Los Monstruos: Felice and the Wailing Woman

Prologue
Today, the students ofTres Leches Middle School in Tejas would rather eat dirt than go on a field trip.This field trip, to be exact. They’d rather stay inside and take pop quizzes. They’d rather eat raw broccoli for lunch and do 1,153 jumping jacks for PE. Instead, they move slowly, double--knotting their shoelaces and topping off their water bottles as Mr. Tercero hurries them along. “¡Ándenle!” he says.

They’ve heard of other schools in other towns with field trips to museums, or firehouses, or historic sites like the Alamo. They’ve heard that instead of hiking to their destinations, the students travel by bus. They’ve even heard—-and this one’s hard to believe—-that the field trips often include tour guides who know everything and then some, and gift shops—-yes, gift shops!—-where visitors can buy postcards or refrigerator magnets or tiny spoons. But for the pobrecitos of Tres Leches, there were no buses, tour guides, or gift shops. They went to only three places, and they went to these places every year—-El Camarón Dance Hall & Arcade in the fall, the mud expanse in the winter, and La Llorona Park in the spring. The “park” part was always said tongue--in--cheek, and if anyone knew what the opposite of a park was, they would have used that word instead.

“Come on. Let’s go!” Ms. Peters calls out. And so the students start their trek, not bothering to look around or make jokes. They pass the playground and the library and the vacant lot. They march right out of town, crossing the soon--to--be bluebonnet field and a small, dark forest, and on the other side of it, a clearing of mostly dead grass. They gulp warm water from their bottles and swat at mosquitoes, the humid air thick around them, until finally arriving at a wooden marker—-like a tombstone—-nearly hidden by webs and vines.

“Stop!” Mr. Tercero demands. The students freeze, not daring to go farther. The teachers pull out hedge shears and pruners, and they start cutting away, little by little revealing a sign.

beware the river,
for here haunts la llorona.
in life, she was a fool for love.
then she drowned her children out of spite,
and now her ghost wants to drown you, too.

The teachers and the students take a moment to read. Some of the braver souls speak the words aloud, while others can only manage to mouth them silently.

Then the principal, Ms. Cavasos, says, “Any volunteers?” After a moment of silence, she asks again, this time with a “Hmm?”

The students look at their double--knotted shoelaces and the burrs clinging to their socks.

“Very well, then,” Ms. Cavasos says, opening a bag. One by one, the students utter a prayer and reach in. They pull out folded bits of paper. “Don’t look till I say,” Ms. Cavasos reminds them. The last student reaches into the bag. She has no choice but to take the remaining paper. At that, the principal says, “Okay. You can look now.”

The students unfold the papers, most sighing with relief except for Ignacio, whose paper is marked with anX. The poor boy shivers and asks his friends, “Want to trade? Want to trade?” but no one accepts the offer.

Ms. Cavasos puts a hand on his shoulder. “You’re a daring boy,” she assures him, but he looks scared.

Then Coach steps forward with a rope. He ties one end around Ignacio’s waist, and because Coach is strong and makes a good anchor, he ties the other end around his own waist.

“It’s time to step forward,” Ms. Cavasos tells Ignacio. “Report what you hear and what you feel. You’re our hero today. Your friends”—-she waves an arm at them—-“they need to be reminded.”
Ignacio gulps.

“And when we return to town, you’ll be rewarded with a delicious slice of tres leches cake,” she adds.

This is usually a strong motivation, but not today. Instead, Ignacio looks back at his friends as if to ask for help. They can only nod to urge him forward.

Ignacio turns toward the river. He clenches his fists, closes his eyes, and takes one step and then another. About ten steps in, he moans. “Oh!” he cries. “I hear La Llorona! She’s crying! It’s so terrible!”

“What is she saying?” Ms. Peters wants to know.

“She’s calling for her children. She wants her children,” Ignacio answers. “She’s calling for me. I’m her child. I need to go to her!”

“Cover your ears!” his friends tell him. “Turn back!”

“But she needs me!” Ignacio says with urgency.

He runs forward, and suddenly the rope goes taut. Coach digs his heels in the dirt to hold Ignacio back, but it works only for a few seconds.

“Quick! I need help,” Coach calls.

Mr. Tercero and five or six students grab the rope for an intense tug--of--war.

It shouldn’t be possible for one small boy like Ignacio to hold them off, but the dreadful lure of
La Llorona’s spell is unparalleled.

“Pull!” Coach shouts, and the rope moves a little. “Pull!” he shouts again.

Coach, Mr. Tercero, and the students pull, using the full force of their muscles and will. Their hands get sweaty, and their arms and legs start to shake, but inch by inch, they manage to reel Ignacio in. When he’s on the safe side of the sign, everyone drops to the ground, exhausted.
They ask for their water bottles, some for drinking and others for pouring the water over their heads.

