Spirits of the Ordinary: A Tale of Casas Grandes

By Kathleen Alcalá and Rigoberto González

Set in northern Mexico in the 1870s, Spirits of the Ordinary tells interweaving stories centered on Zacarías Carabajal, who leaves his comfortable city home to prospect for gold in the wilderness while hi

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Raven Chronicles
• Release date: May 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9780997946864

Kathleen Alcalá

Kathleen Alcalá contributed to a novel for the Seattle7Writers project for literacy.

Book preview

Spirits-cover

PRAISE for books by Kathleen Alcalá

Mrs. Vargas and the Dead Naturalist

. . . The kingdoms of Borges and Garcia Márquez lie just over the horizon, but this landscape of desert towns and dreaming hearts, of lost sisters and ghost scientists, canary singers and road readers, is Alcalá-land. It lies across the border between the living and the dead, across all the borders—a true new world.

—Ursula K. LeGuin

Spirits of the Ordinary

. . . it is testimony to Ms. Alcalá’s vivid talents as a storyteller, and to the mystical allure of the threads of magic realism that run through her narrative, that we come to care about many of her characters, and to wonder what destinies await them in her next book.

—Laurel Graeber, New York Times

An extraordinary debut, this tale of ordinary people in pursuit of honor, decency, and cultural connection is sure to resonate—Highly recommended.

—Eleanor J. Bader, Library Review, starred review.

Kathleen Alcalá is a writer with beautiful gifts. Her prose is continually arresting—there’s a spirit in it which is not ordinary. She has given us a strong and finely rendered book in which passions both ordinary and extraordinary are made vivid and convincing.

—Larry McMurtry

Treasures in Heaven

Kathleen Alcalá is exceptional among Latina writers. Her voice is a compass to navigate the corridors of history so as to approach our common past anew. —Ilan Stavans

The Desert Remembers My Name: On Family and Writing

Alcalá’s life work has been an ongoing act of translation—not only between languages, but also between cultures. She has been building prismatic bridges not just between the Mexican and American cultures, but also across divides of gender, generation, religion, and ethnicity.

—The Seattle Times

Spirits-first-title-page

Also by Kathleen Alcalá

The Deepest Roots: Finding Food and Community

on a Pacific Northwest Island

The Desert Remembers My Name:

On Family and Writing

Treasures in Heaven

The Flower in the Skull

Spirits of the Ordinary: A Tale of Casas Grandes

Mrs. Vargas and the Dead Naturalist

Spirits-title-page

RAVEN CHRONICLES PRESS

www.ravenchronicles.org

Copyright © 2021 by Kathleen Alcalá

Raven Chronicles supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity,

encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this ebook and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a

magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

FIRST Ebook Edition

ISBN 978-0-9979468-6-4

ISBN 0-9979468-5-7

LCCN 2020946916

This is a work of fiction. All characters in this novel are fictitious,

with the exception of Governor Luis de Carvajal.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Alcalá, Kathleen. 1954-

Spirits of the ordinary : a novel / by Kathleen Alcalá

1. Family—Mexican American Border Region—History—Fiction.

2. Mexican American Border Region—History—Fiction.

3. Mexican Americans—Texas—History—Fiction

4. Opata Indians—Mexican American Border Region—Fiction

Cover painting: Alfredo Arreguín, detail from Red Pony, 2009,

Private Collection

eBook Design: Phoebe Bosché, using Mirosa (display), and

Adobe Jenson Pro and Goudy Old Style (text)

Cover Design: Scott Martin

Raven Chronicles Press

15528 12th Avenue NE

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https://www.ravenchronicles.org

This novel is dedicated to my family.

F O R E W O R D

I remember quite clearly when I held the hardcover edition of this extraordinary book, Spirits of the Ordinary: A Tale of Casas Grandes, by Kathleen Alcalá. I was a graduate student in Arizona in 1997, dreaming about becoming a writer, so I made it a point to nab anything from the bookstore shelves that affirmed my expectation that the stories of Mexico and its various communities belonged in the pages of American literature. Spirits of the Ordinary offered me that and much more: a portrait of a landscape that was so vast, it made room right next to Catholicism for other faiths and spiritualities; a depiction of gender that was so daring, it highlighted the agency of women in a 19th century context that tended to mute the complexity of womanhood. And what of the androgynous twins, Manzana and Membrillo? They were spellbinding, not only because of their supernatural powers, but because their identities defied the gender binary. In today’s nomenclature they would be called non-binary.

