She didn’t say anything.
“Monsie, it’s okay if you forgot.” I sighed. “I can go ask her today.” My day was already very busy, but I thought I could squeeze it in.
“Our goat is dead, Maestra Carla,” she whispered.
That was a tragedy. Not only did a goat provide milk to drink, but they could make cheese out of it as well.
“I’m so sorry, Monsie,” I said. Her abuelita was already destitute and sold tortillas she made by hand every day.
Monsie looked me in the eye. “The Chupacabra drank its blood,” she whispered.
What?
I looked at her seriously. “There’s no such thing as the Chupacabra, Monsie. It’s a folktale. A myth. A mad dog.”
She shook her head. “I saw it.”
I let out another sigh. “Monsie. You don’t have any light at your place. Not even candles. Just that little fire. It’s very dark on the street where your abuelita lives. It was probably just a dog. I’m sorry it killed your goat though.”
Monsie didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. Her eyes said she didn’t believe me.
I went to the hovel where Monsie’s abuelita lived later that day. There was no sign of the old woman. There was also no goat. She lived in a ramshackle little hut with planks for the walls. The slats didn’t even cover up the entire wall. There were large gaps between each one, allowing passersby to see into the small building. She had two huge blue containers for water, which Monsie no doubt had to carry from a well in order to fill them up. Some of the boards were broken and hanging loose, letting in even more of the hot sun. The floor was dirt. A grinding bowl sat on a stone slab on cinderblocks. That’s where the corn was ground into meal for the tortillas abuelita made and sold. It was her only livelihood if the goat was dead. Two little pallets were on the floor, a thin blanket on each. Monsie’s parents were part of a mariachi band which travelled around Queretaro looking for gigs. They were gone for weeks at a time and Monsie stayed with her abuelita.
The fire was burned out, which was surprising. Normally when I’d come in the past, it was always smoldering.
“Abuelita?” I called out. The room was too small to hide in. I went outside and walked around the hovel. A few lean-tos were there, owned by other families. They were deserted as well. “Abuelita?” I called a little louder.
I heard a growl come from some nearby bushes. It startled me, and I quickly backed away. Some of the dogs which roamed the area could be vicious with strangers. So I hurried away and left, walking back to the albergue. All the food had been eaten when I returned. Instead of meat, the cook had skimped and made up some nopales instead. I spent the rest of the afternoon hungry.
By the end of the day, after all the children were playing outside, I went to Maestra Lena’s room. She was the headmistress but only ten years older than myself. But because of all she’d experienced working in the albergue, she could have been forty.
“Is something the matter, Carla?” she asked me, not looking up from the papers she quickly reviewed. They were artwork projects the children had done earlier in the day. She scribbled a few hasty words of praise on each.
“I’m still trying to get a mariachi band for the celebration,” I said glumly. “I’d hoped Monsie’s parents could do it.”
Lena stopped flipping papers. “They’ve done it before if they didn’t have work. It doesn’t have to be on my birthday.”
“I know. I just wanted to tell you I’m still working on it.”
“Thank you, Carla.” She looked back down then saw something that distressed her. Her countenance darkened.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“The pictures,” she said, sighing. “Children say so much by what they draw. Their moods. What’s happening at home. It makes me sad. But this one. What do you make of it?”
The one she handed me was Monsie’s. It was a picture of the hovel. The slats were like jail bars, except horizontal instead of vertical. A little ribbon of smoke came through the roof. But there was a something in black. Like a crayon had been dragged over that spot over and over. Even part of the crayon crumbled there, like little specks of pepper.
“I don’t know,” I said, not wanting to reveal what Monsie had told me. Chupacabras were like vampire dogs. They weren’t real. They were stories for the unexplainable. “She said her goat died.”
Luna’s eyes crinkled with sadness. “I hope they don’t starve this winter. I’m going to see if I can get donations for a bag of dried hominy for her. I wish I had more budget to help. But we barely make it month to month as it is with what the government in Queretaro gives us.” She pressed her lips. “Did you already pay for the cake?”
“Yes, it’s already paid for. Or they wouldn’t have even started on it. We’ll figure it out.”
“I hope so,” she said then shook her head again. “Poor Monsie.”
There was so much to do at the albergue in one week that I was too busy to check in on Monsie’s abuelita again. The children would spend the next week making decorations for Maestra Lena’s party and arranging for everything took so much time. I was exhausted by the time the weekend came. After inspecting the girls’ dormitory, which smelled like medicinal pine from the cleaner they used, I walked past the rows of empty beds, each with the same old bedspread. The uniforms looked the same, the beds looked the same. Even the kids’ shoes, although some were more worn than others because of soccer. After the inspection, I left the dormitory to wait by the gates in the hopes of catching abuelita when she came to pick up Monsie, but when I got there, Monsie was already gone.
Some of the boys were kicking around a ball on the cement slab that was used as both a soccer pitch and basketball court. The slab was splotched and cracking. I loved the colorful stone wall at the far end in the shade. Students from previous years had painted each mismatched stone a different color, so it was pretty and provided a place to sit on hot days.
“Jose!”
He was the nearest boy.
“Yes, Maestra Carla?” he said, turning to face me.
“Did you see Monsie leave with her abuelita?”
A ball came toward him and he kicked it away. “No. I didn’t see her go.”
Some parents came for their children after work, so we had to keep our eyes on them for a while. Finally, after they were gone, I went back to the kitchen to get something for dinner. Maestra Lena had already left, so it was just the cook and I.
“Did you see Monsie go, Mia?”
“I can’t keep track of all those kids, Carla,” she said, wiping sweat from her forehead.
“I know, I was just—”
“I cook for these kids every day. I don’t have time. And next week is the party and we have to stock up on more expensive food. I need more money.”
Mia liked to complain but I just wasn’t in the mood to listen today. Even though I was hungry, I’d come back later. “I need to go, Mia.”
“Where? Do you have a hot date or something?”
I snorted. I hadn’t dated anyone since I’d been dumped by my boyfriend. Most of the men of Tilaco were too afraid of me to speak to me. They didn’t like that I’d gone to college.
“No, Mia. I’m going to step out and talk to Monsie’s abuelita about the mariachi band. I’ve forgotten all week and the party is next week.”
“You better have that band, Carla,” she said in a scolding tone. “Maestra will be upset if the kids don’t dance on her birthday.”
“I know. I know. See you later. Save me some dinner.”