Read Online The Hummingbird's Daughter by Luis Alberto Urrea - Free Book Online
Authors: Luis Alberto Urrea
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she wasn’t allowed to steal squash from the gardens, nobody cared if she stuffed her mouth with yellow petals. They’d laugh and say she looked like a deer.
Tía had stopped waiting for word from Cayetana long ago, and she had even abandoned her hope that one day a letter might come with money in it. That little whore! She had left this half-breed bitch in her house and hadn’t had the decency to leave a pound of beans or a chicken. Nothing. What was she supposed to do, boil rocks?
Teresita peeked in the door to find Tía stirring a pot. Tía studied the ash clinging to her cigarette, and tapped it onto her tongue.
Ssss!
“What do you want?” she said.
“Is that the iguana?” Teresa asked.
“What the devil do you think it is, you idiot? Did you see any other food here? Did you think I’d murdered my own children to make stew to feed you?”
“No, Tía.”
“No, Tía.”
“Am I an Indian?”
“We are the People.”
“But what am I?”
“A little pig that eats too much.”
“Tía . . .”
“Don’t bother me with stupidity. What am I, what am I! What kind of ridiculous question is that?”
“I just want to know, Tía.”
“If you’re so curious, go ask your good friend Huila! Can’t you see I’m busy?”
Ssss!
“Does it taste good, Tía? The cigarette?”
Tía studied the crooked cigarette and smiled.
“This mierda is the only good thing in my life,” she said.
Teresita had learned to put her body to sleep at night. Her smacks and bruises ached when she lay down—Tía liked to spank, and she wasn’t shy about using the wooden spoon. Teresita had to take charge of the uproarious parts of herself too naughty to be quiet at bedtime. Each night, Teresita would concentrate first on her feet, tired and sore from walking on rocks and hot dirt all day. She would order them:
Feet, go to sleep.
Feet were the least of her problems—you can always get your feet to sleep. She could feel the golden glow come over her toes and spread to her heels, and the pain would be replaced by the soft tingle of sleep. Once the feet were becalmed, she could bring the glow up her legs, smoothing it like cream over her sore spots.
Legs, go to sleep.
And the legs, too, would sleep.
Hips, belly, go to sleep.
And now the glow was inside her, warm as a full meal, heavy in her gut, and it throbbed a little with her heartbeat. She would go this way up herself and down her arms. It was the hands that caused the most trouble, those bad twins, always inciting each other to misbehave. She would have to be cross with them, scold them a little to get them to stop fidgeting and plucking and scratching.
Hands! I told you, get to sleep!
The hands were such a task that she fell asleep soon after, tired and happily numb.
On the day when Teresita set out to discover who she was, she by chance went to the same fruit tree her own mother had once leaned against. Teresita’s hands went to the spots below where Cayetana had first gripped the trunk, and she looked out at the same corral, where Tomás was perched atop the same rail with the same vaqueros. Segundo was breaking a nasty little bronco, and the boys were laughing and shouting and waving their hats at the horse when it got too close to the fence. Above Teresita’s head, furious cicadas assaulted the high branches of the fruit tree, fondling its fuzzy globes.
The next development of the day announced itself with a hiss.
“Psssst!”
At first, she thought Tía had discovered her and was eating a cigar. She glanced over—a gray cowboy-hat crown appeared over the edge of the watering trough. It looked as if the hat was floating along by itself, or being held aloft by a ghost.
“Hey!” the hat said.
“What!”
A freckled face atop a gangly neck appeared beneath the hat, now revealed to be ridiculously huge on the boy’s head. It looked to Teresa as if his jug ears were the only things keeping the hat from falling to his chin.
The boy nodded at her once, then cut
Tía had stopped waiting for word from Cayetana long ago, and she had even abandoned her hope that one day a letter might come with money in it. That little whore! She had left this half-breed bitch in her house and hadn’t had the decency to leave a pound of beans or a chicken. Nothing. What was she supposed to do, boil rocks?
Teresita peeked in the door to find Tía stirring a pot. Tía studied the ash clinging to her cigarette, and tapped it onto her tongue.
Ssss!
“What do you want?” she said.
“Is that the iguana?” Teresa asked.
“What the devil do you think it is, you idiot? Did you see any other food here? Did you think I’d murdered my own children to make stew to feed you?”
“No, Tía.”
“No, Tía.”
“Am I an Indian?”
“We are the People.”
“But what am I?”
“A little pig that eats too much.”
“Tía . . .”
“Don’t bother me with stupidity. What am I, what am I! What kind of ridiculous question is that?”
“I just want to know, Tía.”
“If you’re so curious, go ask your good friend Huila! Can’t you see I’m busy?”
Ssss!
“Does it taste good, Tía? The cigarette?”
Tía studied the crooked cigarette and smiled.
“This mierda is the only good thing in my life,” she said.
Teresita had learned to put her body to sleep at night. Her smacks and bruises ached when she lay down—Tía liked to spank, and she wasn’t shy about using the wooden spoon. Teresita had to take charge of the uproarious parts of herself too naughty to be quiet at bedtime. Each night, Teresita would concentrate first on her feet, tired and sore from walking on rocks and hot dirt all day. She would order them:
Feet, go to sleep.
Feet were the least of her problems—you can always get your feet to sleep. She could feel the golden glow come over her toes and spread to her heels, and the pain would be replaced by the soft tingle of sleep. Once the feet were becalmed, she could bring the glow up her legs, smoothing it like cream over her sore spots.
Legs, go to sleep.
And the legs, too, would sleep.
Hips, belly, go to sleep.
And now the glow was inside her, warm as a full meal, heavy in her gut, and it throbbed a little with her heartbeat. She would go this way up herself and down her arms. It was the hands that caused the most trouble, those bad twins, always inciting each other to misbehave. She would have to be cross with them, scold them a little to get them to stop fidgeting and plucking and scratching.
Hands! I told you, get to sleep!
The hands were such a task that she fell asleep soon after, tired and happily numb.
On the day when Teresita set out to discover who she was, she by chance went to the same fruit tree her own mother had once leaned against. Teresita’s hands went to the spots below where Cayetana had first gripped the trunk, and she looked out at the same corral, where Tomás was perched atop the same rail with the same vaqueros. Segundo was breaking a nasty little bronco, and the boys were laughing and shouting and waving their hats at the horse when it got too close to the fence. Above Teresita’s head, furious cicadas assaulted the high branches of the fruit tree, fondling its fuzzy globes.
The next development of the day announced itself with a hiss.
“Psssst!”
At first, she thought Tía had discovered her and was eating a cigar. She glanced over—a gray cowboy-hat crown appeared over the edge of the watering trough. It looked as if the hat was floating along by itself, or being held aloft by a ghost.
“Hey!” the hat said.
“What!”
A freckled face atop a gangly neck appeared beneath the hat, now revealed to be ridiculously huge on the boy’s head. It looked to Teresa as if his jug ears were the only things keeping the hat from falling to his chin.
The boy nodded at her once, then cut
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