Spirits of the Ordinary was ahead of its time in other ways, as illustrated by three of its female protagonists: Estela, a prim and proper lady, escapes the prison of a modesty imposed on women of her class, to reconcile with desire and pleasure; Magdalena of Indigenous ancestry, the child bride to an Irish speculator, thrives after widowhood as a shrewd businesswoman; and Corey, an American photographer, disguises herself as a man to preserve her safety and to gain access to places and situations that would be denied to her as a woman. A testament to Alcalá’s storytelling skill is that these depictions of feminism don’t come across forced or implausible because they blend in naturally in this northern Mexican territory. She set her novel quite deliberately during the early period after the annexation of Texas by the United States and while gold fever was still bewitching adventurers. It was a time of change, big dreams and possibilities for men. Alcalá asserts that this was true for women also.

The most touching element to me as both a young reader and now a middle-aged reader, continues to be the care and affection with which Alcalá highlighted the Opata people native to the land and the Jewish families that had settled in the area. Although Spirits of the Ordinary doesn’t sugarcoat depictions of their persecution and alienation by other groups, it also acknowledges their resistance to expulsion from society and its culture. Their perseverance is not fueled by rage or retaliation but by the strength of their beliefs and an unshakable love for their respective communities.

I must admit I’m still dazzled by Spirits of the Ordinary because it represents optimism despite the challenges of a hostile world. That vision of hope and progress is just as necessary today as it was yesterday. And somehow, I’m not saddened by the need, yet again, for inspiration, but fortified by the wisdom in its message that the light within each of us will guide us through the darkness. Thank you, Kathleen, for this timeless book whose return is timely. &

—Rigoberto González

Professor of English and director of the MFA

Program in Creative Writing at Rutgers-Newark,

the State University of New Jersey.

I N T R O D U C T I O N

Long ago I set out to write my first novel. Naturally, I had no idea what I was doing, only that there were people inside of me insisting that I give voice to their stories. They had come to me gradually, first introduced by the stories my aunts and uncles told at family gatherings, then through the characters in my first book, Mrs. Vargas and the Dead Naturalist , and finally as visions in my own head, dreams and portents much like those experienced by my characters.

This was in a different era for both writing and publishing. There was no internet. There was no social media. We still read newspapers for our news, and listened to a wide range of radio and television stations. All my research for Spirits was done through books, interviews with elders, and first person travel. We did not yet have sophisticated means to obtain genealogies or understand the stories hidden in our DNA. If I wanted to make things up, I could. And I did.

A few people sent me cranky letters disputing the names of towns or the altitude of Casas Grandes, but many more wrote to say that, for the first time, someone was telling their story. Since 1997, dozens of books have been written about the hidden Jews of Mexico and other parts of the world. Some are written by people legitimately exploring the history and science behind the anecdotes. Others find the dangers imposed by anti-Semitism in a Latin American country a romantic subject for their musings. They do not share the hesitation, the silences, with which those of us who inherited this history have always moved through the world.

Even now, perhaps even more than when I wrote Spirits of the Ordinary, to declare ourselves to strangers takes a certain foolhardiness. At best, people are finally aware of our heritage and the unique cultural and linguistic niche we hold. At worst, it is an invitation to add us to the growing list of those not welcome in the United States, the previous countries inhabited by our ancestors seeking refuge, and the country our ancestors left over five hundred years ago.

One of the interesting developments since Spirits was first published is that the government of Spain is now offering reparations to the descendants of victims of the Inquisition and subsequent Expulsion. Those reparations are in the form of expedited Spanish citizenship. When this idea was first announced, I had no interest in it, since home to me has always been the deserts of the southwestern United States and northern Mexico through my Opata ancestry. But another generation has grown up, and my son, a citizen of the internet more than any physical space, announced his interest in Spanish, and European Union, citizenship. The mala sangre in my veins, of course, is the key to this citizenship. As this book goes to press, we are slowly making our way through the huge amount of paperwork needed to close the loop between my ancestors in 14th century Spain and our current embodiment as citizens of the 21st century. I sometimes wonder if the shocking cruelty displayed by the Conquistadores in the 1500s stemmed in part from the cruelty shown to them before they or their parents declared themselves Cristianos Nuevos—New Christians, banishing their Jewish roots to inner rooms and whispered stories. But I’m afraid there are too many instances of cruelty there and elsewhere, then and now, to ascribe it to any cause other than the continued frailty of human beings. What have we learned from the past? Only to persist and survive. That magic and holiness are all around us, and that one gesture of kindness can last for untold generations.

I would like to thank my original editor, Jay Schaefer, and agent Kim Witherspoon for believing in this book, and to Raven Chronicles Press for making Spirits of the Ordinary available again to a new audience.

