The Iguana Tree. Michel Stone
a sack in her arms.
Lilia stepped to the doorway in time to see Rosa kiss Crucita’s cheeks and withdraw a bottle of mezcal and three small cups from the sack.
“We will dance together in the streets,” Rosa said, pouring three servings of the strong drink while her youngest two children giggled and played marbles beneath the shade tree. Lilia felt both ashamed and grateful when Rosa added, “We all have much to be thankful for, Lilia, even in difficult times.” She clipped a pink rose into Lilia’s hair. Rosa handed a cup each to Lilia and Crucita and said, “The fruits of our labors, friends.” She put a cup to her lips, threw her head back, and swallowed the strong, honey-colored liquor.
Crucita and Lilia did the same, and Lilia felt the smoky mezcal heat her throat and gut. “Thank you, Rosa,” Crucita said, rising. “You girls enjoy the festivities.” She patted Rosa on the back and added, “We do have plenty to be proud of here; keep reminding Lilia of the beauty of her own country.” Then the old woman made her way toward the house. Like the goats that pulled the trash carts through their village, she seemed used to laboring, accustomed to being tired.
“Of course,” Rosa said.
“She finds Héctor hard-headed, ashamed of his heritage,” Lilia said when Crucita was inside.
Rosa poured two more cups. “Is he not?”
“I adore Crucita, but perhaps she is a bit old-fashioned, set in her ways.”
“I agree with her, Lilia.”
Rosa and Lilia’s mothers had been close, and too often Rosa treated Lilia as a child, as if she had an unending responsibility to look after her dead friend’s daughter. In no mood for a disagreement but determined to defend her husband’s choices, Lilia said, “We cannot be expected to earn a hundred pesos a day stringing beads or picking agave.”
“Why not? It is honest work.” She passed a cup to Lilia. “Another?” How difficult saying no to Rosa could be. But the first cup had warmed and relaxed her. Surely another would only make Lilia feel better and numb her worries about Héctor. Drinking was easier than arguing.
Soon the women walked down the lane, past the widow’s marigold petals, strewn about in honor of the woman’s deceased husband. Rosa seemed not to notice the widow’s tribute, but the sight haunted Lilia, as if foreshadowing her own lonely future.
Music filled the air and excitement surged palpable to all in Puerto Isadore. How foolish Lilia felt participating in the celebration, wearing a rose above her ear. A goat bleated past them, part of a Mexican flag painted on its back, as two young boys chased it with paint, hoping to finish their job. They giggled and yelled to the women as they passed, “Hello, pretty ladies!”
Moments after leaving the lane, Lilia and Rosa became part of the colorful, swirling procession swelling in the streets, moving at a barely perceptible pace, as if all the energy were potential. Men, women, children laughed, danced, swayed, shrieked to music of their own making. Maracas and drums rattled, beat. Rosa’s head, thrown back, revealed her every tooth, and a laugh erupted from deep in her belly. She shook all over, clapped her hands, lost in the atmosphere, the electricity of the day, the moment. The procession made its way down to the pier, where soon boats would pass, bright banners, balloons, flowers flying from bow to stern. Those on board delighted in the festivities and homemade decorations honoring their village’s patron saint. When they reached the beach, Rosa gathered her children close to the water’s edge to catch sight of their father and the red, white, and green streamers the children had fastened to his boat. Lilia bought a can of guava juice from a vender and held the cool metal to her brow a full minute before opening the drink. Standing in speckled shade beneath a tree, she sipped the sweet juice and looked to the sea where a flotilla of boats was forming.
“Is that the beautiful Lilia?”
She turned to see an old, familiar face. “Emanuel! My God, it has been ages. How are you?” The two hugged as old friends do after a long separation. “I am well,” he said, smiling widely the way he always had, as if nothing could thrill him more than speaking to Lilia, as if the world were nothing but music and light, and burdens could be dissolved with a grin. “You look as lovely as always, Lilia.” She did not turn away or blush as she might have when last they had spoken, years earlier.
“And your grandmother? You and she still live here?”
“Yes, and I have a daughter. Alejandra. I married Héctor two summers ago.”
“I had heard about your marriage, but not the child. A daughter! Congratulations, Lilia.”
“Thank you,” she said, wishing she had Alejandra with her now so Emanuel could see her beautiful child.
“And Héctor? He is here today?”
She lowered her eyes. “No. He has gone to the border, to El Norte.”
Emanuel frowned. “With a coyote?”
Lilia had only recently learned this term for a smuggler. “Yes. He will send for us when he is settled.”
He nodded but said nothing, as if imagining a fate too harsh to acknowledge.
“Are you still living in Oaxaca City?” she said.
“Yes. I am in Puerto Isadore only a few days. I suppose I’ll remain in the city, but I will forever be of this village, you know? This is home,” he said.
“You look like a city boy,” she said, glancing down at his fine shoes.
He grinned. “Perhaps, but I have many wonderful memories of this place. Plenty right here at this very pier.” His eyes sparkled as they had in his youth, giving him a look of mischief.
Lilia thought of evenings so distant they seemed more like someone else’s experiences than her own. Of twilights melting into evenings spent lying next to Emanuel in the sand, under the pier, looking for constellations, sharing dreams. She remembered the hopefulness, the optimism, the kisses that hinted at waning innocence. How long ago that seemed.
“Lilia,” Rosa shouted, “Come on. We are going for a boat ride. Come with us.”
“I’ll be right there,” Lilia said.
“A pleasure to see you, Lilia,” Emanuel said. “I won’t keep you from your friends.”
Lilia did not want to leave her spot under the tree. Emanuel did not hold her there so much as the memories of a carefree life, of a long forgotten weightlessness and belief that all would always be right and under her control. When had she last felt this way? Somehow, Emanuel had reminded her. His presence alone had transported her, momentarily, to a time years since forgotten, a time of abundant possibilities. “Enjoy your visit,” she said.
He smiled. “You will see me before I return to the city, Lilia,” he said, then turned and walked away.
Lilia sipped her juice and watched Emanuel disappear into the crowd. A light breeze blew across the beach now as the setting sun dipped toward the Pacific. She made her way to the boat where Rosa’s family waited.
“Was that Emanuel?’ Rosa asked.
“Yes. I have not seen him in years.”
“If I recall he was sweet on you, no?” Rosa said, as her husband, José shoved the boat through the white foam.
Lilia shrugged, trying not to grin. “That was years ago. He was too wild, always running with the bad boys, you know?”
Rosa smiled. “True, but he is all grown up now. People change.” Lilia said nothing more but waved at the crowd on shore, a peacefulness settling over her. Rosa and her children shouted with merriment as they passed other boats, decorated and filled with families.
Lilia wondered if Héctor remembered this was the day the festival began. He would be happy if he were here. She hoped that wherever he was at this moment he was pleased with how his journey was progressing. But she also knew that if he were here today, he would