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Authors: Derek Palacio
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for good. Ma is barely afloat now, he thought to himself. And to hear Isabel say those things?
—
For the next three days, Ulises tried the park patrol each morning and night. Yet by the fourth morning Soledad and Henri still could not be reached, so he dressed in a new white oxford shirt and headed to the church to see his sister make her temporary vows, which, after some years, she would reaffirm as final vows.
Kneeling before the altar, Isabel swore herself to a life of poverty, chastity, and obedience. Then she swore herself to a life of silence. The archbishop looked down at Isabel and crossed one pasty hand over her face, pronouncing the verdict
in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.
She stood, and the archbishop placed a necklace, a cross on a chain, around her collar. Isabel bowed and faced the congregation as a willful mute. It was over.
Mortified, Ulises scrambled out of his pew, eyes fixed to the tiled floor so that he might not have to see his sister’s restrained smile. At the door, on the way out, he blessed himself with holy water from the font. He did so out of habit, but the water was too cold for summer, like frozen rain, and it reminded him of how he’d stopped doing that a long time ago. He cursed himself under his breath, angry at the fact that some routines dwell in the subconscious. He pushed through the doors of the vestibule out into the wet August heat, full of questions: Was his sister like him? Or was her unconscious aligned always with her outward movement? And why, he asked himself, did she want me to come?
Ulises was hurt, as if he’d been made to watch a loved one die. He wondered at Isabel’s future, how the world would change—if it did change—when a person could no longer make a noise in it. He tried to recall the pitch of her last words, the vows, but all he could muster was a vague impression of forced air. She had breathed her last words.
Ulises considered the conversation he, not his sister, would have to have with Soledad. He could not imagine telling her the news over the phone—he pictured her out there in the Grand Canyon, dust under her fingernails and caking her eyelids, bedraggled and perfumed in her own dried sweat after several days under the sun. He imagined Soledad alone, hearing of her daughter’s vows in the pine-smelling office of a park patrolman. Ulises saw his mother hanging up the phone and walking back out into the wilderness.
Then, for the first time, Ulises was terrified of being the messenger. When had he ever come to Soledad with good news? When had he ever brought her loving information? A stiff, happy wind in her sails? Maybe someday, maybe this coming day with this coming phone call, she would be unable to distinguish between her son and the collapse of her daughter. His voice would become synonymous with ruin.
—
At first, over the phone, Soledad ignored Ulises’s attempts to discuss the hard facts of Isabel’s vows. She spoke instead of an owl she and Henri had seen twice, across two consecutive days, stalking the riverbank for desert rats. The owl, she said, was an utterly noiseless bird; the rats made more sound drinking from the river. The owl took a snake on the second day, and I thought the creature would snap at the talons, she said, but the owl had his claws at exactly the right spot, just behind the skull and curled around the throat. I think they keep their prey alive until the final moment. They want a hot meal. I’ve never seen anything like it.
Your daughter, Ulises said—and the distance was necessary then—has taken a vow of silence. It’s a temporary vow, I think, and so it might not last, but for now she’s promised God not to say a word. She didn’t tell me ahead of time, or else I would have tried to stop her.
Soledad was silent for a minute. It would have been worthless, she said. Ulises could not tell if she meant his efforts would have been too little or if she meant Isabel’s will would have
—
For the next three days, Ulises tried the park patrol each morning and night. Yet by the fourth morning Soledad and Henri still could not be reached, so he dressed in a new white oxford shirt and headed to the church to see his sister make her temporary vows, which, after some years, she would reaffirm as final vows.
Kneeling before the altar, Isabel swore herself to a life of poverty, chastity, and obedience. Then she swore herself to a life of silence. The archbishop looked down at Isabel and crossed one pasty hand over her face, pronouncing the verdict
in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.
She stood, and the archbishop placed a necklace, a cross on a chain, around her collar. Isabel bowed and faced the congregation as a willful mute. It was over.
Mortified, Ulises scrambled out of his pew, eyes fixed to the tiled floor so that he might not have to see his sister’s restrained smile. At the door, on the way out, he blessed himself with holy water from the font. He did so out of habit, but the water was too cold for summer, like frozen rain, and it reminded him of how he’d stopped doing that a long time ago. He cursed himself under his breath, angry at the fact that some routines dwell in the subconscious. He pushed through the doors of the vestibule out into the wet August heat, full of questions: Was his sister like him? Or was her unconscious aligned always with her outward movement? And why, he asked himself, did she want me to come?
Ulises was hurt, as if he’d been made to watch a loved one die. He wondered at Isabel’s future, how the world would change—if it did change—when a person could no longer make a noise in it. He tried to recall the pitch of her last words, the vows, but all he could muster was a vague impression of forced air. She had breathed her last words.
Ulises considered the conversation he, not his sister, would have to have with Soledad. He could not imagine telling her the news over the phone—he pictured her out there in the Grand Canyon, dust under her fingernails and caking her eyelids, bedraggled and perfumed in her own dried sweat after several days under the sun. He imagined Soledad alone, hearing of her daughter’s vows in the pine-smelling office of a park patrolman. Ulises saw his mother hanging up the phone and walking back out into the wilderness.
Then, for the first time, Ulises was terrified of being the messenger. When had he ever come to Soledad with good news? When had he ever brought her loving information? A stiff, happy wind in her sails? Maybe someday, maybe this coming day with this coming phone call, she would be unable to distinguish between her son and the collapse of her daughter. His voice would become synonymous with ruin.
—
At first, over the phone, Soledad ignored Ulises’s attempts to discuss the hard facts of Isabel’s vows. She spoke instead of an owl she and Henri had seen twice, across two consecutive days, stalking the riverbank for desert rats. The owl, she said, was an utterly noiseless bird; the rats made more sound drinking from the river. The owl took a snake on the second day, and I thought the creature would snap at the talons, she said, but the owl had his claws at exactly the right spot, just behind the skull and curled around the throat. I think they keep their prey alive until the final moment. They want a hot meal. I’ve never seen anything like it.
Your daughter, Ulises said—and the distance was necessary then—has taken a vow of silence. It’s a temporary vow, I think, and so it might not last, but for now she’s promised God not to say a word. She didn’t tell me ahead of time, or else I would have tried to stop her.
Soledad was silent for a minute. It would have been worthless, she said. Ulises could not tell if she meant his efforts would have been too little or if she meant Isabel’s will would have
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