Thank you. &

—Kathleen Alcalá

Bainbridge Island, July, 2020

In love is found the secret of divine unity.

It is love that unites the higher

and the lower stages of existence,

that raises the lower to the level of the higher—

where all become fused into one.

—The Zohar

1

Esmeralda

Straightening the ruffles on the curtains, she could not forget it. Stirring the soup in the kitchen while Josefina bit her lips and waited for her to leave, she could not forget it. Sewing the torn lace back onto the hem of one of her daughters’ petticoats, she could almost forget it, but Estela cringed every time she remembered the hurt, closed look on Zacarías’ face as she tried to talk to him.

Papá would love for you to join him in the business, she had begun. With two daughters and the twins so far away, he has no one to help him, no one to accompany him on his business trips.

You could travel, she had added, thinking this might appeal to Zacarías’ perverse sense of adventure. Every year, he goes from Piedras Negras to Tampico, taking orders for thread and cotton cloth.

Zacarías’ silence had persisted as he continued to pack his saddle bags. Estela felt awkward, out of place standing in the supply shed next to the stables, still wearing her indoor shoes. Zacarías was not yet dressed in his travel clothes, so she felt that she had time.

I do not want to sell dry goods, he had said, finally, as he measured oats from a large sack into one of two bags that would hang on either side of the horse.

Why can’t you be like other men? Estela had finally exclaimed, then run back to the main house; but not before seeing that look on his face, a mixture of hurt and stubbornness that seemed more and more to characterize their entire marriage.

A few minutes later, she heard the gate to the street open and the horse clattering away, and thought he had gone out for more supplies.

But upon looking in his bedroom, she had seen Zacarías’ town clothes abandoned on the floor, and knew that he was gone.

That was yesterday, and she had slept badly. Rising early to make sure the servant began to boil water for laundry that day, Estela saw dark shadows smudging the fair skin under her eyes.

A widow, she thought as she pinned up her reddish-brown hair in the mirror. I feel like a war widow, except that just when I’m used to his being gone, he comes back.

She tucked a perfumed handkerchief into her sleeve and left her quarters. A wonderful miniature carriage stood by the house in the breezeway, awaiting a second son.

She could see her two daughters in the garden, one with curly black hair, one with straight, reddish hair like her own, bent and giggling over something she could not see. The day was warming up, and she felt weary already. She stood with her hand pressed to the side of her face, watching them. The perfume from her handkerchief filled her head.

From the darkened kitchen doorway, Josefina watched and saw the woman’s mother in her tired eyes.

Señora, she called. There’s good coffee here for you.

Estela swept the hair out of her eyes as she helped hang the sheets to dry and saw a vee of cranes crossing the brilliant blue sky. They were heading northeast, towards the Gulf and fishing in abundance. She stabbed a clothespin onto the line, nearly tearing the sheet in the process. The laundry maid, who came once a week, would rather have done without her help, and Estela knew this, but she had to keep busy or she felt that she would go mad.

Gabriel, her eldest child, returned from his classes at the Ateneo Fuente. He came out to the courtyard to greet her with a kiss.

My papá has left?

Estela sighed. Yes.

She watched her son out of the corner of her eye. He had accompanied his father before on his adventures, and she worried that someday she would lose them both.

But Gabriel just shrugged and removed his bookbag from his shoulder.

I’ll be at Chucho’s until merienda.

Gabriel was good at school, and friends had been saying that the best thing for him would be to continue his studies at an American university, one that was far to the north and would allow him to pursue his studies in engineering.

She watched her tall, dark-haired boy as he walked back into the house swinging his books, and felt another pang in her heart.

Estela just had time to visit her sister Blanca before late afternoon merienda. She changed her dress and shoes, draped a shawl over her head and shoulders, and called Josefina to accompany her the two blocks to her sister’s house.

Expecting a child in four more weeks, Blanca no longer went out. Instead, swathed in layers of pink silk and lace, she received friends on the cool, lemon-scented veranda, where the maid brought cold manzanilla tea and freshly baked pecan cookies.

Estela! exclaimed Blanca from behind a sandalwood fan, as though she had not expected to see her. How nice of you to come!

Estela pecked her on the cheek and sat down at the white, wrought iron table. The tea tasted good.

You look wonderful, she said. This would be Blanca’s eighth child. She would have to hire an additional woman to help care for the children.

Thank you, Estela, said Blanca. I would rather have cooler weather, but it won’t be long now. Look what my mother-in-law gave me. Rosa? she called, bring me the little confection from my mother-in-law.

The maid returned with a tiny, lace-infested dress with an overskirt of tulle.

