Santiago was a welcome sight to Pilar and Maria. As they made their way through town that afternoon, Pilar marveled at how much it seemed that the city had grown since she was last here. Some new apartment buildings had been added, and the streets were crowded with pedestrians.
By the time Maria and Pilar reached their former home, it was nearly dusk. They were tired, dirty, and scared, but felt a sense of relief as the farm came into view. Three dogs, all that remained, remembered them and came running out to greet them on the road with a few celebratory yips, instead of the menacing growls and barks reserved for strangers. Pilar happily danced around with them, greeting each one by name with a hug at the center of the dog tornado. Even Maria, who normally insisted that they didn’t jump up on her with their filthy paws, allowed an exception in this case. This was a special occasion, and she figured order would be restored again soon enough.
Maria’s joy at finally being safe at home was tempered somewhat when she noticed a light on in Jorge’s house as they approached from the road. Although she was anxious to see him, part of her dreaded confronting the pain she knew he must be experiencing following the loss of his only child. But having come so close to losing Pilar—and her own life—her perspective changed. She was a survivor. They all were—she, Pilar, and Jorge—and right now, that’s what mattered. Their ordeal was behind them and now it was time to begin healing.
A familiar board creaked as they stepped onto the porch. They heard music and giggling coming from inside the house. Maria peeked through the window before knocking, and shocked by what she saw, turned quickly to block her daughter’s view. But it was too late. Pilar stood frozen, bearing witness to the sight of her Uncle dancing with not one but three women, all four of them, as naked as the day they were born. He had a bottle of rum in one hand and was using the other hand to explore the contours of one of the nubile young women.
Maria took Pilar by the hand and pulled her forcefully off the porch, away from the scene of debauchery.
“Uncle Jorge is busy. We’ll come back later,” said Maria.
Perhaps out of curiosity, or maybe because she simply didn’t believe her own eyes, Pilar kept trying to get around her mother to take another look.
“What’s he doing, Mama?”
“He’s grieving.” Maria pulled Pilar away from Jorge’s house, towing her down the trail that led to their old house.
“He is?” Pilar looked back over her shoulder as the music became quite faint.
They had purchased some food in town. “Let’s go have something to eat. We’ll see your uncle in the morning.”
As they approached the stream crossing, Pilar thought she smelled something burning, not unusual between May and November, the season during which the cane fields were purposefully set ablaze by the farmers in preparation for the harvest. The preharvest burn eliminated much of the green and dry leaves as well as the tops and straw off the stalks, reducing the amount of manual labor required. But this smelled far worse than burnt cane stalks.
After they crossed the bridge, they were confronted with something even more shocking than what they had just seen at Uncle Jorge’s home. The house where they had lived, where they expected to stay until Miguel sent for them, was gone. Just a pile of burnt timber and ash was all that was left. It was a scene of utter devastation.
Maria took a deep breath, attempting to hold it all together but was not successful. She began to sob and fell to the ground. She felt she could stand no more. Pilar, took a more pragmatic approach, spinning on her heel and walking briskly and purposefully towards her uncle’s house.
Maria’s weeping grew fainter until Pilar heard only the sound of her own footsteps as she closed the distance between the stream and the house. As she approached, the music once again grew louder, as did the giggling. On the porch she heard the creaky floorboard again before she began her insistent, loud knocking. The music stopped, and then there was the sound of four pairs of shoeless feet shuffling behind the door followed by the voice of Uncle Jorge. His voice was a little unsteady, and his tone communicated a forced nonchalance.
“Who is it?” he inquired weakly.
“It’s your niece, Pilar. What happened to my house!?”
Maria, Jorge, and Pilar sat together at the kitchen table. Jorge held his head down over a cup of rum. Maria and Pilar stared at him patiently as he composed himself and the words he would use to explain what had happened.
He didn’t make eye contact, gazing into his cup. “It was an accident,” he said. “I was angry, but I didn’t mean to burn it down. I’m sorry, Maria. I didn’t expect you to come back.”
