A Personal Experience By Lorena
Every Mexican holiday, my family makes the drive across the border. Every holiday. Every single one. Luckily, there's just the five of us: me, my mom, my grandma, my uncle, and my cousin Laura, who doesn't believe in pomp and ceremonies, so she stays at the hotels. I was thirteen the year we went down to the Metropolitan Cathedral, or Catedral Metropolitana, in Mexico City, to give thanks to God for a good year.
The moon was easing overhead to compliment the stars when we walked out of the cathedral, one of the last groups to leave. The ceremony had gone late, and now the night was extremely cold. I shivered, confused. It had been so hot all day, and with buildings all around us, it seemed strange that the heat had disappeared so quickly. We weren't dressed for the cold, so we hurried to the car.
The downstairs parking lot was extremely dark; our two cars were practically the last, and they'd turned off the lights to save electricity. My grandma shuffled to my uncle's car, and I joined my mom in hers, yawning as I buckled my seatbelt.
My mom was stifling her own yawn as she put the car in reverse and backed up, quickly since the lot was empty. Our car gently bumped over something. I glanced over at my mom, but she shook her head, her mouth a thin line.
I reassured myself with the thought that it was probably someone's stray lunch basket, and promptly forgot about whatever it was we hit.
A few days later, the hot weather hadn't eased up, and I walked with Laura to the corner store to buy relief in the form of soft drinks. Once we'd chosen our beverages and handed over the pesos, we braved the heat again.
As we turned the corner to go around the store, a gnarled beggar woman appeared, holding her wrinkled hand out to us.
"Money, please...I need money to buy some bread. Please, have mercy, dear little girls."
All my change had gone towards my Diet Pepsi. I carefully looked over the top of the woman's head as I passed, but Laura wasn't so lucky. The woman snatched at her arm, causing her to drop her bag of Cheetos all over the ground.
"I think you didn't hear me," the woman grated out. "I asked you if I could have your spare change!" She was shouting in Spanish now.
I tried to pull Laura away, my drink sloshing over the bottle, but the woman's grip was too strong. Then her dark beady eyes bored into my skull. I thought I was going to shrivel up in the sun.
"You killed my cat," she said softly. Then, louder: "You killed my cat! You ran over it at the cathedral!"
I was terrified, unable to move, caught in the woman's stare. Laura screamed and wrenched free of the beggar's grip, dashing away. Her heels spurted dust into my face, and I coughed and gagged and couldn't see for just long enough.
The next thing I was aware of was the old woman's hand slapping my cheek. I cried out and staggered backwards. My Pepsi spilled out onto the ground. I didn't care.
I sprinted in the direction Laura had taken, knowing the hot, smelly breath of the beggar was pursuing me. Seeing the front door of the hotel sent pure relief washing through my body. I saw Laura in the window, looking pale and frightened, and upon bursting through the door I found my grandma and mom crying and opening their arms to me with visible alarm on their faces.
I fell into my mother's embrace, blubbering into her shirt. "This old woman...she slapped me...she said we hit her cat, Mamá, that thing we hit -- it was her cat!"
My mom pulled me away and I saw that she was frowning. "That -- no, hon, she must have been saying something else."
"Gato, Mamá. I know what that means," I said scornfully. "Ask Laura! She was there."
Laura shook her head. "I lost you at the corner store. I thought you'd been kidnapped."
"But -- the beggar woman!" I practically shouted.
Again, my cousin shook her head. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"There was no beggar woman," my mother said, crisply now. She handed me a tissue and peered at my cheek. "Goodness, you got some nasty sunburn."
"That's where she slapped me! That's not sunburn!"
"Perhaps she was fighting again," my grandma said, in her wise-old-woman voice.
They all nodded. I wanted to scream.
I didn't speak to anyone on the trip back to the U.S. border. I should have, because my parents divorced later that year, and I haven't spoken to my mother in twelve years. My family in Mexico is dead to me.
All for the life of a beggar's cat.