How can you be so sure it’s a girl? asked Estela while admiring the dress.

After seven children, I know, said Blanca emphatically. She floats like a little angel, she’s not heavy like the boys.

This made Estela laugh. Blanca always cheered her up. Still, she could not help but feel a little envious of her sister. Estela was thirty-four years old, and had not had a child in twelve years. She longed for the joy that a new baby would bring.

Zacarías is gone again? said Blanca more gently, laying her pudgy hand on her sister’s thin one.

Yes, said Estela. I guess everybody knows.

I can tell by your face, said Blanca. You look so sad when he’s gone.

I want him to be happy, said Estela, and he’s so restless when he’s home. Papá wants him to go into business with him. He likes Zacarías. But my husband just wants to spend money on prospecting.

Estela moved the little dress away from herself so that she would not pick at it.

Have another cookie, said Blanca, and took another herself. You can’t worry about things you can’t control. Men have to be men.

Is that right? said Estela. She could not hide the bitterness in her voice.

Just think. He could have a mistress and a dozen children on the side. He could be a drunkard and roar down the streets of Saltillo at all hours. That would be an embarrassment.

For all I know, he does have a mistress, said Estela, but I don’t really think so. . . .

I don’t either, said Blanca emphatically. He’s had eyes only for you since we were children. Even that scary father of his couldn’t keep Zacarías from courting you.

Estela smiled briefly at the memory of Zacarías sitting nervously in her father’s parlor while she made him wait.

"Papá was afraid that he would want to observe Jewish ceremonies. But he promised that we would raise the children Catholic, and we have. I think it’s mostly his parents who are that way.

I just don’t understand why he has to be gone so much.

Don’t worry, said Blanca. Men go through these phases. She laughed. If I asked Gustavo everything that he does, he would be insulted. We all have our little secrets.

Here she imitated her portly husband with her elbows out to her sides: It’s not women’s business what I do. Go! Tend to your children. Don’t I give you everything you ask for?

Estela’s eyes widened and she laughed out loud. The imitation had the ring of a real conversation, something she had not suspected between Blanca and Gustavo.

Still, said Estela, it seems to be getting worse instead of better.

She wanted to tell Blanca about all the money he took each time, but thought better of it. Saltillo was not a big city, and everyone knew everybody’s business anyway.

Estela sipped her tea and stared moodily at the canary in its painted cage as it sang and sang and filled the fragrant garden with sound.

. . .

Estela and Josefina hurried across the main square to attend early Mass. With her head partially down and wrapped in a rebozo, Estela had not seen the large black shape bearing down on her until it was too late.

Good morning, Estela, Doña Carmela sang out as she blocked Estela’s path.

Good morning, Doña, answered Estela. She knew what was next.

We haven’t seen Zacarías around lately. Doña Carmela’s eyes searched Estela’s face for a reaction.

No, he is out of town, answered Estela.

Again? said Doña Carmela, feigning surprise. I certainly hope he finds what he’s looking for.

Thank you, said Estela, and hurried into the church.

She was grateful for the flickering shadows that would hide the humiliation burning on her face. Everyone knew about Zacarías. Her marriage, once her greatest joy, was now the subject of common gossip.

Watching the numerous votive candles burning before the Virgin, Estela could not decide whether or not to light one herself. Her thoughts whirled about as she tried to pray.

What shall I do, Holy Mother? she found herself asking over and over. What shall I do?

The impassive porcelain face gave no hint. Estela realized that she could not make up her mind if she wished Zacarías safe or wished him dead. The lights seemed to flare, intensifying the blue in the Blessed Mother’s robe and illuminating the overwhelming amounts of gold in the church. Estela fled without receiving absolution.

Josefina, waiting at the back of the sanctuary, was startled by the sudden flight of her mistress. She crossed herself quickly before hurrying after her.

. . .

Estela cut the string holding together a skein of heavy thread and spread the cotton over her daughter’s outstretched hands, shaking it gently to loosen the strands from each other. Then she began to wind the pure white cotton into a smooth fat ball.

For Christmas, she said, for Christmas we will crochet new napkins to go with the tablecloth. I’ll have Lupita starch them until they’re so stiff that they just lie there on the oak table, straight as a board, until you pick them up. Then they’ll unfold like angels’ wings.

María giggled and held her hands up without effort as her mother wound quickly.

Will I get a new dress? she asked.

Of course, mijita, answered Estela. Don’t you always?

María hummed to herself happily, imagining herself at midnight Mass, the whole town turned out to see her in a new, sky-blue velvet dress with a white lace collar. Her older sister, Victoria, would wear a dress very much like it, only a different color. María