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.