Free The Dead Women of Juarez by Sam Hawken

anything
?
    “We have new flyers with Belita’s picture on them,” Paloma told Señora Muñoz. “We’ll put them all over the city. All around the
maquiladora
.”
    Señora Muñoz nodded. “Thank you,” she said.
    “Someone will recognize her.”
    In the beginning Paloma always said more, but she learned differently and now it was best to let simplicity be her guide. Shecould not say whether Belita would be found, or whether she would be alive. Sometimes a disappearance was just a disappearance. Sometimes girls found a boyfriend and vanished over the border and if
la migra
didn’t catch them, they might never return. Sometimes girls found a place in the bordellos where the money was better, but the shame too much.
    Señora Muñoz’s mouth was so tight that speaking seemed to cause her pain. “Have you lost someone?” she asked.
    “No,” Paloma said.
    “God bless you anyway,” Señora Muñoz replied.
    They walked along in silence, though the other women in black talked among themselves. Being together would not bring the dead or missing back, but sometimes even a little friendship was better than days and nights alone without cease.
    “My husband,” Señora Muñoz said, “he died when Belita was only six. My oldest, Manuel, he said we should come to the city for the work. He was the man for our family.”
    “Where is he now?”
    “Dead,” Señora Muñoz said, and offered no explanation.
    “Someone will recognize Belita,” Paloma said.
    “She is dead, too,” Señora Muñoz said.
    The other women in black perked up.
No, no, no
, they said.
She’s still out there. Don’t give up hope
. Paloma let them mother Señora Muñoz in the way only they could.
    The lines on Señora Muñoz’s face grew deeper and deeper. She shook her head violently. They stopped in the street under the leaning face of an abandoned house, the spine of its roof broken and the ceiling collapsed. Weeds shot up through the cracked foundation. “I had a dream that she was dead,” Señora Muñoz declared. “They took her from the bus… they violated her and strangled her to death. She could not even cry for her mama!”
    The women in black closed around Señora Muñoz. She pushed them back. Paloma stood away from them, helpless.
No, no, no. Never say that
.
    “They raped
mi hija!
They are animals! Butchers!”
    Señora Muñoz grabbed at her clothes and the women in black took hold of her arms. Paloma felt something on her cheek. She touched her face and her fingers came away wet. She shivered all over.
    “
Why did God take my children?
I say confession! I leave money for the offering! Where is my Belita’s body?
What did they do with her body?!?
”
    Hysterical tears stained Señora Muñoz’s face. She collapsed in the middle of the women in black, vanishing into a sea of lined faces and dark cloth. Words became wails and wails became lung-heavy noises filled with anguish. Paloma felt weak in the legs and steadied herself against the rough stone face of the dead house.
    “Give her air,” Señora Guzman said. “She’ll faint.”
    The women parted. Señora Muñoz lay crumpled in the street with white dust soiling her Sunday clothes. Señora Guzman was the eldest. She cradled Señora Muñoz like the Pietà. Instead of blood there were tears, and all the women in black cried.
    “What did you say to her?” Señora Guzman asked Paloma.
    Paloma shook her head dumbly.
    “It’s not her,” Señora Delgado said. “Paloma is a good girl.”
    Señora Muñoz looked asleep, her face wrought by tears, but her body still jerked, also twisted within. Paloma sobbed for her.
    “Hush,” Señora Guzman told Señora Muñoz. She touched the woman’s forehead, but the wrinkles refused to vanish. “We can’t carry you; you must walk on your own. Hush now.”
    The women in black urged Señora Muñoz to her feet little by little. She swayed when she stood, but they were there for her. Paloma ventured closer and put her hand on Señora