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by Cecilia Cortez
That morning the hunt for baby pigeons began at sunrise. My Aunt Elise, who was squeamish about tending to bodily fluids and the sick, volunteered to go with me. We climbed up the roof of the house and followed the familiar cooing of a mother pigeon caring for her babies. When we caught sight of the nest, we crouched low and waited. It was a whole 45 minutes before the mother pigeon took flight. By then Aunt Elise had grown tired of complaining that my mother had not spent all that money sending me to nursing school so that in the end I would resort to "primitive" and curandera tactics. Where had I learned to have such faith in the curative powers of soup, she wondered aloud as I handed her the fuzzy creatures.
illustration by Nathan Jensen"Look," I said as we climbed down the ladder, "I don't care what you think, but I took a good look at grandfather last night and the pneumonia is the least of our problems. He's starving to death and if all of you would just stop and really look at him or talk to him instead of whispering, you'd see that."
Aunt Elise gasped and then held out her hands, "Here, give me those things. I'll do the cooking."
I handed her the pigeons and headed for grandfather's room where my Aunt Alba was keeping vigil. Seated at the foot of the bed, she was twirling a rosary in her hand.
Grandfather Panfilo was so intent on dying, he insisted on living in the last original room left in the family home. In that room, surrounded by chipped adobe bricks full of spider webs, a cold cement floor and the smell of damp untreated leather, Panfilo dreamt of death. Only a thin ray of light managed to come in through a small crevice in one of the walls. The room was known for having a draft all year long, but Panfilo refused to move on to another part of the house. When the family explained that the room was falling in all around him, Panfilo only laughed and answered, "I know." He liked to add that it was great practice, any day now he would be sleeping peacefully under the earth, his hands crossed over his chest holding a daisy. There would be no surprises the day we lay him to rest.
At five every morning, my Aunt Elodia made her way across the dark courtyard and into grandfather's room. Before entering, Elodia called out, "Panfilo, Panfilo." She stopped calling him father a long time ago. Elodia didn't remember when or why that was, it just was. Hearing no answer, she stepped into the room. She brushed off the centipedes that had landed on Panfilo's bed overnight. Elodia's morning routine had changed abruptly on the very same day Panfilo declared he was dying. That was seventeen years ago, she thought. Seventeen years of mornings that I come in here before I've even wiped the lagañas from my eyes.
Elodia learned to determine the fate of each centipede that fell from the rotting vigas overhead. The ones which landed on Panfilo's bed with their little feet extended and their eyes wide open died of fright during the fall. Their bodies were always very stiff. Others endured their last hours in anguish at the mercy of Panfilo's sharp bones, or as Elodia liked to call it, "the crushing." Finally, there were the survivors, which Elodia referred to as the "lucky ones." These she collected in a glass jar and depending on the coloring, a few were considered lunch for her canaries.
After cleaning up the centipede carcasses, Elodia put her hand under Panfilo's nose and waited for the soft wind of his breath to rustle over her palm. Yes, she confirmed, he's still in this world. Next, she dusted his eyelids, nostrils and bed sheets. When she was done, she gave him a full look, focusing for a second on Panfilo's left fist. She was never able to pry it open and free the bits of earth he clung to.
"What do you mean he's dying? What's wrong with him?" Dolores asked her Aunt Elodia over the phone.
"What do you mean, what's wrong with him! He's old, that's what! He's dying. It's really true this time, Dolores. You better come quick! He's asking about your mother."
"What did the doctor say? Last time I saw grandfather, he was fine."
"I know what I'm telling you. Last night I woke from a terrible dream. In the dream, I lived in a small adobe house. It was a nice little place, with lots of flowers and bright light. I was making tortillas over the wood stove. I lived there with two younger sisters and a father whose name was called three times dead," Elodia shivered.
"What does that mean, a father whose name had been called three times dead?"
"Ay, Dolores, I couldn't sleep after I heard that. I went to check on him. He was lying there, no dirt on the sheets, no centipedes and the room was warm. His breath was barely coming out."
"Get the doctor and call me back!"
Elodia hung up and sighed. Her niece Dolores, the family skeptic, wouldn't make the trip back home until she heard a medical diagnosis, but the town's one doctor was off picnicking and wouldn't return soon.
When I arrived, my three aunts, all dressed in black, were praying at the foot of my grandfather's bed. Three weeks ago my Aunt Elodia called to tell me Panfilo was dying and then she called again and said to forget it, it was just a little gas. Yesterday, she called and all she said was, "Pneumonia."
My grandfather had been dying since February 12, 1980. That's the day my grandmother Chepa died. The only conversation we were able to have with Panfilo after that dealt with his impending death, though the town doctor had declared him the healthiest viejito around town year after year. A few months ago, when I visited him, we had our usual conversation.
