Firefly Summer (3 page)

“Look out back there,” cried Filimón.

The coach rocked, sending all the packages to the floor. Teresa held fast to the sides of the coach. The road was filled with prisoners cutting stones, leaving very little clear space to ride on. Filimón broke into one of his long harangues of Patois and Spanish which was impossible to understand. The coach swerved, and he kept a tight hold on the reins. The pile of cut stones extended as far as the eye could see. Teresa wished Filimón would let them walk rather than stay in the coach, jolting as it was. Finally, after much rattling of wheels and clattering of hooves, they were again on the clear side of the road. Teresa picked up the packages and arranged them on the seat beside her. The box of color paints she was bringing for Ramón was torn, and she had to hold it on her lap for fear the small bottles would roll on the floor again and break. She knew how much Ramón had wanted a real box of paints, and at last she had been able to get it for him.

Besides the
finca
and the horses, there was nothing Ramón liked better than paints, which he used for decorating most of the simple carvings he did about the
finca
. He decorated wooden spoons and forks with pictures of palms and butterflies for
display on the little tables in the parlor. He also painted scenes on
güiros
made out of gourds, to be played by peasants in their native orchestras. She called them scratchers, for they were grooved and the noise they made came out by scratching a wire fork across them. There were güiros of all shapes and sizes all over the house.

Teresa often wondered what would have become of Ramón if he had not come to live at the
finca
. She remembered how surprised Mercedes had been when Teresa first told her his story. It all had happened when she had asked if Ramón was her brother, and she had said yes and no. She could still remember the look that came over Mercedes' face. Then Teresa told her the story from the very beginning. How her father, Don Rodrigo, had gone to a
finca
near Guayama to buy some shares in a sugar refinery and had seen Ramón among a group of children who had come to beg to mind his horse. While the rest of the children jumped and shouted, Ramón stood quietly, hands stretched towards the horse, but not daring to touch it. He kept saying “caballo mío, caballo mío—my horse, my horse.”

Ramón had followed Teresa's father around the plant and even waited outside the office for him. Every time Don Rodrigo went to the plant, the same thing had happened, until her father finally made inquiries and found out that Ramón was an orphan who lived with a laborer who had six other children
of his own. He learned that Ramón's parents had been victims of a hurricane. So, on the last visit to the refinery, her father had asked the laborer for Ramón. So earnest was his plea that he was able to adopt Ramón. Ramón arrived at the
finca
holding a carton box with his few clothes and a small sandalwood box wrapped in layers of old newspapers. When it was opened, they found a coral necklace and a pair of earrings that matched it.

“And he has been at the
finca
ever since?” Mercedes had asked.

It was a silly question to ask, but she was always asking silly questions, like a small child. Ever since Teresa had told her that Ramón had given her the sandalwood box as a birthday present when she was eleven-years old, Mercedes had wanted her to bring it to San Juan so that she could see it. Every year Teresa disappointed her, for she had the box in the bottom of her old trunk, wrapped up in one of her father's large handkerchieves. Ramón believed the necklace had belonged to his mother, and now that it had come to be Teresa's, she wanted to keep it as safe as he had himself. Finally, she had compromised with Mercedes by promising to show it to her if she ever came to visit her
finca
.

Teresa had been so absorbed in her thoughts that she did not notice how far they had ridden. The road looked extremely familiar. There was the old farmhouse which had been burned almost to the
ground the summer before. It was still abandoned. The coach was turning, leaving the main road behind and entering the bumpy country road that led to the
finca
.

“There go the packages again,” she said as the coach jolted. Teresa made no effort to pick them up from under the seat where they had rolled, because already way up on the hill the roof of the white and brown house had come into view.

“Juana,” she cried, “look, up there is home. We have arrived at the
finca
.”

Teresa's unexpected arrival was cause for great excitement. Her grandmother, who was working in her garden on the south side of the house, saw her alight from the coach and run up the path.

“Rodrigo! Anita! Ramón!” she called. “Teresa has come home.”

Before any of them had come to her call, Teresa reached her grandmother. Leal, disturbed from his nap, came out of the house barking and growling. At the sight of Teresa he jumped on her, licking her hands and face. “Down, Leal, down,” she said, but Leal kept up his welcome until Ramón called him.

“Aquí, Leal, aquí,” he said softly, and Leal went back to his master and settled down at his feet.

No one noticed Juana coming up the hill until she stood close to them.

“Why, Juana,” said Doña Anita, “what are you doing here? Has anything happened to Emilio?”

“No, Doña Anita,” she answered. “The family is away. Someone had to bring Teresa home. There has
been little peace in the house ever since her grandmother's letter arrived.”

“But school is not closed yet. How did you manage that?”

“I did not have to,” said Teresa proudly. “I made the list.”

“And what does making a list mean,” asked her father.

“That I did not have to stay for examinations. So what was the use of staying any longer in San Juan, when the feast of the Cross was coming along? Has it begun, Ramón?”

“Not yet, Teresa. I am going to build a new shed for it this year.”

Ramón was glad she was home. Last year the feast did not seem the same to him with Teresa in San Juan.

“I brought you a box of paints,” she said. “Filimón will bring it up with the rest of the packages.”

When Filimón brought the trunk and the packages up, the family went back to the house.

Everything looked the same way, and Teresa took in all her familiar nooks and corners, glad to be back home once more.

Her parents also looked the same. But Ramón had changed. He already looked as tall as her father, and her father was the tallest man at the
finca
.

The three men began to talk about the trip, when something her father said made Filimón laugh loud and hardy.

