CHAPTER 2 A DOORWAY IS OPENED

For Maria, sleep came late and morning early that first night in Juan's bed. The noisy cooing of doves outside the bedroom window announced the arrival of the day's first light. Maria took their cue, albeit more quietly. She slipped out of the bed. Standing up aggravated the mild nausea she felt upon awakening. It was the same nausea she'd experienced for the last few weeks. She stood immobile for a few seconds, letting her stomach settle. Then, she put on her cloths and, in the murky illumination of the half-light, made her way to the kitchen. The first order of the day would be the same here as at the Father's house -- build a fire in the kitchen stove. All was ready for it. Early the night before she had placed wood and kindling in its black castiron cavity. Now, she scratched the yellow tip of the wooden match against the stove's black metal. It responded with a hissing and squirming flame that turned the blue seed of its life into a black porous ash. The sharp familiar smell of burning sulfur tainted her nostrils. She shivered at the sight and smell, knowing that it was but a microcosm of the heat and unpleasantness of Hell; knowing how painfully the flames of Hell could burn. She put the stick with its dancing yellow teardrop into the stove and watched it take its destruction to the straw. Maria stared at the enlarging inferno. It grew quickly. Soon the space within the cast iron was full of yellow glowing air and white smoke. Only when it was clear the fire was taking did she go to the outhouse to answer nature's first call of the new day. Initially, the fresh morning air helped to settle her still squeamish stomach. All was undone when she entered the wooden shed with its putrid smell of decaying feces. As rapidly as her body would permit, she emptied her bladder and rushed back out into the clean air. She squatted down with her head bent until the nausea subsided. By the time she returned to the kitchen, the water in the kettle on the stove was beginning to lose its coolness to the touch. She busied herself cooking. The morning light evolved quickly. The desert in the distance began to glow more brightly by the minute. Still, the inside of the Conjon house remained dim. The tall cliff and mountains east of the Conjon farm kept the sun's promising warmth from the farmhouse for the earliest hours after sunrise. The house still carried the chill and residual dimness from night when Maria first heard Juan moving about in his bedroom. 'It's our bedroom now,' she recalled without enthusiasm. Much too soon, she saw him from the corner of her eye. He stood watching her from the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room. She kept her attention riveted on stirring the oats she was boiling for his breakfast. His watching presence unnerved her. Her arm jerked at the sound of his low hoarse morning voice saying, "Good morning." Now, she could no longer avoid looking at him. "Good morning," she answered. He continued watching her. "That was really good," he said. The thumb of his left hand was tucked inside the top of his pants. Dangling fingers diddled with the long lump beneath the buttons of the fly. His eyes were bright upon her. The upturned corners of his lips pushed up mounds of flesh under his eyes. It was totally obvious

to her what he was thinking. She returned her attention to the oats, not wanting to admit to her knowledge. "I have almost got food ready for you," she offered. "I thought you might want to eat first thing." He made no reply. Maria worried. The thought of having to submit to him again so soon troubled her. Yet, she worried that if she appeared to be putting him off it would anger him. 'Then what?' she wondered. Their attention was momentarily distracted by a hectic sound to her right. It came through the door she left open to the back yard. From beyond it came a flurry of feathers, wings and chicken cackles. Her glance revealed a rooster and hen hopping and flipping about as the rooster tried to force its attentions on the hen. Their mating ruckus flew out of view. She looked back towards Juan. The eyes were still bright upon her; but, were they as bright as a few seconds ago? And what about the mounds of flesh under his eyes -- was the grin still pushing them as high as before? Only the diddling action of his dangling fingers was undiminished. That and his ever deepening breathing. Maria took a cloth and moved the pan of boiling oats to a cooler part of the stove. Turning towards Juan, she smiled a smile she did not feel. Behind her and through the door, the rooster and hen continued to raise a commotion as the hen sought to forestall the inevitable. She took the hand with the dangling fingers and led her anxious husband back into the bedroom. They were back in the kitchen before the oats had a chance to cool. After a short request for God's blessing, Juan ate. Maria had no appetite. She only toyed with the oats, consuming small amounts so as to avoid Juan's repeated looks and knowing smiles. Much to her relief, Juan and his reminiscing smiles soon reluctantly disappeared to the distant chores of the farm. Maria returned to house cleaning and the preparations for the mid-day meal. The work kept her hands busy, but not always her mind. It was frequently free to consider her new life. So far it