She was a beautiful girl who any man would have loved with his whole heart, except this man. This man made excuses about love; he pushed her way at the slightest sign of trouble. This was something she could not accustom herself to. She had always been the type of woman who made men lose their minds. She could make any man forget another woman's name. But now she feared she was losing her mind; this man would break her. She tried to give love unconditionally, but he was resistant. She tried to make him see that her heart was pure, that she would give anything for his happiness. But this man could not see anything past himself. What hurt the most was his selfishness; his lack of thought about her feelings. This was part of his lure, she supposed. She had to work for his affection. She had to convince him about her way of looking at life. How she could get this man to see that the point of life was unconditional love? She believed that once you managed to love someone unconditionally, sincerely, that your purpose in life would be fulfilled and you would likely die. She had figured this out and had spent the first quarter of her life spreading this knowledge to the men she met along the way. Once they saw what she saw, she would go on her way. Sure, she had broken at least three hearts that she knew of, but those men now understood that life was about unconditional love. And they would pass that message on, spending their lives trying to achieve it. But now she was working on him, this man, whose heart had long ago been sealed in a brick tower. She was patient, chipping away at the mortar, loosening each brick slowly, climbing the wall that after years had very few missing bricks. One day, she believed she would make it to the top of that tower. She would climb inside and find her Prince Charming, waiting for her with his dark lustrous hair and sparkling white smile. It was her modern day fairy tale. He would embrace her and love her in a way that only existed in fables.

But this task proved to be daunting. She was tired and alone. She had her heart broken by him at least fifteen times; none of which he was aware. By now he had confused her; he had clouded her judgment. She was no longer sure what her purpose was. Had she fallen in love with this man? Was he the one that had finally taught her what it meant to love unconditionally? Or was she just stubborn? Not giving up on the one man who she had not been able to break.

Her heart ached. She was always on the verge of tears. If he's taught me anything, it's how to be kind, she thought. And at least she had that. He was the only man whose needs she had ever put above her own.

But she was forced to wonder whatever she saw in this man who seemed to care for her very little. Her Prince Charming injected steroids to make him strong. He watched pornography to make him passionate. He took pills to make him energetic. He had his hair plucked and quaffed to make him beautiful. He lusted after all women. And she realized that she would never ever be enough for him. He would never love her unconditionally. She was invisible to him it seemed. She was not the one that could break his heart. He said so many things to her, but no words ever matched his actions. She had come to know him as a chunk of silence, a phone that never rang. The only way she could win was to give up on him, stop playing his game.

Epifanio


He looked at the bathroom floor covered in his hair. His black hair was paint, meticulously trickled over the canvas of white porcelain tiles. It fell in curious patterns, taking on the shape of barren branches in an autumn park. There were even certain spots where his hair seemed to be spelling out words. Old or die, he swore they were for him. Epifanio fell to his knees and scooped up the all the hair with his hands. He held onto it for a few moments. It was just more of his life that he had to let go. They were not just dead cells, but pieces of himself, pieces of his past. Each strand of hair had a memory. He held at least thirty of them now that he had to let go. He threw each strand in the wastebasket. The first few were the easiest; they were memories of his first day of school, falling in the mud or laughing with his childhood friends. He even let go the one of his parents taking his dog out to get shot. They said he had rabies. There were others, too, that he could let go, but not the last one. The last one was of his wife, the way she looked the day he first saw her. The wind ran its fingers through her hair. Sunlight followed her wherever she walked. Her eyes were pools of summer sun showers. It was as if the elements had decided that she was the only reason to exist. She was wrapped in a red knit scarf that nearly reached the ground. She walked with a sense of purpose, as if there was someone's life depending on her arrival. This memory he would not let go. He took this last strand of hair and put it in his pant pocket.

Epifanio got up off the floor. His pants were wrinkled now, too. He tried to smooth them over with the palm of his hand. He leaned over the sink and into the mirror. He studied each wrinkle in his skin. Every line and mark he had earned. Each wrinkle was a trail that marked where he had been. He had gotten in fights and had battled a bull. He had the chicken pox and had broken his nose. He had been in love and had each wound kissed. And though his face had history, he would have traded it all for youth. There was an old man in the mirror whom he did not recognize. This face did not belong to him; it was his father’s. Gone was the young man with the Hollywood looks who had the world firmly under his feet. This is all he had left; leather skin, calloused hands and a receding hair line. His life was made up of cells that were either too old or entirely abandoning him. He turned on the water and washed his hands with a small piece of soap that was left on the sink. He dug the dirt out from underneath each fingernail. The soap turned a deep brown and he rubbed it in his hands until it nearly disappeared. He ran his hands underneath the hot water until it ran clear. He dried his hands with a small yellow towel he had gotten from his parents for his wedding. The towel was worn and had a couple of holes in it now; it too had once been youthful.

