Tarnished Beauty (2 page)

On that first day, Lorena took her daughter's hand as they walked out to the road, and the children became silent all at once. As some crossed to the other side, Lorena's grip tightened, and Jamilet's fingers were aching by the time they reached the bend in the road, no more than a few hundred yards from the school yard.

“Go on, Jamilet,” Lorena said. “I'll watch you from here.”

Jamilet did as she was told and didn't turn around to look at her mother, although for once in her short life she truly wanted to, for she sensed the other children watching her, how she walked, and how she held her book in front of her like a shield. She looked neither left nor right, but down at her feet, mesmerized by the shiny buckles of her new shoes that winked at her with every step. She heard the children whispering, but it was not the carefree and happy whispering of a harmless joke or plans for play. Jamilet was only too familiar with the hushed sounds of fear.

Keeping her eyes downcast, she noticed tiny pebbles bouncing on the ground. They reminded her of the way the wind swept the dirt up in the back field when she was tending the chili patch. She thought it looked like backward rain making its way up to heaven. Her grandmother, not easily distracted from her work, had actually straightened up to gaze upon the dark cloud rising as Jamilet told the story of the backward rain and how the dirt in the field had come to life when touched by the breath of God. She knew her grandmother was more likely to listen if she gave the story a religious slant, but she'd tell the children a different version they'd like better. She was thinking of how to begin when she realized the pebbles had become larger, palm-size rocks the wind couldn't possibly have lifted. One smacked her soundly on the ankle, causing her to stumble.

It was then that she heard her mother's frantic call, and she saw the children lined up across the road, only a few hundred yards from the school grounds. Some held rocks in their hands, and others were hunched over, looking for more in the dirt. Lorena was running toward her with eyes that weren't sad, but were alive with fear. Jamilet had begun running as well, eager for the safety of her mother's embrace, when a deafening blow to her temple caused her arms to go limp. Before the darkness came, she felt the warm flow of blood in her ear, and heard a ringing so loud, she couldn't be sure if the children were jeering or laughing, as they did when she watched them through the window.

 

When Jamilet opened her bleary eyes, the first thing she saw was her mother's face, spongy with sadness once again, as she placed a cold compress on her daughter's head. Then she heard Gabriela fussing in the kitchen, banging pots and pans like she was prone to do when complaining about the scant help she got from her daughters and only granddaughter with the chores around the house. Although on this afternoon the noise she made was for another reason altogether.

Jamilet winced against the clatter, and reached a hand out for her mother. “Why did the children throw rocks at me, Mama?”

Lorena gently guided Jamilet's hand back down to the bed. “Quiet now. I only just stopped the bleeding.”

Jamilet spoke up so her grandmother could hear her. “I was going to tell them the story of the backward rain, Abuela, but I never got a chance.”

“It's a clever story, Jamilet,” she responded tersely as she dropped a large pot in the sink and another on top of it.

Jamilet felt a piercing pain in her head, and held her breath until it had settled into a dull ache. She turned to her mother once more. “Why did they throw rocks at me, Mama?”

Lorena placed her daughter's hand on the compress and left the room without a word. She returned moments later carrying under one arm the mirror they kept in the front room, along with a smaller handheld mirror. She instructed her daughter to lie on her side, and pulled her nightdress up as high as it would go, positioning the larger mirror behind her.

“Be careful what you do, Lorena,” Gabriela said, but Lorena didn't hesitate as she gave Jamilet the small mirror, guiding it so that her daughter could see the full expanse of the mark. Jamilet peered into the mirror and thought she'd caught sight of the wound on her head. “Am I still bleeding?” she asked, alarmed.

“It isn't blood,” Lorena said, forcing her voice to sound strong, as one does when imparting news of a family death. “You were born with the mark on your back, and the children must know about it. They don't understand…” She hesitated, her voice trailing off, but she regained her composure. “The midwife who delivered you wasn't discreet.”

Carmen had slipped into the room, and was slathering butter on a fresh tortilla. “Discreet?” she said while stuffing the tortilla in her mouth. “After the old bitch died she was devoured by rats, and they found her black tongue lying in a pile of bones and hair because even the rats refused to eat her filthy tongue.”

“Carmen!” Gabriela gasped.

“It's true, Ma. Why shouldn't I say it when it's true?”

Normally Jamilet would have asked her aunt many more questions about the rats and how they happened upon the corpse and all matter of gruesome details, but she couldn't tear her eyes away from the formidable bloody landscape that spread across her shoulders. It seemed impossible that she was looking at something attached to her own body. She reached a cautious hand around to dab her finger at the red edges on one shoulder. Her skin felt thick and alien, and it bubbled and puckered in places, like an overcooked tortilla. But this thing was uglier than anything she'd ever seen before. Uglier even than rats and snakes and slimy creatures that lived under rocks, causing most women and children to scream, and men to demonstrate their bravery.