hadn't been too bad. No worse than at the Father's, anyway. Juan seemed easy to please. Would that continue, she wondered? Would he at some point suddenly turn black and furious? Would he see fault in her where she saw none? Two days passed. Maria decided that her initial apprehensions were unfounded. Juan showed himself to be a firm but gentle man. He did rapidly acquire a set of expectations of her -- around the house, in the barn and fields and in his bed. These he made clear to her. She acknowledged them, never questioning his authority and without even a thought of protest or negotiation. During those first days, Maria felt a nagging melancholia growing within her. It subsided, or at least she forgot about it, when Juan returned during the peak heat of the day or for the evening. During these times, attending to his needs and listening to his prattle kept Maria from thinking about anything else. When Juan was gone, her melancholia returned. It was not until late in the afternoon on Wednesday that she found its source. She was thinking about her near-sister Rosita back at the Father's house. It dawned on her how much she missed Rosita and the others; how much she missed talking with them and hearing their soft voices as they worked together. Here, she had no one with whom to talk freely; no smiles of comfort; no touches of endearment; no forms whisking about quietly to avoid the Father's attention. It was just her and the foreign man that was her husband.

The melancholia deepened as she focused on its source and the permanence of it. Finally, she chose the only way she knew of to console herself. She left her work and went to the parlor. In a prominent corner of the room stood the house's small informal altar. It was composed of a triangular table covered with an aged-yellow piece of embroidered linen that reached nearly to the floor. Atop the linen set a picture of the Sacred Heart of Christ. Behind this, on a raised platform, stood a foot-high terra-cotta statue of the Virgin Mary. The age of the statue showed. The paint was flaking from her blue shawl revealing the white plaster beneath. Her dress's red color had faded. The gold of the halo about her head remained intact, as did the tiny red of her lips. Above the Virgin Mary, set athwart the corner, was a fifteen inch tall crucifix. Three small clay dishes on the table held the remnants of candles burned in offerings for prayers sent forth to God. Maria knelt on the floor before the altar. She was soon deep in prayer. As familiar prayers passed through her mind, it wandered -- bifurcated, like the spirit of a dreamer that leaves the body to its rote, life-sustaining functions. In these wandering thoughts of her near-sisters, she passed through memories of Sunday Masses with them. Then, a small prayer was answered. Or, rather, a potential answer turned up. Sunday Mass would be an opportunity to see them; visit with them. So she decided that Sunday Mass was a must for her and Juan. Saturday night, as Maria darned a hole in a shirt, she informed Juan, "Tomorrow is Sunday. The Father will be expecting us at Mass." "Sunday? Already?" he said. His brow furrowed as he thought about what she said. "Tomorrow," she said. "I planned to work on the fence up by the cemetery. It has a hole in it. Could be large enough for a coyote." Maria said nothing. She continued her stitching, praying silently that he would make the correct decision. If he didn't, how far could she safely push this issue? The contorted look on his face reflected the debate she was sure was going on within. He was considering whether or not God would understand him missing Sunday Mass. At last he said, "I guess it can wait." Maria said a short prayer of thanks to the Virgin Mother. <-----> The next morning, they prepared quickly for the ride to the village. Earlier in the week, Maria found some womans clothes in a wooden chest in the bedroom. She gingerly suggested to Juan that she might be able to use them. "They were my mother's" he said. "I think she might have wanted your wife to have them," she suggested softly. After a short pause for thought, he agreed. She selected a dress, took it in and mended it to be presentable for Sunday Mass. While Juan bathed out behind the house, Maria used the minutes of privacy to brush out her hair and

put on the dress. The fabric's firm gripping and pushing about of her flesh was unfamiliar to her. Yet, after looking at herself in the small hand mirror, she knew that it fitted correctly. It looked like the Sunday dresses she saw the women of the village wear. She was finalizing the position of the cloth around her when Juan came in. He stopped short at the bedroom doorway and stared at her. His attentive eyes and the look on his face told her immediately what he struggled to enunciate. "You... You look... like... Beautiful." He stepped close to her and touched her bare shoulder. His fingertips drifted over and down the puffed out sleeve, past the lace trim and along the length of her exposed arm. He placed the appraising hand on her cinched waist and let it slide out and down over her round hips. His eyes examined her as if seeing her for the first time. The thin mat of black hair on his bare chest heaved and rippled in response to the movement of his arm and his mounting breathing. Maria hadn't expected