Nepantla: The Story of a Family

Beatriz and Elena - 1915

Elena and Beatriz arrived like ghosts—pale, translucent, their bodies and faces bearing the silent echoes of fire, death, and the violence they had fled. The lopsided wagon swayed as it trundled over the worn cobblestones, and it was clear that they had come from a life untouched by hardship until now. Beatriz held the reins with one hand while clutching the torn lace at her chest with the other. Beside her, Elena sat uncomfortably, her face streaked with the dirt of dried tears. They bobbed in unison, mother and daughter, wordlessly traversing the road into town.

Beatriz hadn't told Elena where they were going, hadn't allowed herself to think about Esteban's absence, burying that knowledge in a part of herself she hoped would remain forever inaccessible. Everything about her mother's silence told Elena not to ask, not to probe the reasons for her father's disappearance. It was just them now, in a harsh reality that made El Tesoro and the life with the nuns feel like a distant dream.

As they approached the center of San Miguel, Beatriz struggled to guide the wagon through the narrow streets. She had learned to ride from Esteban, but only for show, to say she could if needed. Her experience in a wagon was limited to being driven around in a Packard, and over the past days, she had forced herself to manage the basic maneuvers of driving two horses hitched side by side. The strain made her back ache, her arms taut as she kept a light but steady grip on the reins. She gave up trying to fix her torn dress, letting the lace fall as she shifted in her seat and adjusted the reins. An Indian woman they'd met on the road had given them *joaquiniquiles* to eat, and Elena had spent the last mile spitting out the small black seeds as her mother urged the horses onward.

Beatriz glanced at her daughter and shivered, wondering how much Elena would remember of this journey. At least, she told herself, Elena hadn't seen the worst of what had happened at El Tesoro. She couldn't bring herself to share the horrors of the past few months, and besides, there were more pressing matters. Elena's future depended on escape from this war, from this ruin. She longed for a clean rag and a bit of water to wipe the dirt from her daughter's cheeks, but instead, she decided she'd use the corner of her own skirt and a little spit to clean her face before they arrived at the Mateos house.

Elena had been well raised by the Dominican nuns to be a proper young lady, and Beatriz knew she'd need to emphasize those qualities if she was to secure any chance for her daughter now. Embarrassment threatened to creep in as she thought of arriving with so little pretense, but necessity had burned pride to ashes. El Tesoro was gone, sacked and burned to the ground. With not even a peso to their name, Beatriz knew what needed to be done to secure her fifteen-year-old daughter's future.

"When we arrive, I want you to stay quiet." Her mother's voice cut through Elena's daze, breaking the silence that had hung between them since the day before. "They'll have questions, but I'll explain that we were separated from your father."

Elena nodded, looking down at her clothes. The hem of her crinoline was caked in dust, and the delicate buttons up her sleeves had fallen off in her attempts to steady the reins after a sudden lurch from the horses. She touched her tangled hair and then felt her mother's hand make the sign of the cross over her forehead. In that moment, Elena felt more lost than she ever had.