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Authors: Frances de Pontes Peebles
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despite the fact that after they were married, Sofia stayed near town while Zefinha moved to a farm farther up the mountain. Zefinha was plump and kind and every Sunday after church she fried cheese with cornmeal and let Luzia and Emília eat it straight from the pan, scraping out the last bits of cheese with their forks.
After lunch they sat on Zefinha’s porch. To ward away the bloodsucking gnats that flew under their skirts and around their faces, they rubbed a concoction of lemongrass and lard over their legs and arms and faces, making them shine like glass dolls. The two women sat in wooden chairs. Emília lolled in a hammock with Luzia. Her sister swung them impatiently back and forth with the tip of her toe. Emília leaned her chin off the side of the hammock and watched Zefinha’s youngest son straightening the shed near the side of the house. He rolled a worn bit of rope to make a perfect coil. His tan forearms bulged with each turn.
“Can we play?” Luzia asked. Emília sat up.
“Let them go,” Zefinha said. A large mosquito, its back legs long and curled up like whiskers, floated around her gray head.
Their aunt thought a minute. “Stay near the house. Don’t get your dresses dirty. Emília, watch your sister.”
Emília nodded, then chased after Luzia into the grove of banana trees behind Zefinha’s house. Their sandals crunched and sank into the dried palm fronds that littered the ground. The banana palms bobbed in the breeze, which, over time, had ripped their green fronds into ribbonlike slivers. Emília heard a donkey bay.
“Look!” Luzia said. In the distance was a mango tree, its branches heavy with fruit. A sagging wire fence separated Zefinha’s property from her neighbor’s. Luzia crawled under the fence, then held up the rusted wire for Emília. The neighbor’s land was crowded with spindly coffee trees. Luzia pulled leaves from their branches as she ran toward the mango tree.
Emília followed her sister’s example. She grasped a low branch and hoisted herself into the tree. Her sandals slipped on the trunk. Emília held tightly to a nearby branch and scrambled up. The bark scraped her palms. Across from her, Luzia balanced on a high limb. She reached into the boughs above her and ripped down two ripe mangoes. Cradling the fruits in the skirt of her dress, Luzia carefully sat. She produced a small knife from her pocket. It had been a present from their father, who, during one of his strange visits had shown up at Sofia’s house with bloodshot eyes and breath smelling of sugarcane liquor. Emília had paid him little attention. He’d patted his pockets for something to give them and pulled out his penknife. In his days as a beekeeper, he’d used the knife to slice wax and to scrape propolis, so it had a stubby and sharp blade. On its handle he’d carved the image of a bee. Luzia kept the knife, hiding it from her aunt and carrying it always in her dress pocket or school satchel.
Luzia cut holes into the mangoes’ tops. She handed one to Emília. They sucked out the fruits’ insides, smashing the soft mounds between their fingers like bread dough. When they finished, Luzia threw down her flaccid fruit. She lifted her skirt. Slowly, she untied the drawstring of her knee-length knickers and shifted from side to side on the tree branch, pushing her underpants around her ankles. Then, Luzia gripped the branch above her. She leaned her body back. Emília saw a neat streak of liquid fall from between her sister’s legs and onto the ground below. It bubbled into the orange earth.
“Do it, Mília,” Luzia said. “I dare you.”
Emília could not bring herself to do such a thing. She could not take her underpants off in front of her little sister, embarrassed by the curling black hairs that had begun to grow on that part of her body. She heard a rustling in the coffee trees—saw the leaves ripple in waves.
“Someone’s coming!” Emília hissed.
Luzia rushed to pull up her
After lunch they sat on Zefinha’s porch. To ward away the bloodsucking gnats that flew under their skirts and around their faces, they rubbed a concoction of lemongrass and lard over their legs and arms and faces, making them shine like glass dolls. The two women sat in wooden chairs. Emília lolled in a hammock with Luzia. Her sister swung them impatiently back and forth with the tip of her toe. Emília leaned her chin off the side of the hammock and watched Zefinha’s youngest son straightening the shed near the side of the house. He rolled a worn bit of rope to make a perfect coil. His tan forearms bulged with each turn.
“Can we play?” Luzia asked. Emília sat up.
“Let them go,” Zefinha said. A large mosquito, its back legs long and curled up like whiskers, floated around her gray head.
Their aunt thought a minute. “Stay near the house. Don’t get your dresses dirty. Emília, watch your sister.”
Emília nodded, then chased after Luzia into the grove of banana trees behind Zefinha’s house. Their sandals crunched and sank into the dried palm fronds that littered the ground. The banana palms bobbed in the breeze, which, over time, had ripped their green fronds into ribbonlike slivers. Emília heard a donkey bay.
“Look!” Luzia said. In the distance was a mango tree, its branches heavy with fruit. A sagging wire fence separated Zefinha’s property from her neighbor’s. Luzia crawled under the fence, then held up the rusted wire for Emília. The neighbor’s land was crowded with spindly coffee trees. Luzia pulled leaves from their branches as she ran toward the mango tree.
Emília followed her sister’s example. She grasped a low branch and hoisted herself into the tree. Her sandals slipped on the trunk. Emília held tightly to a nearby branch and scrambled up. The bark scraped her palms. Across from her, Luzia balanced on a high limb. She reached into the boughs above her and ripped down two ripe mangoes. Cradling the fruits in the skirt of her dress, Luzia carefully sat. She produced a small knife from her pocket. It had been a present from their father, who, during one of his strange visits had shown up at Sofia’s house with bloodshot eyes and breath smelling of sugarcane liquor. Emília had paid him little attention. He’d patted his pockets for something to give them and pulled out his penknife. In his days as a beekeeper, he’d used the knife to slice wax and to scrape propolis, so it had a stubby and sharp blade. On its handle he’d carved the image of a bee. Luzia kept the knife, hiding it from her aunt and carrying it always in her dress pocket or school satchel.
Luzia cut holes into the mangoes’ tops. She handed one to Emília. They sucked out the fruits’ insides, smashing the soft mounds between their fingers like bread dough. When they finished, Luzia threw down her flaccid fruit. She lifted her skirt. Slowly, she untied the drawstring of her knee-length knickers and shifted from side to side on the tree branch, pushing her underpants around her ankles. Then, Luzia gripped the branch above her. She leaned her body back. Emília saw a neat streak of liquid fall from between her sister’s legs and onto the ground below. It bubbled into the orange earth.
“Do it, Mília,” Luzia said. “I dare you.”
Emília could not bring herself to do such a thing. She could not take her underpants off in front of her little sister, embarrassed by the curling black hairs that had begun to grow on that part of her body. She heard a rustling in the coffee trees—saw the leaves ripple in waves.
“Someone’s coming!” Emília hissed.
Luzia rushed to pull up her
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