this. Now she regretted her decision to wear these cloths; to dress up as she saw most of the village women do for church. His hand touched the top of her breast where the tight fabric forced the flesh upward and forward. The fingertips hung there as if clinging to a precipice. The look on Juan's face was similar to his look the first morning just a few days ago. She stood dreading that the look might take them where it had before. Would his fingertips slip loose from the precipice? Would he slide gladly down the smooth cliff and into that deep cave -- a cave whose existence she regretted. His breathing increased. His eyes turned glassy. She saw that he was quickly and eagerly losing his grip. "Should I take anything with us?" she said coolly, as if not sensing his desires. "Huh?" "To the village. For Mass. Is there anything I should take. For the Father. Fruit? Eggs? Milk?" "Ahh. No. Not this time. I made a good offering last week," he said. His distraction was brief. He again began to slide. She reined in her panic and said, "I prepared a basket of food for us. For after Mass. Breakfast. I'll get it in the wagon." She quickly slipped around him, letting his hand fall cleanly away. She left the room hoping that he would peacefully forget the cave of his desire. Maria's tight breathing calmed with relief when Juan emerged from the bedroom dressed. The look he had been wearing was put away. She was sure its intent wasn't gone. Tonight would be like all of the nights she spent in his bed; just as she expected all the future nights in his bed to be. His heavy weight, breathing and penetrating needs standing between her arrival in bed and the peace of sleep. As the wagon rolled down and away from the farmhouse, Maria resolved not to wear such a fancy dress to church again. Something more simple that didn't expose the curves of her body would do fine. She saw no sense in tempting a fate she found so burdensome. <-----> The ride to the village progressed more quickly than she remembered the trip out the previous Sunday.

Soon, Juan pulled hard on the right rein and directed the wagon out of the dry wash. They rose along a narrow and precarious hint of trail until they were nearly thirty feet above the wash. Maria's attention focused tensely on the increasing drop off to her left. Her breathing went shallow, as if breathing too deeply might rock the wagon and thereby cause them to tumble downwards. Suddenly, the wagon bounced and lurched left. She was certain they were going over. She gasped and reached for Juan's arm. He looked over and saw her fright. Recognizing its source, he said, "Don't worry. We just hit a rock. It's okay. I've done this many, many times. We're safe." Only when the trail turned away from the drop-off did Maria concede to believe in their safety. Her concerns were quickly forgotten when the village came into sight and she heard the distant clanging bell announce the pending Mass. All but a straggler or two were inside the church when they arrived. Once inside themselves, Juan moved to take a place in the rear pew. As he genuflected, Maria touched his shoulder and whispered, "Can we sit near the front?" He looked up at her. His face crinkled in annoyance. Alarmed by the look, she grasped quickly for a mollifying answer. She said, "I want everyone to see us together." The crinkle turned to a smile. They moved to the second row, just behind where the children were kneeling. She had told a lie -- sinned. Without thinking she sinned so that she could be close to her near-sisters and brothers; so that she might get a recognizing glance from them, maybe even a smile. She had lied to stop the storm warning that came over Juan's face. It had been so easy; and so necessary. She prayed for God's forgiveness for the tiny lie and the selfishness that spawned it. In short order, she convinced herself that He did. In front of Maria were her near-sisters and brothers. They knelt frozen like statues, with heads bowed and hand palms pressed tightly together. A week ago she had knelt with them praying for God to make her a better person and to keep the Father calm. She wanted to reach out and touch each of them. Rosita, the oldest of the remaining orphans, was so close she could do it. But, she didn't. For it might get her and them into trouble. So, she prayed for them and for herself. The Mass began. It played out in a loose concatenation of sounds and movements with the unwavering sameness as every other time before. Its mundane repetition allowed Maria to bow her head and enter the mental isolation of prayer. It wasn't until the communion, when she stepped up to receive the host, that her eyes met the Father's. She didn't see the frown she expected. Rather, it was almost a look of... but, no it couldn't be. That look was reserved for others, not her. With Mass over, Maria and Juan left the church with the others. In the square, they stood alone, looking around. Suddenly, Maria heard the Father's voice behind her. The sound made her stomach churn and her knees weak. In a fit of reflex, she turned to face him. He approached, talking to Juan, but she saw that his eyes were on her -- all of her. In a flash of recognition, she again regretted wearing this dress. Reaching them, the Father shook Juan's hand vigorously and said, "How's married life? Getting used to it?"