After a stunned moment, Ignacio unties the rope, rubs at his belly, and starts to sob. “I wanted to go to her, even though her cries were like a nightmare. Why did I want to go to her? She would have drowned me. I knew she wanted to drown me, and I still wanted to go.”

Ms. Cavasos nods knowingly. “That’s the curse of La Llorona. She tricks you into thinking you’re her child, and when she sees that you’re not . . . well, let’s just say her rage takes over.” Then, turning to the group, she says, “You must never go past this sign, for if you do, you will hear La Llorona’s cries and feel compelled to approach the river, where she’ll grab you and—-”
She stops midsentence. The students nod because they all know what will happen next. They’ve been coming to La Llorona “Park” every year since kindergarten, and they’ll keep coming till they graduate from high school, because you could never hear it enough: Beware the river, beware the river, beware . . .

1
Can’t Sleep, Felice?
Every fear gets aspecial word. Fear of heights? Acro-phobia. Fear of the dark?Nyctophobia. Fear of flying in an airplane or riding in a car? Aerophobia andamaxophobia. These fears make sense, since there might be danger involved, but some people fear non--dangerous things, too, like the color white (leukophobia) or the number eight (octophobia). There are words for people who fear knees, flowers, or ferns, and for those who fear clocks, books, or beards. But even when a fear doesn’t have a special word, it’s easy to make one up—-likelampophobia for fear of lampshades or crinklephobia for fear of crinkly things.

Me? I fear water—-lakes, oceans, rivers, and rain. Especially rain. How can people clap for it, dance in it, or write cheery songs like “Singin’ in the Rain” and “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head”? The sound of it pattering on the roof, the sheets of it running down the windows, the V--shaped waves formed by cars in flooded streets—-these make my teeth clatter, my throat tighten, and my hands and feet go cold as my blood skedaddles from fear.

And right now, it’s raining! That’s why I’m awake even though it’s after midnight.
I go down the hall, knock on Uncle Clem’s door. It’s just us. He’s been taking care of me since I was a baby.

“Uncle Clem?” I call softly because I don’t want to startle him.

I hear movement. Then he’s at the door, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Can’t sleep, Felice?” he asks, and I don’t have to admit that I’m afraid because he already knows. “Follow me,” he says, so I do, straight to the kitchen. He turns on the light, and I squint in the sudden brightness. Now it’smy turn to rub my eyes.

“I need to rest,” I say. “Big day tomorrow. But I can’t stop worrying about the rain.”

He scratches his head, thinking. “We’ll just have to disguise it.”

“How do we do that?” I ask.

“By finding something that sounds like rain but isn’t.” He thinks some more. “Tap dancing? Drumming? Shaking the maracas?”

We don’t have tap dance shoes or drums, but the maracas are somewhere in this house. I start opening junk drawers, but then I catch Uncle Clem smiling. He goes to the pantry and takes out the Jiffy Pop. Of course! It’s a great idea! He turns on the gas stove and holds the pan over the flame. First there’s one pop, then two, then a rapid fire of pops, louder than the rain and much more delicious. We eat the popcorn, and then we make more because it’s still raining, but it’s not so terrifying anymore, not with the buttery goodness of popcorn, the saltiness that’s best washed down with an ice--cold Topo Chico.

“Hear that?” Uncle Clem asks.

I listen. Nothing. “The rain stopped!”

“It sure did, and nothing bad happened. You’re okay. I’m okay. We didn’t even lose power.”

“I know. It’s just—-”

He doesn’t let me finish my thought. “No need to remember that terrible night. Let’s try to get some sleep now, okay?”

I nod, head back to my room, and pretend I’m fine, but I’m not. The rain might have stopped, but my fear is still with me. It’s got a special word, too,aquaphobia: the fear of water. The reason I suffer from it is because water’s what took most of my family and what almost took me.

I was a baby when it happened, so I don’t have specific memories, just nightmares sometimes. When I want to remember the details, I unfold a newspaper article: mother and sons drown while crossing river, infant daughter rescued by uncle. I’m the infant daughter, and Uncle Clem is the one who rescued me. He never talks about “the event”; he says it’s better to pretend it didn’t happen. But itdid happen. That night at the river is a part of me.

I can’t remember the night my family drowned, but I do have nightmares of my mother crying for her children, which means she’s crying for me.

2 
He Was the Maker of Things that Crack
The next day is the Friday before spring break. I can’t wait to get out of school, but when the dismissal bell rings, I don’t go home right away. First, I stop at Mrs. Hart’s house, checking her mailbox before making my way to her door. She uses a walker and really struggles to get down the porch stairs. That’s why I grab the mail for her.