Epifanio turned off the light and walked into the bedroom quietly; he was careful to not wake his wife. She fell asleep with her makeup on; her lips were dark red and her eyelids shimmered. Her hair was still black as coal; her skin was like freshly fallen snow. She looked like the maiden in a fairy tale. She was always the most beautiful woman in the room. After forty years, she still made his heart beat a little faster. How could he explain to anyone that since the moment he laid eyes on her, there was not one thought he had that did not conclude with her? There were nights he would wake up and sit in his rocking chair just to look at her. There were nights he would wander from the house and walk through the farm barefoot wondering how he would ever survive without her. He knelt by the bed beside her and concentrated on breathing in unison with her. He inhaled each one of her breaths. He took her unmoving hand and held it to his heart. He would never sleep if it meant it could always be this way. He gently kissed her hand before tucking it under the covers.

Epifanio began undressing slowly. He placed his trousers and shirt on the arm chair near the bed. He folded each item meticulously before placing it down. He walked around to the other side of the bed. He lay flat on his back and covered himself with the sheets. For a long time he stared at the ceiling, concentrating on a small crack he noticed. He supposed he would have to fix that before it got any worse. He couldn’t afford to have a leak in the house. Perhaps his son would be able to help him. He was too frail and old to do the job on his own anymore. Asking for help was humiliating. He hated to burden anyone. His entire life he had done everything on his own. He had never been particularly tall or muscular, but he was strong and determined. Everything he had he worked for and obtained on his own. He built his home, his farm. He had a wife and family that he solely provided for. But as time passed he was able to do less and less. His family needed him a little less with each passing day. This knowledge was heartbreaking. Epifanio's eyelids became heavier and heavier and he eventually drifted to sleep.


He awoke the next morning to breakfast in bed. Josephine had brought him a fresh cup of coffee along with some buttered white toast and two eggs sunny side up. He waved the breakfast aside and pulled her onto his lap for a morning kiss. Josephine ran her fingers through what was left of his salt and pepper hair. She gently kissed his forehead and then his eyelids.
"You have to eat something today, Fanio. You have eaten very little over the last few weeks. You look so frail. We can't have the both of us ill."
He placed his index finger over her lips. "I haven't had much of an appetite lately. I will eat when I am hungry, I promise."
Epifanio had made a deal with God. If his wife got better, then he would eat. He could not control her cancer, her chemotherapy, her loss of appetite, but he could certainly control his body. He figured he could suffer so she wouldn't have to; the universe would be in balance. So far, it hadn't worked. The doctors had told him Josephine was getting sicker. But he knew that miracles happened and he would never give up on her. He vowed to never give up on her.

The fact was he physically could not eat. It was something that his wife could not understand. His stomach would not allow him to eat. There was this undiscovered universe in the pit of his stomach, a few planets and black holes, constellations but mostly open space. It was so vast, he could barely breathe. Or it was the feeling he was out at sea, lost with no land in sight. The waters were not navigable; he was on a small rowboat that was about to capsize. There was nothing only saltwater, sun and the limitless feeling that he would never again see another soul. Or perhaps the world was on a carousel and he was the child waiting for the ride to stop. Except this carousel went too fast and all that was on this ride was a blur to him. Peoples faces were distorted, the horses looked like creatures from a horror movie. His heart beat too loud and fast, it swelled in his ears. But these feelings passed and after a while everything slowly came to a halt right before him. Every time he found his way right back to his wife.

There she was, holding his face in her hands, with a smile that he would have given his life to see. "Fanio, what are you thinking about; you seem a universe away."
"Amor, only how much more beautiful you get with each passing day."
She kissed him once again before leaving the room to get started on her chores.

Josephine liked to clean the house every morning. She dusted, swept, mopped, cleaned the kitchen and bathroom with bleach and fed the animals by 10:30am. She then started lunch which was always ready for Fanio by noon. Her afternoon was spent washing dishes and preparing dinner. In the evening, she would sit on the porch and watch the sun go down from her rocking chair. Sometimes the children would come by for dinner on weekdays, but mostly she and Fanio ate alone. Josephine was content at home. She enjoyed taking care of her home and her husband. She loved being a wife and a mother. Her children were grown now, and though she missed them terribly, she loved having grandchildren. Each time a child was born it was a new chance at life. Weekends were consumed with family. All six of her children, their spouses and her 14 grandchildren congregated at her home. Each one would bring over a different dish and they would eat out back in the yard. The children chased the chickens or fed their unwanted food to the pigs. Everyone spoke loudly and out of turn. They teased one another and laughed. They ate and drank and talked until the sun went down. Some may have seen it as chaotic, but Josephine never felt more at peace. She never wanted it any other way.

Fanio watched his wife walk out of the bedroom. He got up and closed the door behind her. He took his plate and tossed the eggs and toast out the window. He was sure the animals would find the discarded food. He took a quick shower and shaved, got dressed and went into the kitchen with an empty plate in hand. He snuck up behind his wife and embraced her, slipping the plate into the sink. "Thanks sweetie, it was delicious."
She turned toward him, "You see, you look better already. You got some of the color back in your face."
"Yes, all thanks to you." They heard the front door open. "That must be George. I called him this morning to help me fix the roof."

George opened the front door which was always unlocked. He walked into the house unannounced. George was the spitting image of his father. He was Fanio thirty years ago. Everything from his looks, to the way his shoulders hunched over, to the way he drank his coffee was identical to Fanio. George lived in New York now but would come every summer to spend time with his parents. He was his father's favorite, although no one would outwardly say it. But Fanio's eyes sparkled when George entered the room. The two told one another everything; they respected and admired one another. Their relationship was the textbook example of unconditional love. They never needed any explanations or apologies, they never needed to ask for help or say I love you. They just knew exactly what they were to one another and their bond could not be weakened by an ocean or a calendar. "Are you ready yet, Papi or do I have time to drink some coffee?"