He dropped Juan's hand and without waiting for an answer turned to Maria. His hands took hold on the sides of her bare shoulders. "The new bride looks more beautiful than I've ever seen her. Marriage must agree with her." The touch of his hands burned. Worse yet, the touch of his eyes splashed flames across her face. She was certain it was bright red. Juan stood near her and chattered about how happy they were. He spoke of what a wonderful wife Maria was turning out to be. The Father kept looking at Maria and holding her shoulders. He seemed to hold her forever, just as until last week he held her in the grip of his life. She tried to avoid his long intense look, for she felt like a caged bird under his eyes; the eyes of a hungry cat; eyes that had for so long watched her in his cage. She felt as if he now watched her with a regret -- as if in all his years of examination he never saw the true plumage of the bird that had been his. As the Father concentrated on Maria, Juan carried on a monologue. He punctuated it with copious thanks to the Father for helping him marry Maria. It was only when another couple joined them, that the Father at last dropped his hands and turned to them. Seeing the priest's movement away from her, Juan moved close to Maria. He put his arm around her waist. Despite Juan's move, the Father's attention continually sampled heartily of Maria. She was uncomfortable with his looks and his presence. She was nearly as uncomfortable with the way they all spoke of Juan's new find and joy. When they spoke of her, it was as if she weren't present. Ten long minutes of discussion passed. Maria wanted to be free of this group; free to see her nearsisters and brothers. She had decided over the last three days how she would achieve this. Now the test of bravery was at hand. She had to find the courage to speak without first being spoken to. The palms of her hands were sweaty. Her throat was dry. She was uncertain of whether or not she could do it. Fear weighed heavily on her and set her knees to shaking. As she waited and sought the courage to speak, she felt as if a closed box lay before her. To lift its lid might bring forth reward; or maybe disaster. Hoping for a reward, she opened her mouth to speak. Nothing came out. She waited. She forced her mouth open again. Again, nothing. 'Maybe I should wait until next Sunday,' she thought. The Father's attention once more sampled her. Then, with a leap, she flipped open the lid of the box. "Father," she said. "I..." She saw his face lose some of its calmness; probably imperceptible to the others, but clear to her. She plunged onward. "Could I maybe... ah..." The others stopped speaking and watched her. Their eyes were like boulders teetering on cliffs above her. 'Should I stop speaking?' she wondered. She didn't want to be crushed under those boulders. "What is it?" the Father said. Annoyance showed more perceptibly now in his face. The voice reflected his typical dying patience. She rushed out the words. "Can I go help the other children around your house? Make sure they are getting things done to your satisfaction?" She held her breath waiting for the contents of the open box to fly outward. The early signs were ominous. His face burst into benevolence -- another change too subtle to be seen by any but Maria. "A good idea. They need the supervision. By all means, go." He turned to Juan and the others and said, "The house

has been a calamity since she left. There has been no end to the frustrations those young ones have given me. It's such a burden, what with the devil forever distracting them. I have all I can do to keep them on the straight and narrow path of God." These were the words Maria heard fading away as she made for the Father's house. The hacienda seemed different to her when she entered it. Each detail was the same and perceptively familiar from years of living there. Yet, it was as empty and foreign now as a picture. In the course of one week the emotional ties had gone from imbued feelings to memories. Maria quickly found that as much as the house had changed for her, it had remained the same for her near-siblings. They told her of how the Father had been particularly moody all week, virtually unable to be pleased. The punishments, including samples of Hell, had been regular and more harsh than before. Each longed for Maria to return, for she seemed the only one able to