“I won’t be here next week,” I say, “but I’ll return the week after.”

She hands me a little bag. “You’re such a sweetie. I saw this at the store and remembered how much you like art. It’s just a little token of my appreciation.”

I peek inside—-a tray of watercolors.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hart.” I put the tray in my purse even though I’ll never open it because . . . well . . . they’re watercolors.

Then I walk along Schanen Trail because there’s a lot to see—-basketball games, bike riders, and pretty flowers—-and everything’s fine until a dog starts growling. It’s Cammy, a Chihuahua. She’s always getting loose and terrorizing the neighborhood. Even now she bares her teeth and growls.

“Whoa, Cammy! It’s me, Felice.”

She adds a few barks to her growling. Cammy’s never bitten anyone as far as I know, but she sure likes to scare people. Luckily, Uncle Clem gave me good advice one day. He said, You can calm the meanest dog if you throw him a biscuit. For that reason, I keep Milk--Bones in my purse. I toss one to Cammy, who sniffs it before gobbling it up. Now she’s wagging her tail, the dog version of a smile. I like making people and puppies happy. That’s why I carry a happy face emoji purse. It’s round and yellow, with glittery heart eyes and . . . yup! . . . a giant smile.
After Cammy runs off, I head to my street, Sunlight Drive. I take a moment to note the wet sidewalks. Then I start zigzagging, my path like a shoelace. I know it’s dangerous to cross the street so many times, but how else can I avoid the sprinklers?

When I get to my house, there’s a strange car parked in front. No, not a car—-a truck—-but not exactly a truck, either. Its tires are almost as tall as my front door, so I’m actually lookingunder the truck instead of at it. I can see rods, coils, axles, and a whole tangle of metal things. The sun visor above the windshield is shaped like a pair of angry brows. There’s a row of spikes along the roof of the cab, and two nostril--shaped openings on the hood. The front grille is a snarling mouth with fangs, and the body of the truck is painted red with orange flames forming the words El Cucuy, the name of the scariest monstruo from all our bedtime stories.

I gulp with fear when I see this truck named after a monster, but then I shake it off. How silly of me. Everyone knows monsters aren’t real.

I step inside the house. “Hello!” I call.

“¡Hola!” I hear. Uncle Clem always says hello and goodbye in Spanish—-hola, buenos días, vaya con Dios—-but for almost everything else, he speaks English.

I find him in the dining room, but he’s not alone. We have a visitor, probably the owner of the monster truck. He’s a skinny man who looks familiar even though I’m sure we’ve never met.
He’s wearing jeans and a light blue guayabera, only it’s short, barely covering his belt and its giant silver buckle with the word Mayor on it. He’s got a long braid, and his face is weathered from too much time in the sun.

“Hello?” I say, this time a question.

Uncle Clem waves me in. “Felice, meet—-”

“What an honor!” our visitor says, turning to shake my hand, then kissing it, then twirling me under his arm as if we’re dancing. When he finally lets go, I’m dizzy. “Look at you!Look at you!” he says. “You’re as beautiful as your mother. You have the same long black hair and big brown eyes.”

“You knew my mother?”

“Of course I knew her!”

“This is Reynaldo, from Tres Leches,” Uncle Clem explains.

That’s who he is. There are pictures of him, a younger version, in our photo albums.

“Growing up, we were best friends,” my uncle adds.

“Are best friends,” Reynaldo corrects. “Todavía. Even though we haven’t seen each other in years.”

My uncle nods. He’s shared a couple of stories about Reynaldo, how he once fixed a radiator with a nail file and how he spent a whole year collecting boxes so he could build a giant maze for a festival.

Reynaldo turns to my uncle. “Remember, my friend, when you made that Halloween piñata?”

“In the shape of a giant spider.”

“Yes! And instead of dulces inside, it had—-”

“Spiders!” My uncle laughs.

Reynaldo’s laughing, too. “You weren’t subtle. That’s for sure.”

My uncle, a prankster? I never imagined it.

“Why would you put spiders inside a piñata?” I ask.

“It was a customer’s request,” he says. “It took me days to capture them.”

“He was climbing into every attic”—-Reynaldo giggles—-“crawling beneath every house, and searching every abandoned storage shed.”
I try to picture my uncle doing these things, being creative this way. Uncle Clem is a copy editor, a stickler for details and correctness. His customers don’t ask for piñatas. They send him documents and deadlines.

“What did you do before you were a copy editor?” I ask him, realizing that I’ve never wondered before.

Reynaldo responds instead. “Your uncle was the greatest cracksman in Tres Leches County.” And before I can ask, he explains, “He was a maker of things that crack.”