Every Mexican holiday, my family makes the drive across the border. Every holiday. Every single one. Luckily, there's just the five of us: me, my mom, my grandma, my uncle, and my cousin Laura, who doesn't believe in pomp and ceremonies, so she stays at the hotels. I was thirteen the year we went down to the Metropolitan Cathedral, or Catedral Metropolitana, in Mexico City, to give thanks to God for a good year.
The moon was easing overhead to compliment the stars when we walked out of the cathedral, one of the last groups to leave. The ceremony had gone late, and now the night was extremely cold. I shivered, confused. It had been so hot all day, and with buildings all around us, it seemed strange that the heat had disappeared so quickly. We weren't dressed for the cold, so we hurried to the car.
The downstairs parking lot was extremely dark; our two cars were practically the last, and they'd turned off the lights to save electricity. My grandma shuffled to my uncle's car, and I joined my mom in hers, yawning as I buckled my seatbelt.
My mom was stifling her own yawn as she put the car in reverse and backed up, quickly since the lot was empty. Our car gently bumped over something. I glanced over at my mom, but she shook her head, her mouth a thin line.
I reassured myself with the thought that it was probably someone's stray lunch basket, and promptly forgot about whatever it was we hit.
A few days later, the hot weather hadn't eased up, and I walked with Laura to the corner store to buy relief in the form of soft drinks. Once we'd chosen our beverages and handed over the pesos, we braved the heat again.
As we turned the corner to go around the store, a gnarled beggar woman appeared, holding her wrinkled hand out to us.
"Money, please...I need money to buy some bread. Please, have mercy, dear little girls."
All my change had gone towards my Diet Pepsi. I carefully looked over the top of the woman's head as I passed, but Laura wasn't so lucky. The woman snatched at her arm, causing her to drop her bag of Cheetos all over the ground.
"I think you didn't hear me," the woman grated out. "I asked you if I could have your spare change!" She was shouting in Spanish now.
I tried to pull Laura away, my drink sloshing over the bottle, but the woman's grip was too strong. Then her dark beady eyes bored into my skull. I thought I was going to shrivel up in the sun.
"You killed my cat," she said softly. Then, louder: "You killed my cat! You ran over it at the cathedral!"
I was terrified, unable to move, caught in the woman's stare. Laura screamed and wrenched free of the beggar's grip, dashing away. Her heels spurted dust into my face, and I coughed and gagged and couldn't see for just long enough.
The next thing I was aware of was the old woman's hand slapping my cheek. I cried out and staggered backwards. My Pepsi spilled out onto the ground. I didn't care.
I sprinted in the direction Laura had taken, knowing the hot, smelly breath of the beggar was pursuing me. Seeing the front door of the hotel sent pure relief washing through my body. I saw Laura in the window, looking pale and frightened, and upon bursting through the door I found my grandma and mom crying and opening their arms to me with visible alarm on their faces.
I fell into my mother's embrace, blubbering into her shirt. "This old woman...she slapped me...she said we hit her cat, Mamá, that thing we hit -- it was her cat!"
My mom pulled me away and I saw that she was frowning. "That -- no, hon, she must have been saying something else."
"Gato, Mamá. I know what that means," I said scornfully. "Ask Laura! She was there."
Laura shook her head. "I lost you at the corner store. I thought you'd been kidnapped."
"But -- the beggar woman!" I practically shouted.
Again, my cousin shook her head. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"There was no beggar woman," my mother said, crisply now. She handed me a tissue and peered at my cheek. "Goodness, you got some nasty sunburn."
"That's where she slapped me! That's not sunburn!"
"Perhaps she was fighting again," my grandma said, in her wise-old-woman voice.
They all nodded. I wanted to scream.
I didn't speak to anyone on the trip back to the U.S. border. I should have, because my parents divorced later that year, and I haven't spoken to my mother in twelve years. My family in Mexico is dead to me.
All for the life of a beggar's cat.
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