Their father can be mighty difficult, and Perla grits her teeth and does not flinch when she hears him tapping his cane against the floor and bellowing for one of them, but Encarnación complains.
“Why must he yell?” she asks as she threads a needle.
“Father has always had a temper,” Perla reminds her.
“That doesn’t make it any better. He was too hard on Natito. He made him cry. Do you remember? He wanted him to join the business and Natito wanted to go to university.”
“We don’t have a business anymore.”
“No, we don’t. I wish he’d stop giving himself airs, acting like he’s still the most important man in town and can order people around with a snap of his fingers.”
“It would be much easier if you weren’t contrarian.”
“Because I wouldn’t wear a mantilla to mass? Covering my hair with lace doesn’t make me more pious. Besides, I had my hat.”
“A hat is not proper. Women wear mantillas to church,” Perla insists. “It’s the proper thing to do.”
Encarnación stares at her as if she’s speaking in tongues; her sister does not understand how norms and rules allow Perla to navigate a rapidly changing, maddening world. If she did not have propriety and etiquette and tradition to chart her path, Perla fears she would be utterly lost. Like their mother seems half lost, with the laudanum offering her the only comfort she has ever known.
“The way you dress sometimes, and the shoes and hats you wear…the townspeople say it makes you look like a hussy,” Perla tells her sister. She does it out of love, out of concern for her, hoping Encarnación takes her seriously.
But her sister shrugs. “They’re going to say that anyway.”
“Maybe not. Maybe if you didn’t flaunt…”
Encarnación frowns. “What?”
“Flaunt your child.”
“Should I lock her in her room?”
“You know what I mean. You go to church in dresses that are too tight, and with that frilly hat. Inés is a reminder of our shame, but you make it worse. And it doesn’t have to be that way, it really doesn’t. You could wear the mantilla, and more sensible shoes,” she says, almost pleadingly.
“I’m not ashamed of Inés,” Encarnación replies.
Perla is not shocked by this answer, but she is dismayed nevertheless. Her sister is stubborn and impractical and seems to exist in a world of her own, with rules tailored to herself. But Perla lives in the real world, she lives in Puerco Ahogado, and she recognizes the limits of the town and its people.
Perla shakes her head and Encarnación simply smiles her teasing smile. Always the joker, the playful one, and Perla cannot help but smile back a smidgen.
—
It happens on a day when the fog descends from the mountains. The streets smell like roses and wildflowers and limes. The light that streams through the window is hazy, almost milky; the clouds dampen the sun’s rays and invite the inhabitants of Puerco Ahogado to linger in bed.
Perla wishes she could luxuriate in the joy of this lazy morning, but she has chores, and even though the house is still quiet, she rises and washes her face. When she wanders out of her room and reaches the stairs, Encarnación is rushing toward her with a look of pure joy on her face. She’s carrying a piece of paper in her hands.
“Perla!” she exclaims, laughing.
“What is it?”
“The most wonderful thing in the world!”
Encarnación reaches the top of the stairs and hugs Perla. Perla hugs her back, laughter bubbling from her lips also. Encarnación’s joy is contagious.
“My friend has telegrammed. I have the job!”
“What?”
Encarnación hands her the paper and giggles like a girl.