"Grandfather, it's me Dolores, how are you?"
"Who? Oh, Dolores? Where's your mother?"
"My mom's still sick, but she'll come for a visit soon, okay? Now tell me what hurts you."
"Everything. If your mama doesn't come soon, I'll be gone. You know Chepa's waiting for me, don't you? Come closer so I can give you my blessing. Next time you come, I won't be here."
In the candlelight, I had to look hard to make his shape out on the bed. His skin hung loosely over his bones. I leaned over to kiss him and inhaled the familiar smell of dust that permeated his skin.
"Hey, abuelo, it's me."
"Shush, don't breathe on him. He's delicate," my aunts hissed, looking up from their rosaries.
"Where's the doctor?"
Panfilo's last surviving daughters, my aunts Elodia, Alba and Elise glared back, not happy to have their wake interrupted.
"The doctor is gone for the night. There's not much we can do, Dolores. Come pray with us," said Aunt Alba.
"Now that you're here you can at least help clear his throat. He's got a lot of phlegm. He's been awake, insisting on giving his last blessings. He's asking for your mother," sniffled Aunt Elise.
"Well, maybe it's time we tell him the truth."
"Are you crazy? Do you want to kill him?" responded Aunt Elodia.
When my mother, Librada, died of cancer two years ago, it was Aunt Elodia who decided that we not tell my grandfather. She argued that telling him the news might just kill him, not of sadness, though he loved Librada, but of the sheer disappointment that it had not been him. We all knew his death wish was that fierce and really believed those news would cause him too much suffering.
"I know, but I've never seen him like this. For all we know he's just hanging on to see my mom so he can go peacefully. It's just not right. If we don't tell him and he dies, how do you think he'll feel when he runs into her up there?"
I kneeled next to his bed and took his long hands in mine. I tried a telepathic message. Abuelo, I've come to take care of you and tell you my mother's dead. Please don't leave without first giving baby pigeon soup a chance. I concentrated on the message while my aunts resumed their chants and prayers. In the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of my grandfather's gray suit hanging outside his dresser.
"Thank the Virgencita, you've returned. He's asking for you, "Aunt Alba said crossing herself, "In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. I'll be in the kitchen if something comes up."
Grandfather's eyes were wide open. I kneeled and told him I was there.
"And Librada?"
"Umm... She's de...." I looked around nervously. "Grandpa, she's gone. Do you know what I mean?"
He didn't reply, but I knew he understood.
"They don't come close, but Elise, Alba and Elodia are here. They're in the kitchen making you pigeon soup right now."
"Soup? Ay no...no more, Dolores, I just want to close my eyes. Let me sleep," his voice slipped into the hollow cavity of his body.
I opened the door to let in air and light, while I convinced him to sit up in bed. I arranged his pillows and set about taking his temperature and clearing his throat. With a washcloth, I freshened him up. He thanked me for going to so much trouble primping and making him comfortable. It was a while before Aunt Elodia arrived with the soup. At first, grandfather refused to eat.
"Just a sip or two, you'll sleep better with something in your stomach," I said passing the bowl under his nose, "It's good, smell."
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. A few seconds went by and then he opened his mouth. I gave him a spoonful and watched as he swallowed carefully. My Aunt Elodia ran out of the room and returned with her sisters close behind. They watched in awe as Panfilo took spoonful after spoonful of the soup. He seemed to come alive with each swallow, his eyes shone and his cheeks became a rosy brown.
"He hasn't eaten like that in years."
"Mom did always say that there was nothing like pigeon soup to wake up the dead."
"Maybe he shouldn't have too much. He hasn't really eaten and it's already five in the afternoon."
"You're going to be fine, right, Abuelo?" I asked him.
He swallowed the last spoonful and gave us a wide smile.
"All of you come closer," he smacked his lips together, "May God bless you and your families. Chepa would not be pleased to hear me say this, but that's the best soup I've ever had."
We smiled back at him as bits of adobe came undone from the ceiling and rained down on us.
That evening my grandfather passed away while we sat in the kitchen sipping coffee. I listened as my aunts reminisced about the delicious pigeon soup my Grandmother Chepa cooked every time Panfilo traveled north to work in the fields. Panfilo would walk into the kitchen holding a tiny bundle wrapped with rope and a bus ticket in his shirt pocket. He ate his bowl of soup in silence as Chepa looked on from her place near the wood stove. The journey north was long and required not only strength, but a stomach at peace, Chepa told her girls, as they watched their father climb the bus at the town square. Never embark on trips, long or short, on an empty stomach, she added, as they waved, their father gone in a flurry of dust.