"I'm ready Georgie; the coffee will just have to wait until lunch time. You should've gotten here earlier, your mother made a great breakfast."

"That's ok, I ate. Marta made an omelet this morning. How are you feeling, ma? You look tired."

"I am a bit tired, I may lay down for a bit after I finish the dishes. Is Marta coming by for lunch?"

"Yeah she should be here soon to help cook, she was getting Milena dressed."

George and Fanio left Josephine to the dishes. They went to the shed and grabbed the toolbox and the ladder. They climbed to the top of the house and sat on the flat roof. Fanio opened the toolbox and took out two cold beers. He tossed one to George. This was their routine now. There was no leak. There never had been. This was their excuse to catch up with one another. Fanio was sure his wife had caught on by now. He'd been using that crack in the bedroom ceiling as an excuse for two years now.

George saw Martha arrive with their daughter. He waved to them, making sure to conceal his beer. Milena enthusiastically waved back. Fanio waved at his granddaughter. She was such a beautiful little girl. He was proud of his family; his eyes began to water.

"George, I have to tell you, take it all in: your wife, your daughter, your life right now. Time changes everything. It's something I can never get used to. Like how time stands still for anxiety or hope but is passes too quickly for beauty, ecstasy and laughter. There are moments when you realize that this is the best feeling you have ever had- the best thing you have ever seen- the most peace attainable- and yet the next day comes. And just like that it is gone. The next day is mundane. The next day holds no value. So you wait for the day after that or next month or year when something really worth living for will happen. There are days you feel like hiding in your bed, wrapped up in your sheets. Those days tomorrow is your savior. Then we are grateful for time. Then time is something with which we save face. There is always something you must do to make better use of your time. Something to do in preparation for time, or to save time, or to have more time. Time must pass for growth, maturity and financial stability. Time must pass for wisdom, pain and to forget. Time never stands still for those things we truly value in life. Time mocks love, family, friendships. Time is an enemy at best and yet your best friend. It has a way of giving you exactly what you have always dreamed of, then taking it right from under you. When you truly want something, you must wait for it, and time goes by too slowly. When you are enjoying yourself and wish for nothing to ever change, time passes too quickly. When you are young and have the health and energy to enjoy life, there is not enough time. Then you are old and have all this free time but your health and your body have been ravaged by time; you cannot enjoy things the way you once did. And during all this time all you can wonder is how much time will you have left. I use to think the older I got the wiser and more accepting I would become of all of this, but it's just not happening for me. I am old. Your mother is ill. My life no longer needs me. You understand?"

"Papi, where is this all coming from? I hate to hear you talk like that. You sound like you have given up, and you have never been a quitter. You are not old. You have a long time left on this earth. I won't accept it any other day. And Mami will get better, I just know it. You are just worried about her and you feel helpless because you cannot control her illness, you cannot control her cure. Some things you must leave in the hands of God. Have a little faith, Papi, and everything will be as it should be."

Fanio could see that his son was still too young to understand. It was the same response he might have given himself thirty years ago. He would go no further. "Yes you are probably right," he quickly changed the subject, "I am thinking of adding a second story to the house. That way you and Martha could stay here with us instead of at your brother's. What do you think?"

"I think it's a great idea. It will take some time, though. But you can count on me to help."

Just then they heard the back door slam open. Martha ran out and yelled while Milena came crying behind her.
"George, Fanio, come quickly! Josephine collapsed."



Epifanio walked into his home; it was like walking onto the empty set of his favorite TV show. He knew and didn't know every piece of furniture, every knick knack, every chipped tile or creak in the floor. He walked into the bedroom and fell into his once favorite armchair. He felt as if he had woken up alone after a favorite dream. He looked around at his wife's things. Everything that she had touched was beautiful. Her clothes, her toiletries, even the smallest piece of jewelry. He tried to concentrate on her face, but all he could hear was the voice of the doctor filling the room. Terminal, blood count, a few days; these words were handpicked and arranged in ways that gave new meaning to them. These words would forever change his life. He had not wanted to leave his wife in the hospital, but his children insisted he go home to rest, as if that were even possible now. He had been at the hospital for three days straight, without much sleep, without much food. While he was there, there was no other place he could have imagined himself. But away from the hospital, away from the sounds of synthetic heartbeats and the smell of desperation sterilized, Epifanio could pretend everything was as it had once been. He could smell the oversized pot of chicken and rice cooking while his wife sang off key ballads. He could see his children feeding the pigs out back. He could look in the mirror and return to the face that still had years of hope. But today the house was dark and silent. There was as little sign of life in his home as there was in his wife. He fell out of his chair and onto his knees. Though he tried, he could not weep. He had to be strong. He would be with his wife soon. Yet he would not return to the hospital again. Memories of his life with her would remain intact if he did not go back. He could picture their life together as it had always been. He could stay in his house forever; he could keep his beautiful wife and children in his heart as he wanted them. No one would grow older or get ill. He could control everything the way he wanted.

