The Witches of El Paso

Chapter 23

23

Before singing the encanto, Nena insisted that they turn off the air-conditioning and open the doors to the backyard, and all the windows. Now, it’s at least a hundred degrees in Marta’s kitchen.

Alejandro and the boys are at Carlsbad Caverns for the weekend. Alejandro had been confused about why he needed to take the boys, alone, why Marta couldn’t go, and then Marta, frustrated, had conjured a little storm that rained on Alejandro’s head. After that, he started packing bags for him and the boys, leaving within the hour.

“Last time, it wasn’t just insects and slimy things that made their way into the pot. There were deer and birds and other animals. It was more like a stew instead of a powder, and it tasted delicious,” Nena says.

Marta and Nena are staring down at an enameled Dutch oven that Kika gave Marta one Christmas. The pot is full of a fine dust that smells like sulfur. The butcher block on which the pot sits is charred from where Nena set down a bundle of burning creosote bush.

“What do we do with this stuff?” Marta asks.

“Eat it,” Nena says.

“You really think that’s a good idea?”

“You know the joke about the immigrants crossing the river?”

“Oh, no, Nena, please not a joke right now,” Marta says.

“Why did the immigrants cross only in pairs?”

“Why?”

“Because they saw a sign that said no tres-passing.”

“That’s a very bad pun, Nena.”

“At any crossing there are rules. You have to prove you’re allowed to go to the other side. Now we have what we need, this is our ticket.”

Marta can’t quite believe that when she sang the encanto Pablo gave her from Sister Benedicta, the ants and scorpions and snails and worms appeared, covering every inch of the tiles, climbing up the sides of the island and fighting each other into the pot, where they cooked, shells clattering.

Nena wets her finger and dips it in the dust, popping it in her mouth.

“Te toca a ti,” Nena says. Your turn.

Marta’s gone too far down this path to hesitate any longer.

The dust doesn’t taste as bad as she expected. More than anything, it’s bland, like eating raw flour. Marta braces herself, expecting to be taken away to the sun like Nena had warned her, but all Marta feels is a snapping-to, an extra awareness, an extreme version of when she puts her glasses on first thing in the morning.

The furry soot that was on the wall at Nena’s is in Marta’s kitchen now, just as black, covering the wall next to the pantry. At Nena’s, Marta had no idea what was going on, the pulsing soot too bizarre for her to pick out any details. But now, with the clarity of La Vista, she can see how the soot folds in on itself, with a darker black at the center. In the blackness, there’s not so much a door, but a flap, like the entrance to a tent.

Marta takes Nena’s hand, and they walk through to the other side.

They enter a place that’s chilly with refrigerated air, the sounds muffled by a carpet of a familiar red and blue pattern, an intentionally busy design meant to hide crumbs and spilled drinks. The votives are lit on the tables of La Sirena, glowing red. Marta and Nena stand in the long hallway lined with pews at the entrance. Behind them are the bathrooms and the cigarette machine, in front, the big arched doorway that leads to the dining room, the sign with gold lettering on a black background, “Please Wait to be Seated.”

Marta looks over at the bar, hoping to see Luna bent over her papers, a cup of coffee by her side. But La Sirena is empty of people, even if the tables are all set, the restaurant ready for guests to arrive. Marta doesn’t think they’ve traveled in time, so then where are they?

“What are we waiting for, Nena?” Marta asks, but Nena isn’t listening. She’s staring at the carved door being pulled open from the street.