“Like the piñatas?” I guess.

“And cascarones, piggy banks, and crispy taco shells.”

I can’t believe this! In all these years, Uncle Clem has never made any of those things. He’s never allowed piñatas for birthdays or confetti eggs for Easter. He puts his spare change in a shoebox. And he always insists onsoft tacos.

“In fact,” Reynaldo goes on, “one of the reasons I’m here is to convince your uncle to return as our cracksman.” He straightens up as if to make a speech. “Without piñatas and cascarones, there is no joy. Without piggy banks, there is no wealth. And without crispy taco shells, there . . . there . . . there are no crispy tacos.”

“It sounds like they need you,” I say to my uncle.

“Well, I like the job I have right now,” he answers.
Reynaldo scoffs. I almost do, too. Being a cracksman sounds a lot more interesting than being a copy editor.

Uncle Clem turns to his friend. “So why else are you here? You said that was one reason, but what’s the other?”

“Alegra,” Reynaldo says.

When I hear this, I can’t contain my excitement. Alegra was my mother’s name.

“Tell me about her,” I urge Reynaldo. “Tell me everything.”

“Oh, she was beautiful.” He closes his eyes a moment. If only I could jump into his imagination, see his memories for myself. “She was very graceful when she walked. Looked like she was floating.”

“Like an angel?” I say.

“Yes, an angel. Why do you ask? Did I say she floated like a ghost?”

“No.”

“Oh, thank goodness. My words run faster than my brain sometimes, and my brain . . . it runs very fast, so you can imagine how much faster my words can be.”

It’s true. Even now, I’m trying to process what he’s saying.

“What was my mom’s favorite recipe?” I want to know. “What books did she read? Did she like to draw? Did you know Gustavo and Henry, my brothers? What were they like?”

“Stop pestering our guest,” Uncle Clem says.

“But I want details. You’re always telling me how nice and smart Mom was, but—-”

“Well,” Reynaldo interrupts, “I guess you could say she was mostly nice, and I guess you could say she had aslightly-above--average level of intelligence.”

My uncle raises an eyebrow and gives Reynaldo a warning glance.

“What I mean,” Reynaldo rushes to explain, “is that someone can be nice but also mean. Wise but also foolish. Responsible but also irresponsible. Corporeal but also—-”

“I think she understands,” Uncle Clem says, shaking his head at his friend’s dramatic way of presenting things.

“So just tell me the good parts,” I say to Reynaldo. “Knowing half the story is better than knowing nothing at all.”

“She makes a good point,” Reynaldo says. “She should meet her mother.”

“Meet her?” I repeat.

“Figuratively speaking,” Uncle Clem is quick to say.

“Yes, yes. Figuratively.” Reynaldo uses air quotes for the last word.
Uncle Clem puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me around. “But not right now, mija. Reynaldo and I have some important things to discuss about our family. So go to your room and do your homework.”

“I don’t have any homework. It’s spring break.”

“Then read a book or draw a picture. Give the grown--ups some privacy.”

“But I’m practically a grown--up already!”

He crosses his arms. “¿Perdón?”

I stop protesting because he’s switched to Spanish, which means he’s getting impatient. Before leaving, I glance back. Reynaldo shrugs as if apologizing.

As I head to my room, Uncle Clem calls, “And shut the door behind you.”

I do as he says, and the wind from the closing door flutters the pages of my calendar. Every year, Uncle Clem buys me a calendar that features art. One year, it had Navajo tapestries.

Another year, Frida Kahlo’s art. And this year, Monet’s. He painted landscapes, but all his colors and shapes blur together.

I go to my desk. There are a few library books, a sketch pad, and coffee cups with pencils, chalk, and pastels. I glance at my bed, at the space between the mattress and the box spring, where I hide sketches of my mother.

Why won’t Uncle Clem let me hear the conversation about my family, especially when I already know that they drowned? As for my father, he was already married when he met my mom, and eventually he left her to be with his wife. He was more than happy to let Uncle Clem have custody of me after my mom died. My father sends child--support checks and cards on special occasions, but I never see him. I should be sad about this, but in my mind, he doesn’t really matter. Uncle Clem’s my real dad, if you ask me. That’s why I don’t ask for stories about my father. But the others—-my mom and brothers? I know how they died; shouldn’t I also know how they lived? Seems like Reynaldo wants to tell me a whole lot more than Uncle Clem ever has.

Maybe . . . maybe that’s what their secret discussion is about. Very carefully, I open my bedroom door, tiptoe into the hallway, and stop just out of sight. If it’s my family they’re talking about and anyone has a right to know what they’re saying, it’s me.