Epifanio got up and looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot; he had dark circles under his eyes that looked as if they had been drawn on with charcoal. He ran his hands over what was left of his hair to smooth it over. His cheeks were sunken into his skull. You could see every bone that ran through his body. He was hollow; he was a skeleton. Epifanio impassively walked to the tool shed and toward the old wooden chest of drawers. His fingers lingered over the rusty handle on the last drawer; he used both hands to slide the drawer open. The blood flowed to his face; he could feel his ears and cheeks getting warm. It was as if he was opening a secret. If he was quiet, no one would find out what he was up to. He felt like a teenager trying to access his pornographic magazine collection. He was ashamed. He knew exactly what he was looking for; he'd bought it just a few weeks ago and put it away himself. He took the manila rope out of the drawer and held it in his hands, running his fingers up and down the braiding. At the time he bought it, he had only half known its purpose. He held one end of the rope in his left hand and the other end in his right hand. He formed a loop, letting it hang downward. He twisted the rope around itself. He had learned to tie this kind of knot from his father. They used it for hanging angles to fish lines. Once the noose was formed, he threw the rope over one of the ceiling beams. He walked over to the step ladder; it was the one his wife used for hanging curtains or pictures. He positioned it under the rope and climbed to the last step. Once atop the ladder he fastened the loose end of the rope to the beam. He fussed with the noose for a while until he felt it was just right. Epifanio slipped his neck into the noose. By now he was sweating. His shirt clung to him; his thinning hair was soaked and matted. He had a few images in his mind: his wife in her negligee on the night of their wedding, the faces of his children and grandchildren and the feeling of the warm sand beneath his feet. Epifanio pulled the single strand of hair that he had been saving out of his pant pocket. This would be his last memory. He closed his eyes and his hands closed into fists at his sides. He clenched his fists, clinging to the strand of hair as tightly as he could. His heart beat faster; it was the only sound he could hear. This was his time, the time he chose. Everything would remain as he wanted. He would not watch his wife die or his children get old. He would not let himself grow any weaker. He would not grow old alone only to die at the whim of a God he had long ago lost faith in.
Epifanio took a step off the chair. This was the end of everything. He would be fifty-five forever.

Las Muchachitas
A myth is a story so profoundly true that particular details do not matter all that much.

1
It was that godforsaken cowlick that got her into the hospital in the first place. If only it would sit straight, I could get out of this place. That unruly piece of hair was never obedient; some nights it was all she could think about. She imagined that she was some sort of receptor to beings from another dimension and that the hair was an antenna. Cecilia was getting sick of it; she didn’t want to be remembered as a satellite dish. She had enough with Mr. Johnson always stealing her socks and Mrs. Rivas attempting to kickbox with her at dinnertime. Cecilia got up from the table; she was tired of eating grilled cheese for lunch. She tied her robe a little tighter, digging into her skin, that nurse never left the creases in her stomach like she wanted. Otherwise, how would she keep her robe on? Her insides could easily slip out for others to see.
“I have three very beautiful girls. At night, sometimes we have to disconnect the phone. There are so many men that my girls just can’t make a decision.” About a dozen times daily you could hear Pearl tell the story about her three beautiful girls. Every time the nurse brought her out of the room and into the common area, that was all she would say. Cecilia always had ways of making her shut up, at least for a little while. Sometimes she would listen, but mostly she had a good time toying with Pearl. This time, she walked over to Pearl, small plastic cup in hand, and asked her to piss in it. That ought to shut her up. Cecilia walked away, thoroughly impressed by her ingenuity. She walked to the recliner and sat there, staring at her pink fuzzy slippers. She watched the bunnies dance for a while until Pearl returned, cup in hand, full of urine. “Here you go, nurse, I didn’t realize it was time for my urine sample. It took me a while, but all I had to do was run the water and sing songs about water, and poof, just like that. A cup full of urine, yours for the taking.” Cecilia had to laugh. Here she was wearing a pink chenille robe and fuzzy bunny slippers and this woman actually believed she was a nurse. Pearl believed that anyone who had her urine was automatically obliged to hear about her life. Cecilia’s bunnies suggested she listen—it was only fair – she had the woman’s urine in her hand. Cecilia agreed; she didn’t want the bunnies tripping her like they did last week.
“Well, you see, I have three very beautiful daughters. Everyone calls them las muchachitas—the young girls. Wherever they go, whatever they do, they are one entity. If it’s one thing I taught them, it was to never leave each other’s side. Lucinda, she’s the oldest; well she’s the one who has all the men after her. She has a way about her, you know, a certain sway in her walk. She drives all the men crazy. I like to think it’s the very light of her name that shines through her and onto others. She’s a handful, though. Beauty always comes at a price, but she always managed to take care of us. Her gentlemen callers always graced us with such fabulous gifts. Oh and Esperanza, she is so kind and sincere. She takes care of everyone, always cleaning the house and cooking up meals. Then there’s Candida; she is so naive about life, but she sees the good in everyone and she can read you. She can look into you and know what you are thinking. She gets that from me; I’ve always been pretty sharp. They should be here soon, then you’ll see for yourself. I thought maybe that Dr. Weston would take a liking to one of them. He’s such a handsome young doctor. I told him to....”
At this point Cecilia had enough. Men and las muchachitas were where she drew the line. She adjusted her antenna, making sure no sound waves were getting in through her hair. She got up and went to her room – right through Pearl’s talking.
Cecilia didn’t have much in her room. She had one pillow, a blanket, a sweater—all provided by the hospital. She had an oversized poster of Julio Iglesias and a closet, which contained three changes of clothes. Her bed frame was wooden and had brown leather restraints hanging off of both sides. There was only one tray to the left of the bed, for her food, and an oversized, red velvet recliner. The nurses had removed most of the furniture since she tried using it to barricade the door. She remembered once how her niece tried to bring her more things from home, but Cecilia refused.
“I’m Hispanic. These nurses will discriminate. Don’t you see I just got here and they’re racist? Besides, someone could steal my things and then where would I be.”
“Cecilia, I hardly think that...”
“No you don’t think, really! People steal things here all the time! Yesterday, the woman next door lost her teeth! She can’t eat crackers anymore. Crackers!”
Maybe she should have brought some things in from home. The walls were bare white and a little disheartening. All she had besides the poster was a felt picture that Israel had made for her. It was a small green rectangle, ornate with yellow felt flowers and pink hearts. He always did things like that, making her gifts and bringing her fresh water. He was a sweet man, except for that time he tried to sit on the foot of her bed. He even tried to put his hand on her shoulder. She told him that decent women don’t allow men into their bedrooms and that the others would talk and think badly of her. She was not that kind of woman; her morality was still intact. Israel understood. She was a widow; her husband had only died six years ago.