protect them. Maria helped out and gave advise and encouragement as best she could. Being with them raised her spirit and theirs. When Juan and the Father returned, Maria offered them breakfast from what she brought. The Father agreed. The two men ate and talked, ignoring Maria's comings and goings as she served them. Towards the end of the meal, as Maria cleared the table, the Father said to Juan. "You're doing your duty as a husband, I hope. In bed, I mean." Juan looked up at Maria and beamed a wide smile. "Oh, yes, Father. Definitely." "Good. It is as God would have it," said the Father. Maria hurried from the room with an armload of dishes. <-----> The slowly drifting path of the sun carried the days through June's longest daylight of the year and towards the Fall equinox. The days quickly became dreary in their drudgery. Juan continued his nightly marital duties religiously. Sunday's visits with her near-siblings were the bright spot in Maria's life. Only the attendant presence of the Father tarnished it. For, to Maria's discomfort, his perplexing interest in her showed constantly through in his eyes. They were softer eyes in many ways. Yet, they flashed to their old flint-like stone at the slightest hint that she might be other than the submissive girl he had contained so long in his life. It was the Sunday after the Fall equinox; a Sunday like those of the previous three months. Mass was over. Juan and Maria stood in the square talking with the Father and their normally remote neighbors. Maria listened to them repeat the minutiae of their dreary lives. As had become ritual, Maria remained with Juan, the Father and the others for a short period. Then, she excused herself to do what she enjoyed most -- being with her near-siblings. She started towards the Father's hacienda. Maria had taken less than a dozen steps when she heard her name called. Looking right, she saw Margarita, store owner Rafeal Gomez' wife, beckoning to her. Reluctantly, Maria left her plans aside and approached the group of women.

Margarita, an older woman, large and good-natured, took Maria by the elbow and said, "Talk with us for a while, Maria. Tell us about how things are going for you." Maria stammered as the women watched her. She was uncertain of what to tell them. "Everything's all right," was all she could think of to say. "Are you and Juan getting along well?" Margarita said. Maria shrugged her shoulders. "Yah." "And he's treating you well?" The question seemed irrelevant to Maria, but she replied with what seemed the correct answer, "Yes. He treats me well." "How are you feeling lately?" Sonia, one of the women, asked. "Fine," said Maria. The questions made Maria nervous. She wasn't accustomed to people being interested in her. To avoid their intent looks, she glanced around the square. She saw the Father watching her and the other women. She wondered if she was doing something wrong by standing and talking with these women. This troubled her, because if so, it would be rude to walk away. She felt herself to be in a dilemma. "How old are you?" Margarita asked her. "How old?" she repeated. She thought for a moment. "The Father says he thinks I'm about fifteen or sixteen. No one knows for sure." "Do you remember your family?" Juanita, the third woman, asked. "Your mother?" Maria reached up and touched the pink stone on her necklace. "No. None of them. Sometimes, I think I remember things about them, but I'm never sure if it isn't something I dreamed," said Maria, truthfully. For, all she could remember dated from several days after they found her in the desert. Before that -nothing. The thought troubled her sometimes. Often she tried hard to remember her family. But, the images of her past seemed to have been bleached out by the brilliance of the sun-illuminated desert that lay between them and her present life. "No mother to teach her," Margarita said to the other women. They shook their heads slowly in agreement. From the corner of her eye Maria saw that the Father continued to frequently look over at them. Maria was struggling to figure out how to disengage herself from these women. She missed the question Margarita asked. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear what you said," she told the questioning faces of the women. Margarita repeated it. "I said, you seem to be getting larger in the abdomen. Is it possible that you are with child?".

