Wives and Goats

Two goats and a three-legged sheep dog. That is my sister’s final worth – or rather, all my family can afford to give a man who we expect will bring nothing but disgrace to our name. Masi, the dog, is our most prized possession – the family’s favorite child. One day, she came hobbling through the tall grass, up to my abulita as she was hanging my father’s shirts out in the back garden. Since that day, she has been my abulita’s constant companion, and it seems impossible that her loyalties could shift as a result of being part of a dowry. I can imagine her howling, tugging at her chain, sorrowful and lost.

The groom, Humberto’s reputation as a man whose reason is tarnished by the spirits is well-established. I still see him, hauling a cart full of squash to the marketplace early one morning, pausing every few moments to take swigs from a large flask at his hip. Some furtive movement causes his donkey to startle and lurch backwards. Humberto looks bewildered for half a second, but wastes no time in drawing his whip. And without any regard for the crowds beginning to gather at the vegetable stalls outside the tented marketplace, he lashes the donkey over and over. Raising the whip high, he brings it down with a harsh crack on the donkey’s skull until the poor shrieking beast crumples to the ground, blood gushing through its bristly mane. With wild eyes staring off into the distance and spirits on his breath, Humberto unsteadily dismounts.  He reaches for the brim of his straw hat and with a small flourish, tips his hat off to us, revealing a ruddy face. Fat lips pursed in a tight line, he walks off, leaving the beast to draw its last breaths with the sun beating down on a growing pool of red and flies humming in its still-twitching ears.

I sit now, waiting for the church bells to chime high noon. At this point, Cousin Renaldo will come to lead me, along with the rest of the wedding party, to the church, where we will stand at the whitewashed stairs awaiting the arrival of our sister, veiled and humbled.  The room is stiflingly hot and the rays of sun dancing on my back from the window behind do not help. I can feel Mariana’s knobby knees through her crinoline dress, as she rocks herself back and forth. She is muttering the rosary under her breath, and I think to myself that if the Virgin Mary has been absent for so long, it is unlikely that she will swoop in now and decide to intercede. Cousin Monica and my younger sister, Beatriz, take long audible draws from their cigarettes, punctuated by occasional coughs. Our abulita took us aside this morning and firmly pressed the cigarettes into our palms, informing us in a hoarse whisper that she had removed the supply that my father carefully guards in the front pocket of his overalls. She tells us this is something to soothe the nerves, and in this small, covert gesture she makes us co-conspirators to her unease.

Jose lurks in the doorway, unsure of whether to cross into a territory that is so clearly the realm of females. He fumbles with his camera, fat fingers focused on teasing out a length of film, shakily guiding its delicate edges into place. I see his weight shift and sag against the doorframe. Dark pools of sweat spill out from under his armpits, seeping beneath his suspenders, creeping across his chest. He smells faintly of cigars, which I distinguish even through the sharper and more immediate smell of the cigarettes. I hear him panting in the heavy silence. Each breath is laborious, and the large round mole above the corner of his mouth protrudes out and recedes rhythmically, so he resembles a bloated poisonous toad preparing itself for battle. We do not want our picture taken and that much is clear. We do not want for this moment, captured on film, to toss a noose around us and in its vice-like grip, anchor us to a singular, bleak reality. Instead, we want for this day to fade, raw edges rendered smooth, gracefully receding, as lights in the theater before a show.