Finally, she found the strength to ask, “Will it go away, Mama?”

Lorena took the mirror from her daughter and smoothed her nightdress back down as she considered what to say. Then her eyes brightened, and she set her jaw firmly. “Of course it will. We just haven't found the way to do it yet, that's all.”

“Be careful what you say, Lorena,” Gabriela warned again, but she'd spoken with her daughter too many times on the subject to expect her to listen now.

Lorena stole a glance at her older sister, who was preparing her second tortilla for consumption. “It's true, Ma,” she said with an uncharacteristically defiant nod. “Why shouldn't I say it when it's true?”

 

Once or twice a year, Jamilet retrieved her schoolbook from the high shelf in the kitchen, where the spices were stored, to look upon the picture of the boy and girl on the cover. The blood had dried and faded into a faint shadow across their world. And when she opened the pages to study the shapes, and the intricate markings that she knew to be the mysterious code for words and stories, she felt a sadness quivering in the very center of her heart that she didn't dare share with anyone. The people in her small world appeared perfectly content with their illiteracy. They managed by asking neighbors and even strangers coming to the door selling seed and wire fencing and such to help them decipher this or that. Once, Gabriela bought a soft, plastic, bristle broom, completely useless on her rough floors, so the salesman would do her the favor of reading a letter that had just arrived from Mexico City, only to discover that it had been delivered to the wrong address.

In the quiet hours, when the work of the day was done, the women often sat around the kitchen table mending clothes, or doing their needlework. At these times Jamilet asked quietly, almost chirping like a cricket so as not to disturb the moment, if she might be allowed to return to school, but her request was never considered with a serious mind before it was dismissed, and she was left with nothing to hang on to but that resigned sadness in her mother's eyes. Weary and detached as they sought a moment's rest, genuine interest could only be generated by a new recipe for red beans they'd heard about at the market, or the latest gossip that the milkman's son had fathered yet his third child out of wedlock. Sometimes their talk turned to more practical matters, like the need to hire a handyman.

Upon hearing this, Jamilet would say, “If my father was still alive, we wouldn't have to worry about paying a handyman.”

The only sure way to get their attention was to bring up the subject of her father, and Jamilet took every opportunity to do so. She was intrigued by the furtive glances exchanged among the women, followed immediately by an increased concentration on their needlework. Eventually, one of the three would respond, sometimes by reminding Jamilet that her father had died many years ago, and how unfortunate that he was trampled to death by six horses at once so that there was nothing left of him. The year before it had been a drowning accident, and the year before that a tragic encounter with several bandits who had, for some reason, shot their pistols all at once while pointing at the same target between his legs.

C
ARMEN LEFT FOR THE NORTH
soon after Jamilet's seventh birthday. It wasn't a surprise to anyone. She'd been complaining for years about the lack of jobs, and the backward stupidity of the villagers, and her desire to live in a modern world where people weren't so concerned with how many men she danced with on a Saturday night or if she really had a mole the shape of a sickle on her butt. This prompted Gabriela to scold her daughter about how much of her generous figure she'd made public knowledge, and she warned her that a bad reputation was like the foul smell of the unwashed, even worse in that it wouldn't go away, not even after a long, hot bath. This would inspire Carmen to launch into a fit of foul language that could be heard almost a half mile away.

After she left, things were definitely quieter, and there was plenty of extra work to keep everyone busy. There was the washing of the clothes, the feeding of the chickens, and the tending to the chili peppers that sprouted like Christmas ornaments all year long. There was the matter of sweeping out the dirt that blew in from the open fields, and helping Gabriela with the cooking. She was getting old and it was difficult for her to chop the onions and grind the garlic and chilies into the paste she used as the base for just about every meal.

Aside from looking after the peppers, Jamilet enjoyed her kitchen chores most, and became a fairly acceptable cook. When money ran short, it was on this premise that she accompanied her mother six days a week to work at the family house owned by Americans in the city. It was located in a fashionable neighborhood of Guadalajara where the streets were cleaned daily and the windows festooned with lace curtains and fresh flowers. Children attended school with nannies attached to their hands like pets, and returned home for lunch in order to enjoy the delicacies created by their family cooks. Although Lorena applied for the position with no credentials or recommendations whatsoever, the Millers decided to take a chance on her. They found the lovely sad-eyed woman and her daughter to be unusually refined, considering that they, like all the others, were peasants from nearby Salhuero looking for work. Her daughter was lovely as well and would make a fine companion for their only daughter, Mary. They were hired on the spot, and six days a week for five years, Jamilet and her mother boarded the bus from their village so they could report to work promptly at seven and have breakfast prepared before Mr. Miller left at eight.

