Washing Girl
In my school uniform, sweaty and dusty, I arrive at the rusty garden gate around one as usual. I lift its wood frame so it won’t scratch along the ground. The intoxicating scent of blooms on our tall rosebush, warmed by the high sun, tells me I’m home.
The rich, steamy aroma of black beans with garlic simmering on the tabletop stove surrounds me as I enter our kitchen. Carla, my sister, has made tortillas by hand, and they sit thick and fresh in the basket. I serve myself on a white glass plate and pour myself a glass of limonada fresh from the tree out back.
Carla sets out for school and I hear the distinct whistle from down the street. You would think it was a bird if you didn’t have a trained ear, but it’s my best friend, Chucho, ready to set out.
I wait on the curb until Chucho comes into sight. Trailing behind, his little brother Hermán; we call him Conejo. Conejo doesn’t talk, never has. He can hear, but never speaks. He follows. Behind me, Paco comes up.
“Hey Pájaro, let’s go to the tracks and pick up our bottle caps,” says Chucho. I’m called Pájaro Loco, Woody Woodpecker. My hair stands up on the top of my head, cut short all around. We follow, slow at first, Conejo with all the trust in the world. We left the metal caps on the track to be flattened and left with sharp edges by the trains that pass from the capital to the coast.
We hammer two holes in the discs, lace twine through them and wind the string tight by spinning one end. Pulsing them back and forth in front of us sends the discs spinning as the twine unwinds. We stand across from one another and wait for our disc to slice the other’s string, sending the lethal slivers flying. Since Paco got nicked under the eye, he hasn’t played once.
The railroad tracks stretch for miles across green fields that eventually bring you to the river where a cool swim in the shallow stretches will break the heat of the day.
Everyone knows we’re not supposed to go to La Palína, the curve at the river that gives way to deep, rapid currents that wait to pull, to churn small legs downward. This is where the washing girl from Palín slipped from the flat, heavy rock as she worked the river water through the clothes. She swirled under and drowned.
Her name was María and she was from the slum, Palín. The family of María lived in a pressboard home. She was a good girl. They buried her in a box made from real wood, rough cut but nicer than the house she lived in.
In my mind, I see a moment when the girl teeters on the edge between earth and water, her long skirt tucked at her ankles, before the final shift of balance when she topples down. Her mamá looks over to her. Her hands ache with the wringing. The fabric of the blouse occupies her hands instead of the skirt at María’s ankle, which she may have reached for.
The elders knew she hadn’t slipped. She was pulled by La Llorona, the spirit form of a white woman with long hair who hunts for the souls of children. She is called La Llorona for her mournful cries, lamenting the drowning of her own children. She hides beneath a hood until she reaches for them. A long white dress covers her feet as she floats across the water.
The rezadoras, the people designated to pray for her soul, lit many candles and murmured countless rosarios for nine days to pull the soul of María to the heavens—in case it was taken by La Llorona who wanted to keep the girl’s soul for the underworld.
Although I haven’t seen her myself, I believe in the spirit of La Llorona.
She may have just slipped as she pushed the soapy garment across the rock with her fists, but how can you be sure La Llorona doesn’t exist when María from Palín was taken?
We balance on the rails, seeing how far we can go without falling the few inches to solid ground. Revealing our ribs, we pull our shirts behind our neck to cool off from the sweltering humidity. Paco is the first to fall. Knowing it’ll be down to Chucho and I, Paco starts jumping on the loose tracks behind us. Conejo falls and continues to walk with his head down. Chucho and I are the leaders of the pack. Our daring, our wits, our ability to climb and crawl secure our standing.
Arriving at the river, the sight of the water makes me want to be enveloped by it and drink it at the same time. Chucho, Paco, and Conejo wade into the shallow, pebbly water. We’re downstream of the curve, where it’s safe. La Palína is higher up, deeper, rougher. I want to dive deep, to go all the way under, not just wade up to my knees with pebbles poking at my feet.
I’m hot. I need to jump in, to feel the water all around me. Heading up around the curve, Chucho calls after me, “Nah, hombre. It’s dangerous up there. Come in here. You’re the last one already. That makes you it. That makes you the gallina.”
He taunts my back because I’m still walking. I’m no chicken; I’m the toughest of all of them. I strip my shirt and peel off my shoes, bunch them into a ball, and toss them on the bank.
“She’s going to get you,” I hear Paco call behind the rushing of water.