Cecilia still had a natural beauty about her, despite the sweat and resistance that had built up in the hospital. There was a smoky black quality that stemmed from her hair and echoed in her eyes. It was wavy in the front, out of some melodramatic movie from the forties. There were only a few grays and wrinkles. Of course, there was that cowlick. It was awfully distracting. The easiest thing would have been to pull it out; it was only one strand of hair. She was convinced that if that one came out, two more would grow in its place.
She had mainly given up on life, ever since her husband died. Cecilia sprawled out on her bed, tightly holding a crucifix in the palm of her hand. She prayed.
Our Father whose art is in heaven
Hollow be thy name
Thy kingdom come
Thy shall be done, here, as it is in heaven,
Give us today our daily bread and
Let us forgive those who offend us
As you do when we offend you
Deliver me from evil and save me from temptation.
And help my husband.
And help me get out of this place.
And help Julio Iglesias.
And help me.
Help Me.
She knew she would be helped; she had gone to church every Sunday. She was a good girl. She believed that. She believed she had genuinely helped people. Most people do. Cecilia drifted to sleep and into another day.
There is nothing new today, just like every other day, she thought, why get out of bed. Breakfast, television, morning walk, read a book, eat lunch, take a nap. What for? It’s all useless. What’s the point of living here or anywhere really? What is the point of living here if there is nothing left to feel? Felt it all, really. I have loved, been loved, hated, been despised, been aroused and disgusted, been excited, elated and bored, now I am just numb.
Cecilia fell asleep and missed lunch, too. In the afternoon, she had a visitor.
Life is fragile, handle it with prayer.
“I brought you this poster. I thought it would brighten up your room. I know how important prayer is to you.”
Even through semi-consciousness Cecilia argued, “Why would you do that. I have told you before, it will somehow get lost.”
Martha, Cecilia’s niece, was the only relative who still bothered. No one else ever came.
“The nurse told me you had another episode last night. Was there something bothering you? You had been doing so well the last couple of weeks.”
“Those nurses know shit. They constantly harass me. They want me to be crazy, or they would be out of a job. They are evil. They were here yesterday, collecting my piss and shit. Never trust anyone who wants your piss and shit.”
Martha had found it was better to ignore most of what Cecilia said.
“Would you like me to put some makeup on you, it might help you feel better?”
“Makeup!? My eye feels the size of this room, it’s been bothering me all morning! Maybe you should leave.”
Maybe she had already left.

Cecilia preferred to be alone. People never let her say what she wanted. They wanted to talk about themselves and make jokes, and only hear about the pleasantries. Cecilia had many things to say, but none were so pleasant.

It was dinnertime now. Crackers and soup. She supposed Henrietta would only be able to drink her soup. Cecilia walked toward the dining room, dozens of round tables strategically placed. She felt like a pinball, bouncing from one table to the next. This evening the Spanish soap opera was on. She wasn’t sure which one it was, but she knew the plot; it was always the same. It must involve an impoverished, beautiful, young girl, who slept with a rich and devastatingly handsome man. She got pregnant, but somehow after giving birth misplaced her child. Years later she would be reunited with her child, marry the man of her dreams and become rich. Things worked out for her always. The moral of the story -- with beauty and bad acting comes wealth and happiness. Cecilia was going to be sick. She sat at the table farthest from the television.

Cecilia concentrated on her soup. It was her least favorite, split pea - soup of the huddled masses. She had eaten that practically every day as a child. Actually, it was she who made it. It was her responsibility to do all the household chores from cooking to cleaning. Yet, she was always told she never got them quite right. Often she would have to make the soup two or three times. Often she would have to wash the pots two or three times. Often she would have to clean the soup and the pots off the kitchen floor while her mother supervised. Cecilia pushed the soup off to the side of her tray. She’d had enough of those memories.