Taken by surprise with the question, Maria looked down at her abdomen. She pushed the lower portion of her loose hanging dress slightly in between her legs so as to profile her abdomen. A pronounced bulge showed itself a short distance beneath her breasts. She hadn't noticed the bulge before. Yet, it was indeed there. The bulge and the possibility of pregnancy struck her as two unrelated things. Pregnancy was another of those futures so unknown and unconsidered that she had no knowledge or opinion about it. "When did you have The Curse last?" Sonia asked. Maria looked back at her, uncertain of what Sonia was asking. "You know," added Sonia, "your bleeding time?" Sonia glanced at the hand that pushed in the dress and whispered an elaboration, "Down there." Her question registered, but its significance didn't. Maria thought back. She recalled that this hadn't happened since she went to live with Juan. She hadn't even taken any of the brown stained rags she used each month with her. She told the women this. The faces of the ladies in the group broke into knowledgeable smiles. Their heads nodded to each other. "No doubt then," Sonia voiced the group consensus, "you and Juan are with child." Margarita put her arm comfortably on Maria's shoulder and said, "There are many things you will need to know." She began to talk about pregnancy and childbirth -- informing Maria of things she had never before been given an opportunity to learn; things she had never known that she might need to know. At first, the news of her pregnancy was a meaningless thing for Maria. Yet, the excitement of the women around her began to affect her. The thought of a baby of her own, like the near-siblings that she missed so, quickly grew in appeal. Her thoughts were far away from men when Juan and the Father approached the group of women. They all seemed to notice Juan and the Father simultaneously and then to remember that the father-tobe did not yet know of his status. Ill at ease with the Father's presence and still unsure of the ramifications of her new condition, Maria remained silent. The women in their excitement talked over each other in an attempt to be the first to proclaim the news. "Whoa! Wait, ladies," the Father said loudly. With a strong trace of annoyance in his voice he said, "I can't understand you if you all talk at once. Tell me, Margarita, what's this excitement about?" Margarita informed the Father and Juan that he was soon to become a father. The excitement of the women swept over Juan like a spark igniting gasoline. Immediately, he began to babble. Maria became relegated to a third person reference in the discussions. The Father said little, yet his eyes often turned to Maria and the bulge that now felt of immense proportions. Once again, she felt like a caged bird with the Father seemingly having discovered yet another brilliant aspect to her plumage. Juan's babbling turned excitedly to how a son would be an asset to them. This son and the others would help run the farm. In time the farm would be populated by a large Conjon family as it had been in prior generations. The Conjons would again be a prestigious family in the area. He hollered the news to others across the square. Abandoning Maria to the Father and the women, he

followed the hollered announcement about the square. Proudly, he repeatedly proclaimed his new status in a loud and strutting manner. Maria was reminded of the roosters wandering about the yard as the hens laid eggs in the coup. <-----> The pride Juan felt at his achievement was obvious to all, and particularly to Maria. On Sundays, after Mass, he held Maria close and sometimes patted her swollen abdomen affectionately. He carried himself with more stature and spoke with more bold authority. "She's carrying my child," he said more times than was necessary. Everyone had heard it before. Maria said little at the Sunday gatherings in the square. Mostly, she listened. When the men spoke, she listened out of deference to their position. When the women spoke, she listened to learn more about what lay ahead; what she would have to do when the baby was born and then afterward. She remembered little of what the men said and everything of what the women said. In this manner Maria, grew more comfortable in planning for the birthing and the caring for a baby. Weeks passed. Maria saw her abdomen continue to swell. Her navel began to protrude outward. She came to feel awkward in her movements. Juan, having achieved his duty, was easily convinced that his nightly marital responsibilities were no longer required and sleep was more appropriate. That didn't always deter him. Yet mostly, to Maria's relief, it did. A month after learning of her pregnancy, she felt movements within the swelling. The following Sunday, she learned that it wasn't her imagination, but rather the movement of the baby. What for Maria had been a passive swelling now became something meaningful; something that made choices when to move and when not to; something pursuing its own destiny; a new identifiable life. What had