in to recite a refrain.

Luz leaned toward Yadira and whispered, “What is he saying? I can't understand any of the words.”

Yadira leaned her head closer. At that moment Luz felt that Yadira was her closest ally. “He is speaking Purépecha,” she explained. “He speaks about death . . . the mystery, the rebirth. It is a very old language. Many of us do not understand it, too. But Tío
Manolo, he is an elder of the village and he does. The language, it is kept alive because of people like him in Michoacán. They carry the history of our ancestors in their stories. We do not wish to lose our culture.”

When Tío Manolo finished his recitation, there was a long silence. He sat solemnly beside Estella, who patted his arm consolingly. Then the family began the feast. The men shared a bottle of
caña,
a potent alcohol made from sugarcane. The women in turn lifted the embroidered linen from the baskets of prepared food and shared the bread and tamales. With great ceremony, Estella offered the first plate of dinner to Esperanza and placed it on her grave.

“May you partake of the vitality of the food we offer you,” she prayed to Esperanza's soul.

While they ate and drank, the stories began about Abuela. A soft buzz of hushed voices created a hum throughout the cemetery. As she listened, Luz pieced together the early history of her grandmother and her life as a young girl, and later as the wife of her first husband, Luis, and the mother of his children, Manolo, Maria, and Luisa. Their lives, and those of the entire village, were changed forever when the mine closed. Luis joined other men to work in the United States for nine months of the year while Esperanza single-handedly raised their children while working in the family store. It was during that time that she lost her youngest and buried her in this same cemetery. Luis saved enough to bring his family to America but a year later died in a farm accident.

Luz listened to the stories and understood how her family could believe Abuela's spirit had returned to join them by the fire. Yet Luz knew a different Abuela. A woman who'd lived a whole other story after the chapters of this one had been closed. She'd married again, had a daughter and a granddaughter. If Luz learned
anything from the Day of the Dead ceremony, it was that life and death were part of one big cycle that repeated itself as the seasons repeated themselves, over and over.

Luz huddled under her shawl, feeling Yadira's warmth beside her, and longed to tell the story of her journey from Milwaukee to this moment, as she had intended. Her fingers touched the papers in her bag, but her heart wasn't in it. It didn't matter, she told herself. The story was written in her mind and in her heart.

After two in the morning most of the family members left to return home. Yadira hugged Luz and left her the blanket so she could keep warm. Only Manolo and Estella stayed with Mariposa and Luz. The voices in the cemetery hushed as the night grew bitterly cold. Luz wrapped the blanket tighter around her shoulders and huddled near a small brazier burner. Her lids grew heavy and at some point in the next hour she fell asleep.

She awoke to the sound of voices. Yawning, she opened her eyes to see dawn breaking as a dim gray light hung in the foggy mist. Around her she saw the silhouettes of women wrapped in shawls and men blanketed in their serapes rising and stretching, their faces weary. Somewhere in the distance a rooster crowed.

Estella came to Manolo's side. “Look, husband, the sun is rising. Your mother's spirit is leaving now, returning to her resting place. Now we must go to honor her at mass. Come.”