Cecilia walked over to the window. She stared at the park across the street. There were dozens of people outside, having picnics, sitting on benches, running around the pond. She supposed it was spring now. Flowers were starting to come into bloom and people were wearing too bright colors. Her niece had offered to have lunch with her in the park on warm days, but she declined. Sometimes she wasn’t sure if that was a good idea. She hadn’t been outside in months.
The last time Cecilia went out was for Thanksgiving. Her niece came to pick her up and helped her get dressed. She wore her favorite flower patterned dress and black open toed pumps. She even managed to put on a pair of stockings. Martha drove for what seemed hours until she finally arrived at a small white house with no picket fence. She introduced her as “grandma”, which was both flattering and depressing. It merely reminded Cecilia of her own barren past. Faces whizzed by Cecilia, there were too many names to remember. There was Martha’s husband, George, that was about all she could remember. George’s entire family was there. There were aunts and uncles, nieces, nephew, second cousins twice removed. Cecilia even met the roast pork who greeted her at the door. He’d had an apple in his mouth so she couldn’t quite get his name. It didn’t matter, she would be eating him anyway. She sat quietly in the corner most of the evening. Her niece brought her a plate of park and black beans and rice. She supposed this would give her indigestion, she almost snapped at her niece, but decided against it.
This family sure can eat, she thought. Piles of food were heaped onto overwhelmed plates - mountains of rice and meat, cassava, and something that had once resembled a salad. She had never really seen so much food in her life. Her family was always forced to share what little they could get their hands on. Over time, she learned not to like food very much.
After dinner, the entire family began dancing. The music was loud and oddly suggestive. Quite a few of George’s uncles had asked her to dance. She supposed it could not do any harm. She began dancing slowly, forgetting how to follow the rhythm of the music. Her feet seemed to trip over themselves. She flapped her arms so she looked like an awkward chicken. She felt like a fool, an old fool. After a few minutes it didn’t seem to bother her. She danced and danced until everything seemed normal. She was not Cecilia with the speckled past; she was just a woman trying to feel good again. This did not last long, though. She had overheard on of George’s uncles asking Martha if this was “the one.” Martha had heard that enough times by now to know what it meant. She had grown accustomed to the raised eyebrows and bated snickers. She asked her niece to take her home. In the car, George and Martha tried to assuage her. They pretended that George’s uncle had a crush on her. Cecilia laughed at first, but then became angry. How dare they try to play her for the fool? She asked to be taken back to the hospital, she did not want to spend the weekend in their home anymore. That was really the last time she saw the highway that led out of town, or George, or people’s carefree, smiling faces. That was the last time Cecilia felt she had a chance at feeling something.