But I’m already at the edge. My toes sink into the cool moss inviting me in. Slippery, absorbing, no going back now. I look back and see Conejo, his small body folded down, cupping water into his hands and over his head. His ginger-colored face is too distant to read. Say something, Conejo. Tell me not to do it. He could speak, if he had something to say, I’ve always thought.
Instead it’s the voice of Chucho, weak through the powerful white noise, “You’re going to awaken La Palína. La Llorona is going to come for your soul. Just walk back down, Pájaro. You’re not it, anyway.”
The white froth below me, like the milk of the river, doesn’t know or care about this boy about to go in. Glossy, blurred stones line the edge far down. On the other bank, a little ways down, a tree dips into the water and a vine hangs low, waiting for my grasp. That tree is reaching out its hand to me, so I’ll swim for it. I am the bravest.
With one smooth jump, I am under. The sweat on my body makes a slick barrier between the river and me. Floating to my back, I wipe the salty sweat from my body until the river reaches my skin.
“I knew you were loco, man. Why do you think we call you Pájaro?” The echoing calls of the others reach me from downstream.
I push the water back through my black hair and spit a fountain in front of me. The vine across the water fades from view, telling me to cross for it soon. The water treads, thick, between my legs. With my face hovering above the surface, I practice my breath, filling and emptying my lungs. The murky bottom of the riverbed is beyond the touch of my feet, somewhere at an infinite depth, greater than the height of this boy of ten.
With one more glance at the vine, I make a quick flip under the surface to swim for it. My dive is too deep; the river sucks me into the undercurrent. The river pulls and swirls me into its boundless folds. The river lies heavy and unrelenting above me as I struggle to rise to the surface. If only I can come up and float down to where the others are, I will never break the rules again. I am stupid for tempting La Llorona. Dear God, mi mamá will have to pray a novena; for nine days her tears will flow.
Like a fetus in the fertile, violent womb of the river, I spin, unable to free myself. The water pushes in on me from every side. The breath in my lungs is finite and seeps from my pores, pulled by the terror washing through my veins, as if my blood has been replaced by the clear, blue cold of the river.
My little boy muscles struggle against the transparent muscles of the current. The river anchors me down. Inside I yell for help, inside I pray to María to deliver me from this trap. In my mind’s eye, I see La Llorona lower the velvety hood from her head. My body grows weak and my thoughts grow dreamlike. The image of her devilish eyes penetrating mine, looking to hook my soul, looking for my surrender, sticks in my mind’s eye. Don’t give in, I tell myself. I pull my limbs to me so she can’t grab at them.
Opening my eyes under the water, I expect to see her ghostly face. All I see is the swirling sand and mud of the depths of the river. I only see the heavy, encompassing water clinging to me. It is the water that won’t release me. The river gurgles and roars through my ears.
A stick washes by and brushes my leg. I close my eyes again. I see the washing girl. I imagine her body floating by me, the stick her arm, the bone of her arm, all that remains. Her spirit floats through me, as the water seems to go right through me now.
A calm passes through me as well; my heart rate slows. María is not here with me, haunting me. She has traveled to heaven. La Llorona did not take her; the river took her. The river is potent. The river is real. The river is deep and profound and I am not separate from it. The dream of the velvety hood, the face of a horse, the piercing eyes, dissolves into droplets and washes downstream.
Look up, I tell myself. And white, watery light sways above me, the direction out. With a final burst of strength, I push to the top, pulling my legs up, out of the vortex. I gasp and paddle with all my strength for the edge. I make it, farther down from the vine. I look back to it and it appears to drag, doesn’t seem to be reaching out for me anymore. Clinging to the clay bank, I press my face towards the sweet earth. I breathe deeply the scent of the clay, and something deep inside me says, take a bite. My tongue reaches towards it and stops.
I climb along the bank and shuffle my way down to the others. My hands tremble as I scoop handfuls of water from the river to wash the clay and mud from my face and body. Around the curve, the carefree cries of the others fill the air like sunshine. I pause for a moment and shake my head so I’ll be able to smile. When I appear to them, they grow silent, stare at me like I am a ghost.
“Wow, look at Pájaro. What happened to you?”
“Nada. I was just climbing around.” I look down and see the scratches, lines of red that they see. I ease into the shallow water to wash the rest of the mud and clay from me.
“La Llorona almost got him. But Pájaro fought her off.” They splash water at me, making sure I’m real. Making sure I’m flesh and bone.
“Nah, hombre. It was just the river.”
Copyright © 2008 by Susan Niz