Don Rodrigo was a good-natured man, with a strong body, as sturdy as some of the old trees in his
finca
. His eyes were brown and lively, like his daughter's, and he had abundant hair which the sun had tinted the shade of an early autumn leaf. He cultivated a moustache which covered his upper lip and added maturity to his face. But Don Rodrigo was only fifty, an age which made him remark that half of his existence had been spread over the hills of his
finca
.

Before Filimón left, Teresa's grandmother gave him a cup of steaming black coffee. He stood outside the door, talking and laughing, waiting for the coffee to cool.

Grandmother was the practical member of the family. She knew how to please everyone who came to the house, no matter who he was. Her snow-white hair contrasted with the firmness of her face, and her energy made her daughter seem like an invalid around the house.

Regardless of Grandmother's age, she and her daughter looked much alike. Both had angular faces, thin sharp noses and exactly the same color of almond-shaped eyes: a pale-bluish color, which Grandmother said had been her father's legacy.

Grandmother's parents, like the Rodrigo's, had been country people, living away from the excitement of towns and cities. They loved the land and the serenity of the hills which surrounded them.

With Teresa now in the house, plans for the feast began in earnest. The feast, so eagerly awaited by all, was a floral celebration in honor of the Cross, similar in character to the feasts of the Cross of May held in various provinces in Spain, from where the custom found its tradition. It had been well implanted in Puerto Rico, especially in the towns and countryside.

To celebrate it, nine rosaries were chanted on an improvised altar, for which nine movable steps were made. One step was added each night to show the progress of the feast. Nine godfathers or godmothers, whose duties were to dress the altar and lead the rosary, were selected by the hostess. To set them apart from the rest of the crowd attending the feast, a small white bow was pinned on their chests.

News of the approaching feast soon reached every worker on the
finca
. The air of gaiety mounted in each house as the days went on. Housewives began to alter old blouses and skirts, adding a ribbon or a ruffle in their efforts to have something new to wear at the feast. Even the children did not escape the excitement. They, too, took things in their own hands. The older ones renewed their efforts to help more around the house, and the younger ones
managed to keep out of mischief, afraid to be deprived of the privilege of attending the festivities.

One day, late in the afternoon, Gregorio and José climbed the hill to see Ramón and Valentín, who were in charge of building the new shed for the altar.

“I wonder how the feast day will go this year?” said José.

“You fared well last summer,” Gregorio said. “Where did you learn to sing those carols?”

“That's the way they sing them in Ponce. I learned them long ago when I used to work there.”

“Hm,” said Gregorio, pulling at his cigar, “that is about the only thing that scares me about the ceremonies. I can't whistle a tune.”

When they reached the shed, they found that Ramón was laying down the floor.

“I don't see why they have taken so long to build this shed,” said José. “The walls are not even up yet.”

“When do you figure the walls will be done, Ramón?” they asked.

“There won't be any,” Ramón answered.

“No walls? Why?”

“To let everyone who can't get seats inside see the altar from the outside. They can sit on the grass, provided it doesn't rain.”

“A good idea,” they said, remembering how many times last summer they had to wait to see the altar after the crowd had left the shed.

They waited for Valentín to put away the tools and then walked down the hill together, discussing previous celebrations.

Little by little the work progressed, and then came the day when at last the shed was finished, with its new altar and nine steps. Ramón bought three lanterns to hang on the ceiling. Word was sent to the workers that Wednesday the feast would begin.

The day before the opening, Grandmother asked her daughter about the list of godmothers and godfathers for the feast.

“Let's not make it beforehand,
Mamá
. It will be more fun to select them from the group that comes each night.”

“But we have to have someone in charge the first night,” said Grandmother.

“What about you,
Mamá
? How would you like to wear the first ribbon?”

“Why I have not sung a feast since I was a young woman, but I believe I would like to do it again.”

“Very well, then you shall be the first godmother,” said her daughter.

Grandmother was more excited than she cared to confess.

“We have to make the “capias,” ribbons, and the altar must be dressed, and the refreshments selected,” she said, growing more and more excited.

Teresa came into the room at that moment, and an idea came to her: Teresa was old enough to take some of the responsibility of the feast, especially when one of the family was involved.

“I am to be the first godmother, Teresa,” she said. “How would you like to make the
capias
for the feast?”

“Oh, Grandmother, do you really mean it? Make all the
capias
? There's nothing I would like better,” she said.

“Then get Antonio to fasten the safety pins on for you.”

While Teresa ran to the kitchen to tell Antonio the news, her grandmother brought the work basket and took out a roll of narrow white ribbon, thread, needles, and a carton of small safety pins.

“Let's go to the neck to work,” said Teresa, gathering up her work.

“Did Grandmother ask to be the first godmother?” asked Antonio, putting up his forefingers so that Teresa could wind the ribbon around them. Teresa wanted the
capias
to be real butterfly bows.

“No, no, Mother selected her, of course.”

“But do you suppose she wished for it beforehand?”

“Now, Antonio, who could possibly know that? Don't wiggle your fingers. I don't want these
capias
to be loose.”

“Who else will get
capias
this summer, Teresa?”

“I don't know that either,” she answered.

When Teresa had finished making the
capias
, she asked Antonio to begin attaching the safety pins while she went to look for an empty box to put the bows in.

No sooner was she gone than Antonio pinned a
capia
to his shirt. He smoothed the ribbon gently. “I wish I was big enough to get one of these
capias
,” he said, unfastening the safety pin. When he finished his work, the nine
capias
looked like small white butterflies with their wings wide open.

Teresa had not found a box, but she had a large piece of tissue paper. “This will have to do,” she said. She wrapped the
capias
and went to the shed to find her grandmother.

“They are beautiful,” said Grandmother, “but why didn't you sew them.”