2

Cecilia had grown up right next door to Pearl’s daughters. Lucinda, Esperanza, and Candida—unfortunately. She never had a chance amongst them. They were beautiful, that much was true, not conventionally, either. They had magic in the way the walked, in the way they spoke, in the way they laughed. Cecilia swore that she heard music whenever they walked by. Supposedly, men felt an actual tingle when the sisters spoke. It wasn’t like you could be superior to them, either. They had you wherever you went. They cut you off at the high road, yet they were modest and genuinely intriguing. Intellect, charm and wit were useless weapons, collectors’ items. Lucinda was the ravishing beauty. Esperanza was the sensitive, intelligent, activist. Candida was the one that could get inside your head and make you want to crawl inside her and peacefully sleep. Cecilia was helpless against all these natural gifts. There were rumors that they were born on the night of an eclipse and that they were gifts from the heavens. How can you surpass the celestial? Cecilia could not.
They lived in a small town with no major supermarkets. There were a couple of small family owned grocery stores. Some sold meat, others sold bread and canned goods. There was a small candy store close to the school where children would go and buy rainbow lollipops for a few cents. Mail went to a post office box and was picked up by families only once a week. Sundays were for church, then in the afternoon families would go down to the beach. Cienfuegos, it was called. There were only about three hundred people in her entire town. They were spread out over the cracked concrete sidewalks and the tree-stained parks. People spent their lives intent on one another. Everyone knew everyone else’s business. They had the same dreams, desires and goal. For men those dreams usually included one of the sisters. Men did marry other women, but it was understood always that this was a second choice because one of the sisters had denied that man. The townswomen usually played by this rule, but not Cecilia. She wanted to be the only reason a man breathed. She wanted to be fused to her lover within an imaginary crystal sphere, and for others to look inside and envy the beauty that emanated. That was all and it seemed impossible. She would have gone anywhere to obtain it, but knew not how to go off on her own.
Las muchachitas never chose a man, either. They dated them and brought them home into their bedrooms. On those nights, Cecilia swore that the house next door was humming and emanating soft golden light. They may have been fifteen, but their bodies were not. The whole town knew and no one seemed to care. The sisters were renowned for being wonderful lovers. Normally that would have been reprehensible, but these girls had their own rules. Cecilia hoped that in ten years men would tire of the sisters. The mystery would be unraveled and there would be nothing of beauty left for anyone to marvel at. They would be older, and then maybe she would get a chance. The opposite was true. The hunger was insatiable. Men of all ages wanted the girls more each day. The more they had them, the more they wanted them. Cecilia walked through the streets virtually unnoticed.
She had a lot of time to think and plot and hope and pray.
She thought about why the sisters never chose a man. At first she thought they were selfish and wanted all attention. Then she thought that maybe something was wrong with them. They literally did everything together. They went on dates together, they worked at the library together, once they even told her that they showered together. She recalled that conversation vividly. It was the first time they really talked in depth. Cecilia had asked why their mother was always yelling. She could hear it right across the alley. From one window to another, that’s the pattern a harsh word follows. For the ears of the afflicted, to the ears of the unaware where they are unable to be erased.
It was summer then and unusually cool. The wind was flirting with the hem on Lucinda’s skirt. Even it was stricken with lust. “Our mother wants us to take care of one another. She’s only looking out for our best interests. Ever since Daddy died she hasn’t been the same. She’s afraid we’ll follow the wrong path. She’s really not a bad woman,” Lucinda said in a whisper, sitting on the front steps to her home. She was wearing bright red lipstick and a simple black dress, boring on any other woman. Esperanza and Candida leaned against the now yellow wooden banister. Candida worked on chipping off whatever was left of the paint. Esperanza looked embarrassed, hiding behind Candida’s golden ruffled skirt. At twenty-five, they were painfully more beautiful than Cecilia could imagine.
“But, I hear her, through my window. She’s possessed. I don’t mean to intrude, and I don’t want to get into what’s none of my business, but are you sure she isn’t sick?” Cecilia tried not to press the issue, but she was all too familiar with the masks of lunacy.
“Look, our mother is perfectly fine. She’s overprotective, that’s all. She looks after us; she’s not anything like what your mother was.”
Cecilia just about started to cry; it didn’t matter who said that. She didn’t want to be reminded of why she was forced to live with her grandmother. Melting images of her mother’s erratic alphabet traced the inside of her eyes. Through blood and bruises Cecilia would plead with her mother to get some help for it was not the physical that wounded. All that time, all she got was a glimpse of sanity, through the small crack in her bedroom window, enough to know what she did not have.
She tried to compose herself, “I just mean that from what you say, it sounds like you have got a problem. I won’t mention it again.” That was when Cecilia vowed to change their lives. They deserved something else. A blurry picture, a walk through a foggy daze, a glimpse at life through that small window in their bedroom. Cecilia was tired of not mattering. She deserved a life that she controlled, not her mother, not her grandmother and definitely not las muchachitas!

