in town, those who still spent their days inside the mine, avoided being seen with someone like our father, and at times it seemed as though they avoided being seen with any one of us.
Our mother and I saw Pablo and my father become different people, more distant and quiet. I didn’t mind my father’s distance that much. It was Pablo’s that bothered the most. For those last three months I tried my best to compensate for their absence. Mãe continued to make quentão for the remaining cold days, hoping that old friends would stop by after a long day of work to catch up with my father. That was her way of fighting the changes around her. She’d insist on using the same bigger pot, as if any day, ten, fifteen men would show up, and that she wouldn’t risk embarrassing herself and her husband by not having enough to quench everyone’s thirst. No one ever came, and eventually she stopped.
Neighbors made themselves clear through small gestures that it wasn’t that they didn’t agree with my father’s attitude but were afraid of what could happen. Assembly of any kind raised suspicions in a town like ours, and people lived within the confines of their own lives. Every once in a while, a neighbor would knock on our door with a little bit of food, saying things like “Oh, dear, I can’t help but cook too much. We’re used to having people over.” Then the conversation would move on and both parties would lament the changes that had come and speak nostalgically about the old days. At first I thought they saw we weren’t doing well without my father’s pay and used this as an excuse for their charity. But as we all became more isolated, I realized they were being honest and actually looked forward to this food exchange.
Tia Mercedes was the only constant visitor. She was about our mother’s age and had finally gotten pregnant after six years of trying. The whole town got involved in her and her husband’s problem. Everyone prayed for them and services were held so that they would be blessed with a child. Some prayed to Jesus while others called on their orixás to remove whatever macumba was done against poor Tia Mercedes. Most people did both.
Before the coup, I remember that sometimes, in the dark of the night, a group would gather by the creek right behind Tia Mercedes’s house to “work” on her. I was intrigued by the ritual. She would stand barefooted by the creek, while people dressed in white and yellow, Oxum’s colors, kneeling before her, singing, calling and waiting for Mamãe Oxum to manifest herself in one of them. We would know whoever was the chosen one because they would dance around her, speaking in tongues, as soon as Mother Oxum took possession of their body. Mamãe Oxum would hold onto Tia Mercedes’s head at first and work her way down, spending more time on her belly. Then she’d continue on to the very tip of her toes, as if sending out to the water all the bad spirits, the venom within her that killed every baby before they could even have a fighting chance, demanding that the current take them, as far as they would go. Meanwhile all the others clapped and sang praises to Mamãe Oxum. But sometimes people said it wasn’t Oxum who had come but some other caboclo. They would know it immediately because of its raspy voice and his immediate request for a cachaça and a cigar. They would always have them handy in case the caboclo showed up, as to not upset him.
I never quite understood Umbanda and its orixás. But whatever they did, it had worked in time. A meeting in the dark like this would not sit well after the coup. But now Tia Mercedes was very much pregnant, and this couple’s only trouble was that her husband had left the mine with our father and was also out of a job.
Their similar situation had brought Tia Mercedes and our mother very close. There wasn’t one afternoon that she didn’t stop by to chat. She’d stand by the kitchen door, caressing her enormous belly, while watching our mother work. It was surprising to me that they got along. Our mother was in a constant state of denial, it seemed. Telling people left and right that everything was fine, that her husband had all sorts of opportunities now that he was no longer buried in that mine, that Pablo was happy to be going to college next year, and that age meant nothing to me, whatever that meant.
While my mother created her alternate perfect universe, Tia couldn’t bring herself to look away from her reality. She did everything she could to convince her husband they should move. But he was hardheaded. A man of the pampas, he’d say. Not meant for the big city. In all her fears and no matter how frustrated she was that her husband refused to see the trouble they were in, somehow she kept coming back. Somehow listening to our mother’s optimistic, if not delirious, stories seemed to soothe her and her unborn baby. Mãe must have been her afternoon escape.
…
As we reached the final days of October, our mother began to gradually repopulate our first floor. She opened it all up and decorated it with more flowers than usual, hoping the spring air would blossom life back into that house. Tia Mercedes would often bring flowers she had picked up along the way, and would watch as Mãe turned them into what she considered perfect arrangements. She would spend entire afternoons as our mother worked in the kitchen, baking bread, roasting beef, cooking rice, squeezing fresh fruit into juice, and chopping every single kind of fruit she could get her hands on into a fruit salad. She’d place a huge bowl on the center of the table, arranging it so every single fruit would be fairly featured. She’d stand over the table, tilting her head to the side just a little while pondering whether the arrangement was good enough.
“It’s gorgeous, Rose!” Tia Mercedes would always say.
Every single day became an event as my mother worked tirelessly to set up family meals downstairs. Her low heels echoed against the steps as she transferred everything downstairs then brought it back up again.
“I’m driving to the city tomorrow, Rose,” our father announced one evening while our mother served us fruit salad in a silver chalice.
That was another change. We stopped using our daily dishes and silverware since what had happened at the mine. My mother wasn’t willing to wait for special occasions.
“Uhum.” She picked a few grapes from the bowl, placing them carefully in the chalice, by the honeydew. Our father would go to Porto Alegre every week in search of a home for us, of a job, and of space. Every once in a while he’d invite her.
“There are two houses I was hoping you’d see. I think you’ll like them, Rosey. They both have decent sized backyards; we could plant a few vegetables.” He watched her.
“Oh, honey, there’s just too much to do around the house. I promise you I’ll be fine with whatever you choose. I trust you.” She brought her chalice closer to her and was aimlessly moving pieces around with her fork. “Besides, I don’t think I want to see it beforehand. I might as well just see it when it’s time.” She tried a smile.
Pablo shuffled in his seat as he finished his meal. His hair was growing longer, and our mother had stopped bothering him to let her cut it.
“Do you want to come with me, Pablo?”
“Nah,” he replied. “I have a paper due on Friday.”
“How about you, Luca?”
He seemed exhausted from the amount of effort it took to act normal and talk through a meal.
“Sorry, Pai, I have a lot of homework.” He nodded as if he already knew what my answer would be. “Maybe next time?”
“Sure.” He finished his juice. “Now, will you excuse me?”
We all nodded, and my mother watched him go. It was a clear night outside, and through the windows we could hear the frogs and crickets singing their laments as the breeze announced the coming rain. I thought about how it had been a while since we all had a conversation. I looked at my father and wondered whether conversations would gradually feel more and more artificial. I wondered if our