Jamilet and Mary, who was only a few months younger, became good friends. Jamilet enjoyed the way Mary laughed for no obvious reason, as though happiness had just alighted on her like a butterfly in order to tickle her mercilessly until she relented with a good-natured prank or a game of some sort. After Mary came home from school in the afternoon, they spent countless hours together pretending to fish in the courtyard fountain, or playing hopscotch on the smooth ceramic tile that Lorena scrubbed on hands and knees every morning. They braided each other's hair and wove flowers throughout, as though they were fairies, or queens. But what Jamilet enjoyed most was learning the American songs Mary insisted she memorize so they could sing them together. Songs with strange names, like “Jailhouse Rock” and “Blue Suede Shoes.” Mary told her they were very popular where she came from, and that every girl and boy had a record player.

She told Jamilet other things about her country, the way the roads were firm and paved even beyond the cities and in the places where the poor people lived. She described buildings, much taller than anything in Guadalajara, constructed of all glass and shiny as mirrors. “They're as tall as mountains that reach the sky,” Mary said, blue eyes wide as she chewed and popped her gum. “That's why they're called skyscrapers.”

After her first year with the Millers, Jamilet was speaking good English, and it was dismaying to the Millers that Mary hadn't picked up Spanish in the same manner. They suggested that maybe the girls should talk to each other in Spanish instead of English, but Mary refused, saying, “I like being the teacher, and besides, Jamilet can't read, and you can't be a teacher if you can't read.”

Jamilet bowed her head to acknowledge the shameful truth, and the matter was dropped.

 

One morning, as Mary arranged daisies throughout Jamilet's hair, she caught sight of the upper edge of the mark peeking out beyond her collar. She passed her finger over it to see if it would change color with her touch. When she saw that it did, she dropped the daisies. “What's that?” she asked, pointing with her little finger, as though fearing it would leap out and bite her. Jamilet smoothed the hair back over her collar as the heat rose to her cheeks, but she was thinking harder and faster than she ever had in her life, intent upon not losing her only friend. “It's kind of a scary story,” Jamilet said, turning around and opening her eyes wide for emphasis. “If I tell you, you might not sleep at night.”

Mary bit her lip and thought awhile. “That's okay, I watch scary movies all the time and I can sleep really well as long as I keep the light on.”

They settled themselves down in a quiet corner of the courtyard and Jamilet began to tell her a wondrous tale involving witches and
cucuys
that lived under children's beds. When they were in their deepest sleep, these evildoers would creep out and attempt to steal unsuspecting children from their homes. They would snatch them in their mouths the way dogs carry their young, and jump out the window with them before they awoke. “I was lucky,” Jamilet concluded, taking note of Mary's quivering bottom lip. “I woke up before the old witch could get me to the window, but she left her mark on me just the same.”

Mary digested the story and recovered rapidly from her fright, her pale face broadening to reveal two front teeth wrapped in metal and wire. “Let me see it again,” she said, reaching out for Jamilet's collar.

But Jamilet blocked her hand. “It's private.”

“That isn't private,” Mary returned, pointing between her legs as demurely as she could. “This is.”

“Well, it's private for me,” Jamilet said, stoic and unconvinced. “It's the most private part of me.”

Jamilet wondered what Mary would do if she knew that the mark sprawled across her shoulders, down her back, and all the way to the bottom of her knees. Would she be capable of smiling then? She decided not to test Mary's good humor. It was best to keep this a secret even from her only friend, just as she and her mother had agreed before beginning work at the Miller house.

“People are afraid of what they don't understand, Jamilet,” she said. “And there's enough to fear in this life as it is.”

But it was Lorena who broke the vow of secrecy when Mr. and Mrs. Miller asked about the mark their daughter had seen. Jamilet wondered if she'd understood her mother correctly when she was called into the study and directed to turn around and lift her blouse as far as it would go so the Millers could see the mark for themselves. Jamilet studied her mother's eyes. They were not sad, but were glittering with life, as they did on rare occasions. When Lorena repeated her request, Jamilet did as she was told and waited for the gasp of horror that would inevitably follow, but there was only silence and the distant sound of water dancing in the fountain where Mary waited for her friend to return. Jamilet wondered if American people expressed their shock differently from Mexican people, who were prone to make loud appeals to the saints and the Holy Mother when confronted with illness and deformity. For a moment, Jamilet thought the Millers had fainted standing up, but she dared not turn around to see for herself.