The truth was Pearl had lost her mind sometime ago. Maybe she had hidden it along with the groceries she periodically hid from her daughters. Those were girls, whom she both loved and hated, whom she was proud of and yet ashamed. They were good girls or they were sluts. They took good care of her or they neglected her and left her home alone. They were good housekeepers or they left the house a mess. They took care of one another or they were too attached, almost incestuously she sometimes suspected. Pearl would work herself up into frenzy, swimming from one thought to the next. It was suicide. It was calming. Times would come where there were clothes and furniture and food decorating the floors of the house. Amongst the ornate, Pearl would stand emanating heat from her polemical head and using her hands to interpret anger in place of a mother’s warmth. It was all she had. Sometimes she blamed her daughters for her loss of equilibrium. She lost that when her husband died. She had heard him say:
“You three girls are beautiful and have brought me all the happiness I’ll ever need. When I die, my soul will float into you. A little piece for each of you. And I’ll be with you, wherever you go, inside of you. Inside of you.” And it was the way he said it, and Pearl knew. She knew. Her daughters were no longer ten years old; they were women and she wanted nothing to do with them. She wanted not to raise them anymore. She wanted not to see them. She wanted them to be screaming contradictions as she was. She wanted them not to have been born. And that was the moment she felt something inside her floating away – that red balloon drifting further from the atmosphere. She didn’t really care at that point. Reality was far more frightening.
In and out of days Pearl would lavish her daughters with attention and scold them for accepting the compliments. In and out of days the girls would spend less and less time at home. In and out of days floating in and out of men’s’ lives, in and out of their beds. In and out of days there was Cecilia, too, holding up the world with her eyes and she was tired. In and out of days life became routine and no one expected anything, so nothing happened.
Cecilia, meanwhile, had lapses of logic and insanity, lapses of reality and some far-fetched dream world where she was a divine sculpture displayed in the center of town like a fountain. Days flowed into one another. She imagined that she lived in the ocean and everything around her was blue and fluid, that people were jellyfish and that it was her duty to avoid them at all costs. She imagined the sisters were a giant purple octopus and it was her duty to make the waters safe for everyone. So she planned and hoped and prayed that she was doing the right thing.
The day she decided to mold her fate and theirs’ was her birthday. She was thirty-six. She decided that she would make her own ending. She waited until midnight, until it was officially her birthday. She knew that there were men, over in the next town, who would do anything for a pretty face. She supposed hers would do. They were men who had served some time in prison, months, years. They were lonely, too. She had money; she had herself - whatever it would take. She rode her bicycle to a small bar. It was more like a shed with liquor. She was frightened, but no longer cared. She asked around and found one man who was willing to oblige. She asked what it would take, half offering herself. But he did not want her – hadn’t even occurred to him. All he wanted was money. Cecilia was only outwardly relieved. She wondered what this man’s name was, but never asked. She told him where las muchachitas lived and worked. She told him there schedule and when they could be found alone. He had heard of them and welcomed the opportunity to get to know them. So much so that the amount of money she gave him did not seem to matter. It was in his hands now.
The next day nothing happened, nothing seemed different. Cecilia wondered if it had all been a bizarre dream. She began to doubt anything would ever change. She had just about come to accept the inevitability of las muchachitas. That evening, Lucinda knocked on her door. She looked undone. Her hair had escaped the bun atop her head and she missed the last few buttons on her blouse.
“I am here because I need to know if you have seen my sister, Candida. She has been missing since this morning. She went to work alone today. I was late and when I got there they told me she never arrived. I thought perhaps you might have seen her. Did you see...?” Cecilia cut her off. She already imagined what had happened.
“No! No, I haven’t seen her. I don’t know where she could be. I’m sorry.” Lucinda’s eyes sank. It seemed as if the world slipped away from her. She was crying, but could not be heard. She turned her back and walked away.
Perhaps a week passed and still no word of Candida. Cecilia was conflicted. She was disappointed, as she had hoped all three girls would have been taken care of. At times she felt surges of guilt and wished she could take it all back. At least, she thought, Esperanza and Lucinda were contained. They remained at home with their mother watching wallpaper, waiting for the police to bring word. Each day without Candida seemed to slowly strip them of their graces.
It was not until the seventh day that word came. Candida had been found, still wearing her favorite yellow dress. At least there was that. She was not conscious or aware of anything around her. The police had found her lying on a park bench. She was more of a rag doll than a woman when she was found. From what they gathered, she had been raped, beaten. They knew not who or why. They only knew she was in the hospital and would remain there for several weeks.
This was it; this was everything Cecilia had worked for. She had hoped he would have taken Lucinda, but she supposed Candida would do. Even so, her plan had the effect she intended. Candida’s family was falling apart before the town’s eyes. And although it was what she had prayed for, Cecilia could not help but feel ill. A dream materialized is never the same as the ghost of one. This was something her mother had always said. Cecilia never understood it until now. She could not fathom how she could live there, in this small town with this sick feeling everyday. She could not eat, she could not sleep, she could not concentrate on work. She drifted from place to place unsure of herself or where she was. Every thought was invaded by Candida’s helpless face. She lived in a perpetual state of anxiety, goose bumps all over her pale skin. There were times in the middle of the night where she would get out of bed and just run, as fast as she could. As fast as she could. She could not say where she was going, for she never got there. But she ran until she collapsed and barely had the strength to turn back. She could not find peace. She could not save herself.
This would not get easier for Cecilia. She had managed to avoid las muchachitas for some time. In that way, she could almost manage. But, eventually Candida was sent home, or a lifeless clone sent in her place to torment Cecilia. Candida could barely manage to take steps toward her house. She always seemed to stumble about. Her eyes were half-closed and she relied on her sisters to guide her. She could barely strand words together or when she did, they made not much sense. Candida consumed her sisters now. They had always been inseparable, but this was so much more. They would not leave her. They would not have company. They would not work. They would not even see the men that had once adored them. It took not long before they were no longer beautiful. They were three sisters, nothing more or less. They were costumed mannequins who wore too much makeup and ill fitting clothes. They tried desperately to cling to their youth, yet were unsuccessful. Lucinda was a faded photograph, you could barely make out what she once was. She was a reminder of what time does and it was something to resent. Esperanza drew into herself, unable to register anything going on around her. She was no longer connected to anything. Candida was nothing to anyone anymore. She seemed to just occupy space. You felt anything but lust when you looked at them. They were called las muchachitas still, but mostly out of respect for what they had been.
This is a nightmare, Cecilia thought. This is a nightmare. And it was.

Cecilia floated in and out of years and drifted over time into a bed with brown leather restraints, cutting into her wrists, which was all too real. Shit. This always seemed to happen to her. She would lose time, never being sure just how much, and end up there, in bed, unable to express her will.
Cecilia was back now, in her room, as in the moment as she could be. She was always plagued by images like that. Small bits of her past that seemed to make up her life now. Had she known, she would have laughed a little harder, cried a little less, made love more passionately, taken more risks. Now there was nothing left to feel but what had been felt. There was never going to be anything new for her to do, to think, to say, to feel. She had known this for some time now, and she had become quite accustomed to it. She learned how to get around that though. It had taken her some time, but she became quite adept at it. She could sit in her chair and close her eyes and go wherever she wanted. She could imagine she was anywhere, anyone really. She could have done anything, anything and no one would ever know. The trouble was she was never quite sure how long she was gone. Sometimes could not remember how to get back. It was as if she was stuck between sleep and consciousness. It was almost like being paralyzed. And for a while afterwards, she could not remember who she was. That was all. It was a risk, but she was willing to take it. She figured it was better than sitting around waiting for time to get the best of her. After all, it did not matter who she was really, or how she got there. She was there and nothing was ever going to change that. There was nothing else.