The Book of Want: A Novel

8. Bel

65 BELÉN Belén stumbled and fell hard on her knees in the middle of the dirt road. A chicken clucked in front of her and didn’t seem to care that this fifteen-yearold girl’s dress was ripped in three places and that dried blood mixed with bits of straw and grime covered her thin legs. Belén knew this stupid chicken. It sported a heart-shaped spot on its left wing and had escaped her uncle’s coop three months ago. Tío Normando believed that this unnatural mancha was a bad sign so he didn’t bother looking for the bird. Besides, ever since its disappearance, his other chickens gave more eggs than ever before. Now, Belén discerned that the fugitive chicken had grown skinny, filthy, and ragged but the heart shape miraculously maintained its rich, brown shimmer. “Get away from me,” said Belén. The chicken stopped, cocked its head to the left and then to the right, blinked four times at Belén, and then clucked its way to the other side of the road. “Stupid chicken.” Belén slowly got to her feet. Her groin hurt but at least the blood had stopped dripping out of her. The sun began to set, filling the sky with brilliant reds and purples. She needed to get home before dark. Belén only had another half mile to go but the pain kept her from moving any faster than a shuffle. Her parents would be angry. But Belén could do nothing to avoid the inevitable screaming from her mother, slap from her father. “Stupid chicken,” she muttered again as she hobbled forward. As Belén got closer to home, the light emanating from the other homes helped to illuminate the way. These structures could not compare with the one her father had built—most were nothing more than wooden shacks with tarpaper roofs—but they made Belén feel safer as if they stood sentry just for her. By the time Belén could see the silhouette of her house, the day’s heat had dissipated and a chill began to creep into her bones. She smacked her lips and 66 tried to make saliva but couldn’t. Belén shivered and thought how magnificent a drink of water would feel right then. Something so simple, so perfect. She closed her eyes and imagined the water on her lips and tongue, and then slaking her parched throat. She’d let some dribble down her chin and then she’d swallow a little and then gulp the rest all at once. That was her plan once she got home if she could stay awake. Her feet seemed to sink into the dusty road, deeper with each step. Belén heard an owl hoot-hoot-hoot and then a woman’s voice—was it her mother?— call her name. She tried to answer but her lips were now sealed dry and tight. And as she fell toward the voice that called her name, Belén believed that she would land safely on her mattress so that she could enjoy a long nap and save that cool drink of water for when she awoke. “Something like this wouldn’t have happened when Cárdenas was president!” Belén recognized her father’s familiar rant against President Manuel Ávila Camacho. Even though he spoke angrily, the sound of her father’s voice comforted Belén. She kept her eyes closed and enjoyed the soft mattress. “Why does it always come down to politics?” That was tío Normando. Oh! Belén should tell him that she saw his stupid runaway chicken today but she couldn’t bring herself to stir or even open her eyes. “Because politics is everything,” said her father, barely controlling his voice. “Politics has turned Mexico into Roosevelt’s bitch, that’s why. Our good men are moving north to work the fields so Roosevelt can send his men to fight Hitler.” “So?” “So, because of politics, our daughters can’t walk freely in this town without being molested by some stranger who feels that he can swoop down and take what he wants.” “Who said it was a stranger?” Silence. Just the sound of four people breathing somewhere above her. And then, slowly: “Because anyone who knows she’s my daughter would know that I’d kill him for this.” This last comment from her father sent a shiver through Belén...