Then, Mr. Miller inhaled loudly, as if he'd suddenly remembered how to breathe. He cleared his throat to cover up. “We know a doctor,” he said, calming his voice with palpable effort. “He was trained in the United States, but he has a practice here, in Guadalajara.”

“I don't have money for that kind of doctor, sir,” Lorena said, unashamed. She knew exactly what she was doing.

Mrs. Miller's reply was shrill and immediate. “We'll take care of it. You can put your shirt down now, dear,” she said, and then whispered something to her husband that Jamilet couldn't hear.

 

Lorena had always told her daughter that somewhere in the world there was bound to be hope for a miracle, and that the north seemed as likely a place to find it as any. Surely, if they could build shiny metal buildings that touched the sky, there was a doctor there who'd know how to cure the mark. They'd long ago lost faith in the
curanderos
who waved leaves and lit candles while chanting and pouring acid medicines on Jamilet's skin, resulting in nothing but unbearable pain and blisters on top of the ugliness.

The sessions ended as always, with Jamilet exhausted on the bed, bandaged and bleeding and unable to sleep on her back for days. They were told that if the mark didn't disappear in three days, it never would. And as always, the three days came and went, and most times, the mark was redder and more inflamed than before.

The night before the appointment with the Millers' doctor, the expression in Lorena's eyes was not sad, but unusually hopeful. “I feel something wonderful in my heart that I've never felt before,” she said, although she'd never looked so pale.

Jamilet traced a finger along the tiny beads of perspiration that had sprung up along her brow. “Will it hurt, Mama?” she asked, knowing it would make no difference.

But Lorena didn't answer. She'd already fallen asleep, her lips still moving in silent prayer.

 

Jamilet and Lorena waited in the lobby of a sleek office building with carpet instead of tile and pictures of perfect, unblemished fruit hanging on the walls. They sat on the edge of a small sofa feeling awkward and out of place as well-to-do, fashionably dressed clients announced their arrival to the secretary, who knew each of them by name. Several were young girls about the same age as Jamilet. They complained about the sprouting of acne on their cheeks, but try as she might, Jamilet couldn't see what they were talking about.

One young man did have a problem more severe, and Jamilet tried not to stare at the red welts, like tiny raised volcanoes, scattered over his face and neck. She understood his withdrawn and sunken expression, as he sought comfort in the internal universe that was his alone. There he could transform the sound of his beating heart into a symphony—anything to distract himself from the critical stares around him. Jamilet wondered how it would be if she spoke with him. Would he answer her? Would he even allow himself to hear? She wondered until she forgot where she was, until her imagination took over and she could no longer feel her mother's hand sweating on her knee.

 

“Is this your first time here?” Jamilet asks him, whispering so that her mother won't hear.

“No, I've been seeing Dr. Martinez for a long time, but it hasn't helped much, as you can see.”

“This is my first time and I'm a little scared.”

He studies her face from brow to chin. “There's nothing wrong with you.”

“If you saw my back, you'd understand. I've been burned and scrubbed by
curanderos
and village doctors ever since I can remember, but no one can get rid of the mark. They say it's the worst they've ever seen. It even scares the ones who claim to have powers over evil spirits.”

He shakes his head. “If it's as bad as you say, then you might as well leave right now. I have a good mind to leave myself.”

Jamilet whispers so the secretary won't hear. “I hear the best doctors are in the north.”

“That's what they say,” he whispers back. “And I have the money to get there, but I don't speak a word of English.”

Jamilet nearly falls off her chair. “I happen to speak wonderful English. My best friend taught me. And I know a lot of American songs too.”

They stare at each other for a moment or two, knowing what they must do, but afraid to say it out loud.

“When do we leave?” Jamilet finally says.

“How about right now…before they call our names?”

 

The receptionist's voice boomed, jarring Jamilet out of her reverie. “Jamilet Juárez. The doctor will see you now.”

 

Dr. Martinez was a small but imposing man with soft, thick hands. He began with the usual pleasantries, stating that his good friends the Millers had described the nature of Jamilet's problem when they'd asked him to see her.

“They're good people,” he said to Lorena as he approached Jamilet. “And they're fond of you and your daughter.”

“We're grateful to them,” Lorena mumbled. “And to you for seeing us.”

He instructed Jamilet to lie facedown on the examining table and assured her that he was only going to look at the mark and that he would let her know if he was going to touch her and that, when he did, it would be only with his fingers, no instruments or needles. Jamilet relaxed considerably, although she could see her mother's hands twisted into a knot on her lap.