The Iguana Tree. Michel Stone
to take the infant from the girl. Alejandra sniffled, red-faced and agitated in Rosita’s arms. Lilia’s nipples prickled at the sight of her hungry baby, and she felt her milk letting down. “Thank you, Rosita.”
The girl nodded. “Can I do anything for you?” she said.
“No, no, please. Go eat. You are very good with Alejandra, Rosita. Thank you for helping me today.”
“Of course,” Rosita said. “I’ll join Mama in the kitchen, but fetch me after you have nursed.”
Lilia took the baby into the bedroom and changed her quickly. By the time she’d secured a fresh diaper on Alejandra, the child’s whimpers had turned to wails, her face as wrinkled as a newborn’s in her frustration, though she was nearly six months old.
Lilia unbuttoned her dress, milk already streaming from her breasts, and pushed her left nipple into Alejandra’s mouth. The baby hungrily sucked, barely able to keep up her gulping with the flow of Lilia’s milk.
Lilia’s shoulders relaxed. She closed her eyes and wondered which of them comforted the other more: she or Alejandra. Never had Lilia felt as fulfilled or as needed as when she nursed her child. Never had she experienced such a connection to anyone. She considered her own mother and how Crucita had once been a smooth-skinned new mother, too. Lilia imagined a young Crucita, her breasts full and rounded with milk, cradling Lilia’s mother in her arms, nursing her as Lilia now nursed Crucita’s great-grandchild. The circle of life and the passions it aroused bewildered Lilia. How odd the swings of human emotion could be: only moments ago Lilia had grieved with plentiful tears beside her grandmother’s corpse. Now she wept tears of joy at providing sustenance for her infant.
When Alejandra had emptied Lilia’s breast, Lilia burped her and put the infant to her right breast. The child soon lost interest, her hunger satiated. Not wanting to change clothes, Lilia pulled a butter-yellow shawl from her dresser to cover the small wet circles of milk on her dress. She kissed Alejandra’s brow, then carried the child into the front room where Crucita’s casket sat.
Lilia saw through the kitchen window the village priest in the courtyard, speaking with some men who played cards beneath the shade tree.
Rosita came to Lilia to take Alejandra from her. “You have more visitors,” she said, reaching for the child.
Rosa had followed Rosita over to Lilia and placed another chair beside Crucita’s casket. “The priest has arrived and no doubt he will want to visit with you. Are you going to eat your cake?” she said, motioning toward the small, square table where Lilia had placed the dish and her cup.
Lilia shook her head and handed the plate to Rosa.
“Keep that cup and sip from it, girl. This is a celebration of your Crucita’s life,” Rosa said.
“A festive occasion, a time of celebration of a full earthly life,” the priest said as he approached Lilia. When she stood to greet him, he motioned for her to sit.
“Our Crucita now dances in heaven,” he said, placing a candle beside the casket and lighting the wick with a match. He was an old man and had been the village priest Lilia’s entire life. Lilia had not often attended services, but the father had baptized her, presided over her quinceañera Mass, her marriage to Héctor, and Alejandra’s baptism.
The music in the courtyard grew louder, and Lilia heard Rosa tell someone to find some dominoes.
“Thank you for coming, Father,” Lilia said, her voice a whisper, though she’d not intended it to be so. As the priest took a seat beside Lilia, she imagined the hem of Crucita’s dress swinging as she danced with her long-dead husband, white lilies tucked behind both ears.
“Tell me, child, what is your fondest memory of your grandmother?”
He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms and legs as if preparing to listen for a while. Lilia had not spoken more than a few words all afternoon, and the question unsettled her.
She hesitated. “Crucita raised me. She became my mother the instant her daughter, my mother, died bearing me. I have many happy times to recall.”
The priest smiled. “Yes?” he said, raising his bushy eyebrows over eyes like golden marbles.
Rosa approached them in silence, eager to fulfill her duties as hostess. She handed the priest a cup of mezcal and tipped the bottle over Lilia’s cup, replenishing the half she’d drunk.
“My grandmother spoke her mind. That is not a specific memory but an openness I admired in her.” Lilia took a long sip so that she could stop speaking.
The priest did likewise and said, “Can you recall a time you particularly admired her straightforwardness?”
Lilia took another sip, hoping the mezcal would make this easier.
“My grandmother took great pride in her heritage. She made beautiful pottery. She put care into all she did, and she had little regard for those of a different mindset.”
The priest nodded, shifted himself in his chair. The tilt of his graying head and the slow way he blinked his amber eyes like an ancient tortoise comforted Lilia.
“My husband has gone to Estados Unidos de América, and Crucita could not understand that.” Lilia drained her cup and sucked in a deep breath.
“I see. Do you understand why?”
Lilia exhaled and ran her fingers behind her ears as if tucking away loose strands of hair.
“I love and respect my husband and understand his purpose, but I value Crucita’s experience, her wisdom. I admire her fierce pride. I cannot easily reject my past because my Crucita has instilled her values in me.”
“Go on,” he said when she paused and picked at a callus on her thumb.
“I suppose my favorite memories are more like images. I have a picture in my mind of Crucita making pottery, a look of contentment brightens her eyes and colors her cheeks. When I think of my Crucita, this is what I see. Her beautiful pottery.”
He nodded, examining the bottom of his empty cup. Turning to Crucita, he smiled.
“You have lived well, Crucita. Your child here is a vessel for your worldly experiences, your tribulations, your labor. She accepts all you have given her. You may rest in God’s house and rejoice in the peace you will find there.” He brought his fist to his lips to stifle a belch.
“Father,” Lilia said. “Do you think I will disrespect my grandmother by going to my husband, by leaving the place of my ancestors? “
He took Lilia’s hand in his thick, warm palm. “Let us pray a novena of mourning, child.”
Lilia found more comfort in his touch than she’d anticipated, and she held tight, concentrating on the words flowing fast and soft from the priest’s mouth.
“Heavenly Father, be with your servant Crucita on her journey. Keep her close to you so that she may be a source of guidance and strength to those she has left behind. Help her granddaughter Lilia to feel Crucita’s spirit guiding her choices, giving her self-reliance. Strengthen Lilia’s faith in herself and in this world and the afterworld, and fill Lilia with peacefulness and renewed strength.”
“Amen,” Lilia whispered.
The priest stood and pulled from his pocket rosary beads. He placed them in Lilia’s hand and said, “Say your rosario for nine days and always on the anniversary of Crucita’s death.” He squeezed Lilia’s fist in his and, blinking his eyes slowly, added, “You will be all right, child.”
She looked into his confident, yellow eyes, and said, “Maybe,” and the tears she thought she’d cried dry choked her again.
The priest lifted Lilia by her elbow so that she stood facing him. “Death will not weaken the bonds between you two.”
Lilia nodded.
“Family is