"Summer of the Mariposas" by Guadalupe García McCall, Chapters 7–10

In the small kitchen at the back of the house, we ate traditional birthday fare.

Our number one rule about answering inopportune questions from strangers was “don’t add too much cream to the tacos.”

She was always the worst at keeping things from strangers. She was just too candid.

Pita whined out an incoherent sound, and I smiled as I walked away with it without feeling even a little bit guilty.

“Well, what’s done is done. No use lamenting it. Let’s get some sleep,” I said, yawning.

Plastered across the width of the paper was a giant picture of us—my sisters and I huddled together under last year’s scrappy little Christmas tree, happy as mariposas, our bright smiles belying our alleged situation.

“Yup. According to this, the National Center for Missing and Exploded Children is looking for us,” Velia continued reading on.
“Exploited,” I corrected.

Why had I listened to her? I should have thought this thing through.
As apprehension spread into every pore of my being, I did the one thing I could to quiet the guilt in my mind.

But even with the sound of loud music reverberating through the car, I could still hear my conscience nagging at me.

But even with the sound of loud music reverberating through the car, I could still hear my conscience nagging at me. You could have stopped this, all of it, it whispered. This is more your fault than anyone else’s. You’re the eldest. You should have known better.

With our backpacks, purses, and the few provisions we still had in the car in tow, we started down the road heading east.

The morning sun grew hotter by the minute, and we were sweating profusely within half an hour.

Several times along the way, Pita cried that she was either tired or thirsty and we had to stop and sit on the side of the road under a mesquite or a huisache tree, trying to make the trek without succumbing to heat exhaustion.

Immediately, the enchanting woman began doting on us, like a tiny yellow butterfly, fluttering about.

Whereas the land we’d just crossed had been populated by huisaches and scrub, her house was large and impeccably landscaped, like the houses in the more affluent neighborhoods of Eagle Pass, with a beautiful garden of flowering plants and herbs.

The woman’s house was beautiful too, with wide, resplendent windows reflecting the daylight on every side, making it glitter and shine majestically.

The vivacious woman took us through her spacious living room and into a splendid, sunlit kitchen where we were asked to sit at a long mahogany table while our hostess poured us glass after tall glass of ice-cold lemonade.

Since she was self-sufficient, relying on her garden and animals for sustenance, she didn’t know anyone in town.

Like a fairy godmother waving a magical wand, she tapped open cabinet doors and pulled out extra fluffy pillows so that we might rest comfortably on the sofas and recover from our arduous expedition.

Arnulfo Jiménez disclosed that the drowned man, Gabriel Pérdido, was a known drug dealer and fugitive.

The kidnapping might have all been part of a ploy to flush out Gabriel’s cohorts.

The kidnapping might have all been part of a ploy to flush out Gabriel’s cohorts.

She’d acted so kindly toward us, but her lack of interest in our plight, our need to get to Abuelita’s house, frightened me.

I turned on the bathroom light and rinsed my mouth in the sink. I was so weak, I had to rest my upper body on the vanity.

She was grinding out something hard in a big black three-legged mortar.

“Pig slop,” she said as she emptied the pie dishes into the trough inside the first pen.

I followed La Llorona along the garden paths that meandered around the backyard, winding in and out and around each other.

You only need a few leaves, this much. You’ll have to soak them in warm water for an hour. Then, when the water turns purple, you take the sprigs out and make your sisters drink the potion.

You must prepare yourself for the confrontation that will ensue with her arrival.

“Are you crazy?” Cecilia asked innocently, her face twisted into an indignant expression that was too fake to be effective.

Even though she has cataracts, she can see beyond our limitations.

Even as the cruel words left my mouth, I felt terrible about their callousness.

“Children of the dark, children of evil! Your mother has been humiliated! Come to me now, come back home. Punish these insolent girls! Unleash your wrath upon them! Make them suffer! Avenge my wounded pride!”

“Lotería!” Pita cried, exultantly. “Oh, goodie. Can I play?”

“Our car broke down,” I said, being careful not to divulge too much information.

“It is a difficult road you’ve taken, one riddled with hardships and painful ordeals, but then again, you are difficult children.”

Unfortunately, the road ahead is full of trials and tribulations.

You have angered the witch and now you must pay for your transgressions.

Un brujo, a devious warlock. You will meet him first, but he will not show himself as who he really is. He will come in disguise, asking for help. But don’t be deceived by his helplessness; he is wily and ruthless.

“You killed it?” Pita asked, sounding relieved.
“No,” Teresita’s husband said, looking a little chagrined yet firm at the same time.