been an abstract concept of a baby was now a reality biding its time to appear. Her breasts swelled larger along with her abdomen. The backaches started. Her work about the house and farm continued unabated, albeit more slowly. The season worked to her advantage as early Fall turned into winter. The light of each day shortened, its edges increasingly consumed by the hours of darkness. The longer darkness gave her more night time for uncomfortable sleep. At last, the hunger of the night was satiated and the day's light ceased to grow shorter. Along with the promise of more light each day, the weather of the new year became cooler. The rainy season began. The frequency, intensity and duration of the rains increased as they did every year at this time. For a scant three months they could expect periodic rainfall, then nine months of essentially no rain. It was these long dry spells that made the area a near desert. With the rains came isolation to the Conjon farm. For, the rains, as modest as they usually were, filled the washes with water and made them impassable. Even when they weren't completely impassable the threat that the rains would suddenly increase and make the washes raging torrents made travel potentially dangerous. By late-January, Maria's backaches and her difficulty in getting up and around proved a continuing hurdle in her daily life. Moreover, the discomforts of her size and the pressures and movements of the baby made a full night of sleep impossible. One night Maria awoke to a particularly sharp cramp-like pain in her back. It caused her to gasp. Of

late, the baby inside her felt gigantic. Its every move seemed to disturb something or other within her. 'It has happened again,' she thought. After several seconds the pain subsided. Maria tried to return to sleep. She was not able to get back to sleep before another of the unusual cramps occurred. It lasted longer. A cycle of these discomforts and pauses persisted. Their frequency and duration increased. Sleep under the circumstances was impossible. She arose quietly, so as not to disturb Juan, and went into the dining room. In the emptiness of the room, her only company was the discomforts she felt, the residual glow of embers in the fireplace and the noise of the rain. The latter drizzled softly upon the clay tile roof above her. Unheard, the roof accumulated the smaller drops to form larger ones. These were silently released off the eaves and dropped loudly into the puddles at the base of the house. She found the sound comforting amid her discomfort from the cramps. Each time the latter surged forth, it spread farther around her girth. Soon, it came at her like a belt being periodically torqued tortuously tight around her waist. She began to understand that it was her time. The assurance grew when a particularly long and tight clenching spasm was accompanied by the flow of warm liquid from between her legs. At first, she assumed that she had inadvertently wet herself again. After the grip eased, she lit an oil lantern and cleaned up the liquid with its slightly pungent odor. It wasn't urine. During that quiescent period, she started a fire in the stove. As usual, a large kettle of water was in place for morning. Sitting alone, she worried. The other women spoke of pain during birth. Most spoke of a lot of pain and one spoke of almost none. They told stories about breach births -- about death in childbirth. Maria wished no one had told her about these things. She didn't want to die, even though life was often so dull and carried so many un-pleasantries with it. Maria went into the parlor and knelt before the altar. She prayed that the birth would go well; that she wouldn't have great pain; that she wouldn't die. 'But,' she conceded to her God, 'if it must be otherwise, I will bear it in your name, just as Mary must have born without tears Your own Son's birth.' As she knelt, uncomfortable, praying, an extremely sharp pain jerked her abdomen tightly. The scream she let out was impulsive, uncontrollable and unintelligible. She did not call out to Juan, Christ or any other man. She merely cried out a long "Ohhhh!" It was modulated by the surging of the contraction. Unable to think or do anything else, she let herself slide to the floor at the foot of the altar. Her mind became pre-occupied with the misery of the constriction and with the urge to push the mass out of her abdomen. She felt, more than knew, that only by its exit could she find relief. She went with the urge, squeezing her diaphragm and pelvic muscles. She accompanied her pushing efforts with long and loud moans which she barely heard. They did nothing to relieve her agony. They did bring Juan out of sleep and into the room. As that long grip of the pain eased, she saw Juan standing several feet away. His haggard face formed a questioning astonishment. Clearly, he had forgotten their discussions. He was frozen into inaction. "Get the things," she gasped out at him, giving as much of a consoling smile as her condition would allow. "I'm okay. It's just the baby coming."