Maria whispered, motioning toward the three women, who were now dressed and sitting in the main room talking quietly amongst themselves. “Who are those women?”
“I had nobody. Things have been very difficult. You’re living in the US with all that stuff now, all that money. You have no idea what it’s like for me.”
Pilar interrupted, “Papa is in trouble. Some men came. They took him away.”
Jorge swallowed a mouthful of rum. “I’m in trouble, too.”
Maria snorted, interjecting, “Obviously.”
Jorge continued. “Miguel made his choice; you all did. There’s nothing I can do about it now. There’s fighting in the mountains. This whole country is falling apart like it’s the end of the world. Soldiers are shooting people for just standing there. Lots of people would be happy to trade places with Miguel. At least he still has his life. Go back to Miami.”
Pilar interrupted. “We can’t go back, Tio Jorge. They might lock us up, too. Papa said to wait for him here.”
Feeling the rum, Jorge briefly found a soft spot in his heart for Pilar, but as he silently looked at her, he saw his own daughter, and it was too much to bear. It was a matter of his own emotional survival now. He took another swig and once again hardened. “You can stay here tonight but that’s it,” he said. “I’m not responsible for your situation.”
“But we’re family!” Maria shouted.
“My wife is dead!” Jorge shouted back. “My daughter is dead! They were my family and you left me!” He poured another cup of rum, held up the bottle. “This is my family now!”
Maria leaned over and quietly spoke to her daughter. “Pilar, go to sleep, baby. I’ll be in shortly.”
Pilar got up and left the room. She went into one of the back bedrooms and shut the door.
Maria gestured toward the women in the living room. “Them? Are these whores going to take care of you? Are they your family now?”
Jorge laughed. “Until I throw them out of here, yes. They are my family now.” Then he turned very serious, leaning close to Maria and speaking very softly. “How would you feel if your husband and daughter were both taken from you? Would that hurt, Maria?”
“Of course, Jorge. I share your pain . . .”
Jorge interrupted her. “No, you don’t get to share it.” He shook the bottle in his hand violently. “This rum? Those whores? They don’t share it either, but they numb it, and that’s enough for now. This is my life, my pain. I’ll deal with it how I please.”
Pilar was alone in what used to be Alicia’s bedroom. She filled her nostrils, trying to remember her cousin’s smell, but the perfume of the women in the other room now permeated the whole house; not a trace of Alicia remained in the air of the room. She opened the closet door and ran her fingers over the small dresses that still hung in the closet, trying to remember how she was ever tiny enough to fit into them herself. It now seemed like another lifetime ago, but she and Alicia once shared everything—clothes and even a mother. She sat at the small writing desk, her knees barely fitting underneath. She was a giant in a miniature world, like Alice in the book by Lewis Carroll she had read in school. She opened a drawer and thumbed through some crude drawings, one of a house surrounded by palm trees under a sun with dogs and other animals identified by name with little arrows pointing them out. In the foreground, two little girls with toothy smiles and ribbons in their hair labeled Pilar and Alicia radiated innocent optimism, ignorant of the danger and tragedy the future held.
Pilar noticed a little pink envelope in the drawer. She carefully opened it and found Alicia’s birth certificate inside. Pilar took the drawing and the birth certificate and placed them, along with a hair ribbon, into a little girl’s purse made of hand-tooled leather that had been hanging on the headboard. These things were all that she had to remember her cousin by now. She looped the strap over her head and went to the door, pressing her ear to it to listen.
She could hear her mother speaking quietly. The words were muffled, but she imagined by the soothing tone exactly what her mother was saying as she reasoned with her uncle, calming him, reminding him of the bond they shared. Then she heard an unintelligible burst of drunken energy, deep and rough, from her uncle, the kind that knows no hope and doesn’t care to listen. Alone in that room, she understood how he felt. There was no hope left in this house except for what was held in the little purse.
She gripped it tightly as she lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. In the morning, she promised herself she would remove it and its precious contents from this place before it was consumed in the next fire.