Tito was the first one to come through the doorway, limping slightly and refusing Mamá’s help. Then he turned toward me with narrowed eyes. As I sat up and started to speak, he grabbed my little brother José as if to steady himself, but his hands swiftly shifted from my brother’s thin shoulders to his neck. Tito’s eyes bore deeply into mine as his fingers flexed, until I closed my mouth and he released his grip. Neither Rosa nor Mamá noticed a thing.
I knew I should tell Rosa, but I didn’t want to frighten her. As for Mamá, what could I say? Even if I did, would she believe me?
“What is wrong with you?” Rosa asked several times during breakfast. “You are so quiet. Why aren’t you eating anything?”
I couldn’t look her in the eye. My head swirled with the thought of Tito touching himself and looking at her. Where would this lead? What would happen next? Mamá had to know, but would Tito really hurt the boys?
Tito stayed close to the house that day, using his twisted ankle as an excuse. He left no opportunity for me to be alone with either Mamá or Rosa. I could feel his eyes on me, like a snake watching a mouse scurrying up the path. That night I couldn’t sleep. I kept as close to Rosa as I could. Once I heard Tito snoring, I managed to relax and doze off a bit.
The next morning, while making breakfast, Mamá asked me to take the boys to the well to fetch water. Tito was still asleep.
“Come with me,” I said to Rosa, who was mixing masa.
“No, no, I need her here,” Mamá said.
“Hurry. Fill all the buckets.” Hurry, I did. But by the time I got back, only Mamá was in the house.
“Where is Rosalba? Where is she?” I asked, looking anxiously around.
Mamá tilted her head, “Ay, Dios mío! You can’t live a minute without your sister?” She shook her head.
“Mamá, you don’t understand. Where is she? Where is Tito?”
“Tito decided to go into town to get a few things. He’s still hobbling on that ankle, so he asked Rosa to go along with him to help.”
My heart sank. “No, Mamá, no!”
“What do you mean, No? They’ll be back before dark.”
I paced wildly, my heart racing at the thought.
“How long ago? When did they leave?” It took half an hour to get down to where he kept his old pickup, and with his ankle, perhaps even longer.
“What is wrong with you?” My mother stopped folding the blankets and turned. She lifted her chin. “What?”
“Oh, Mamá. I saw him. Saw Tito . . . looking at Rosa, and . . .” I glanced toward the door where the boys were playing outside. “I saw him . . . touch himself.”
Her eyes widened.
“Mamá, he might hurt her. I have to go. I have to find them. I have to stop him.”
“Stop him?” Her eyes flared. “Stop him from what? What is your problem? You are the one that has to stop. Jealous! Always jealous! Of me and Papá. Of Rosa and Papá. And now, Tito? This has to stop. ¡Inmediatamente! All of this has to stop!”
Just as I feared, she didn’t believe me. Couldn’t believe me.
Desperate, I continued. “But I saw him, Mamá! First, down by the river when we were bathing, and then yesterday,” I pointed toward the window, “over there, I saw him looking in the window at Rosa and touching himself, before he fell!” I could see his face, his eyes glazed over, the slight upturned smile, his body jerking with each movement. As I turned back to Mamá, I was met again by a fierce crack across my cheek, this one much fiercer than before.
“Get out! Get out!” She screamed, spit flying in my face. “How dare you destroy the life I am making for myself. How dare you?”
I stumbled back against the wall. The boys were standing in the doorway with wide frightened eyes.
Mamá was breathing hard, tears streaming down her face. “Always complaining! You appreciate nothing! You just make my life harder and harder. Papá. School. Oaxaca. Well, you are a woman now! Let me see what kind of life you can make for yourself in this world! ¡Ahora! Go!” Throwing the blankets at my feet, she flew out the door, the boys scurrying after her. “You better not be here when I get back!” were the last words I heard her shout.
Sobbing, I slid to the floor and looked around the small dark room. Then I remembered Rosa. I had to get to Rosa! I took a deep breath, struggled to my feet, and set to work. I grabbed my backpack hanging on the wall and, hurrying about the room, I stuffed in anything I could find. Some clothes, my red rebozo, and last, my little wooden box of stars, a gift from Papá that contained a few prized possessions, but hidden under a fake bottom, a small amount of money—money Papá had given me to save for school, money that I had never told Mamá about even in the darkest times. How often had I cringed with guilt? But now I knew, this was what it was for.
Quickly I pulled on a pair of socks and my old brown shoes and hurried out the door. Outside I could hear the sounds of José crying and Mamá scolding up beyond the house in our garden. Up there she would be able to see me heading down the mountain. I stopped to fill a plastic bottle with water from the bucket, took one last look at the ugly stick house, and ran down the dirt path. No voice called me back. I imagined her tight-lipped, arms crossed, watching me slip and skid on the steep, twisting path until I was out of sight.
I had never walked down this mountain path by myself. Rosa and I had accompanied Tito down twice to go to the mercado in Zinacantán, and our whole family had gone once for a festival. Rosa and I had explored the mountain a bit on our own, but I had never been alone—alone with the snapping of twigs behind me or the sudden movement in bushes or trees. Every turn, I expected to find a snake, or jaguar, or worse, a man. These mountains could hide the shame of poverty or crime, not to mention ski-masked rebels or paramilitary soldiers. Though nothing of that sort had happened in the year we had lived here, there were always stories of other villages, of other mountain hideouts.
I ran as fast as I could, sticking with the flattened path that lame Tito must have taken. The side of my face that my mother had slapped throbbed. I could still hear her voice, “Get out! Get out!” Did she mean it? Was she crying now? Would she run after me, as I was running after Rosa? The disgust in her eyes, was it for me or was it for Tito?
I was halfway down when I heard a woman’s high-pitched plaintive voice to my far right. I couldn’t make out the words. I scrambled up a boulder and saw them, Tito and Rosa, beside a stream. His shoe was off, and he was hopping on one foot toward Rosa, who was backing away. I jumped down and made my way in their direction, climbing over rocks and pushing through thick brush. I slipped, catching myself as I fell and scraping both hands. By the time I was able to see them again, Tito was on the ground holding his ankle and moaning in pain. Rosa was leaning forward, her arm extended to help him up. I shouted, just as he grabbed her and pulled her down, but her own scream masked mine. “What are you doing? Are you crazy?” she was saying. Absorbed in their struggle, neither heard me as I charged toward them.
Next thing I knew I was kicking Tito in his side with my thick brown shoes, as Rosa, wide-eyed, struggled underneath. Stunned, Tito turned and our eyes met just as I stomped my full weight onto his ankle. He let out a piercing scream, like that of a wild monkey. I stumbled and fell but rolled away just as he lunged at me. In that instant, a key flew out of his pocket at my feet. I snatched it up and shouted at Rosa, “Run, Rosa, run! Let’s go!”