Her words worked. Juan set about preparing to assist her. The contractions continued with such frequency and intensity that Maria was unable to move from the foot of the altar. It was in that location that, fifty minutes later, with a clenched-teeth scream and a final agonizing push, the shoulders of the baby slipped from within her. The following pushes were less painful and resulted in the baby entering fully into a world shimmering with wobbling lantern-light. With that final slipping onto the clean rags spread between her legs, the infant made its first abrupt cry. It was followed by continued protestations at the abuse being heaped upon its innocence. Maria lay nearly immobilized by fatigue. She watched as Juan concentrated intensely on the efforts to tie off and sever the umbilical cord. As soon as he completed it, he quickly wrapped the infant and handed it to Maria. Meanwhile, Maria, with two more contractions, pushed the placenta from her womb. Juan took it outside to dispose of. Relieved that it hadn't been worse, Maria looked up at the altar and muttered "Thank you, Mary." She then looked at the infant in her arms. The baby's mouth repeatedly opened and closed, instinctively seeking something upon which to suck. The eyes were thin dark lines in a wide flat face. The nose was two round holes pointing outward from a mass of flesh above the seeking mouth. Tiny fingers wiggled helplessly at the end of arms unaccustomed to such roominess. Looking at the infant, Maria felt something new. It defied description, but stemmed from the purity, helplessness and yet potential within her arms. She held a new life transfigured and painfully wrenched from her own flesh. The pain wasn't important anymore. It was only a testament to the worth of what she had created. Exploring her creation further, she discovered beneath the blanket something Juan hadn't taken time to observe. She held a baby girl. <-----> When Juan returned to the house, he knelt beside Maria and said, "How is he?" Maria held her daughter close, moving her slightly from his probing fingertips. "Juan..." she began. How should she tell him? She feared his reaction. He was seldom ever angry, except when he experienced a significant loss -- like the time a coyote got into the yard and slaughtered a calf. Now, she had to explain that something his heart was set on was not to be. It was not a fact that could be hidden for long. He had to know. She looked up at the altar, then back to Juan. "Juan. God gave us a daughter. Not a son," she said. She waited for his reaction. His face crunched into a perplexed look. "Huh?" he said in obvious disbelief. "It's a girl. God decided that we should have a girl." Juan's hand retreated from the infant. He sat back on his heels. His face retained the perplexed look. Then, his eyes too went to the altar, as if seeking an answer. "A girl? You're sure?"

"Yes." Anger didn't come; nor did excitement. After studying the altar for several seconds, then looking at the infant, he accepted the fact with a simple, "Next time." It was as Maria rested in bed later that morning that Juan approached her and said, "What will we call it?" Maria hadn't yet considered a name. If it had been a boy they were going to call it Jesus, but they hadn't given any consideration to a girl's name. A name popped into Maria's head. Without thinking she said, "Portina." "Portina?" said Juan. "I've never heard of that name." Having said the name, and even though it was new to her, Maria now knew that it was the name she wanted for her daughter. "I don't know where it came from. Maybe I remember it from before I came to live with the Father. It reminds me of 'the doorway'." So, Portina received her name. Juan didn't act as if he much cared -- about the name or the daughter. While he never said it, Maria could tell what he was thinking: he wanted a son. A daughter was hers. The rains of the day of Portina's birth continued off and on for several more weeks. So, Portina was nearly six weeks old before the weather permitted travel to the village. The women of the area attentively received the new baby. Her obvious health and that of the mother attested to the wisdom these vicarious mothers had imparted to Maria. Their advice on how to raise the child was effusively forthcoming. Juan received the reception at the village mutely. He no longer strutted and boasted. If he spoke of the matter at all, he alluded to the boy that Maria would bear him next. Maria noticed that, unlike other women's off-spring, the Father showed an unusual interest in Portina. Surely this was to be expected. Was not the priest nearly the grandfather to the child? In addition to the advice of the village's vicarious mothers, the Father had considerable advise for Juan and Maria. The child must become learned in the teachings of the Lord. She must be taught to pray and to observe all the virtues the Lord prized in a woman. "She must be as well behaved and virtuous as her mother," he said. His advise troubled Maria. She had to continually quell the desire to tell the Father that Portina was her daughter to raise as she felt best. Much to Maria's terror, the Father even offered to assist Juan and Maria in their daughter's education. "You can send her to stay with me sometimes when she gets older. I'll teach her well," he said. Juan was genuinely pleased and grateful for the offer. He even agreed that it was certainly a good idea. The suggestion sent a chill up Maria's spine. She was unable to refuse such an offer in the Father's presence. Rather, she said nothing. Later, after Juan resumed his marital duties in bed, with painful and almost punishment-like vigor, she subtly but consistently discouraged this idea. In private, she vowed to herself that there was no way that her daughter would ever become captive within the Father's cage. The thought of it angered her each time it occurred.