The Tequila Worm (2 page)

The CanDY BITe

One Saturday morning, I walked into the kitchen and told Mama, “I’m not going to be friends with Berta anymore. She’s mean and selfish.” I still hadn’t figured out what being a good
comadre
was all about, but I was sure I didn’t want to make Berta part of
my
family.

“But Berta’s your cousin, your best friend,” Mama said as she stopped sweeping and turned to look at me. “You’ve played together since you were babies.”

“She might still be my cousin, but she’s not my best friend anymore.” I went into the living room and started watching cartoons.

There was a knock on the front door. I glanced out the window and saw Berta’s hazel eyes and the red bow in her curly brown hair. I raced into the kitchen.

“It’s Berta. Tell her I’m not here.”

“You go tell her. What? I’m supposed to lie for you now?”

“Oh,
please
. I’ll sweep the rest of the kitchen for you.”

“I’ll consider it if you tell me why all of a sudden you’ve stopped liking Berta.”

Berta knocked louder. “Sofia! Sofia! Are you home?”

“Berta always takes a huge bite out of my candy bars, but when she has one she puts her fingers on the tip so I can only take the tiniest nibble out of hers.”

Mama shook her head. “Mi’ja . . . go get two nickels from my purse and then take Berta to the store to buy
two
candy bars—one for you and one for her.”

The very next day Mama and I were walking to church for seven o’clock Sunday Mass. I turned and saw Berta on the other side of the street, about ten paces ahead of us. She was eating a chocolate bar. I glared at her, my mouth watering. Then I got mad.

“Is that Berta?” Mama looked at me.

“Yeah.”

“Eating a candy bar—right?”

Silence.

“Sofia, why don’t you go over and ask her to give you a bite?”

I started walking more slowly, letting Mama go ahead.

“Sofia, I’m talking to you.”

“What?”

“Go over and ask Berta for a bite of her chocolate.”

“I . . . don’t want . . . any.”

“Oh, Sofia, don’t try that on me. I know you like your papa knows his bean pot. You’re
loca
about candy—chocolate especially. Now go over and get a bite. Remember, you bought her a whole candy bar yesterday.”

“But she’ll only let me take a nibble.”

“Well, if she puts her fingers at the tip again, you have my permission to go ahead and bite them.”

What?

“I’m serious. Now go on.” Mama turned me toward Berta and gave me a push.

I turned to Mama. She waved me off. I slowly crossed the street and turned to Mama again. Still serious.

Berta was absorbed in her chocolate bar. I felt my blood hot and rushing, my hands sweaty.

“Hey, Berta . . .”

She turned, her nostrils flared. She made her eyes into slits. “Oh . . . hi.”

I turned to Mama. She had caught up to us but was still across the street. Still serious.

“Berta . . . can I . . . have a bite?”

Berta sighed like a big balloon letting out air. “Okay . . .” She took her candy bar and put her fingers on the tip.

Mama nodded.

I took a huge bite. Berta howled and took a bite of my shoulder.

I kicked her like a mule. I didn’t even bother to turn to look at Mama then.

As Berta’s big teeth came at me for another bite, her mother, Tía Belia, miraculously appeared and pulled her back. Mama caught me as I was about to kick Berta on her butt.

We stood in our mothers’ arms, panting, glaring, with sweaty red faces. Berta clutched her candy bar like a trophy.

“Berta,” said her mother, “now, share your chocolate with Sofia. Remember that she bought you a whole candy bar yesterday. Break it in half and give her a piece.”

Berta squinted.

“
Berta
. . .”

With tears in her eyes, she took off the wrapper and snapped the candy bar in two. One piece was much bigger than the other.

“Give your friend Sofia a piece.” Berta handed me the smaller piece. “Wait. Sofia, you take the piece you want.”

I gulped, looked at Berta’s watery eyes, and took the smaller piece.

The HoLY HOST

BEFORE making my First Communion at seven, I practiced taking the holy host using a roll of Necco candy wafers. The roll was wrapped in clear crinkly paper and the wafers, as big and thin as quarters, lay one next to the other, like coins in a roll, purple and pink, orange, yellow, green, and white.

When we played “taking the holy host,” I was the priest. My little sister, Lucy, and Berta’s little brother, Noe, both three years old, were the penitents. I never asked Berta to play because she always ate most of the wafers, even if it was
my
roll of Neccos.

“This is serious business,” I’d tell Lucy and Noe, “for you’re practicing to take Jesus’s body and blood. So pay attention!”

Lucy’s bright brown eyes and Noe’s dark ones squinted.

But I always knew they were just playing along to eat the candy wafers. When they burped or laughed, I said, “Stop fooling around! Just pure and holy behavior, or you might make the whole world come to a big crashing end!

“At catechism they teach you,” I continued, “that the world will come to an end when a nun—and I mean
any
nun—dies. And the nuns who come pick you up at school to walk you over to catechism each and every Tuesday are all rickety old. So it won’t take much to rattle them. And if you make an old, rattled nun angry, she might just croak right there and then.”

Lucy and Noe would immediately stop giggling or pushing each other. I always took this opportunity to remind them, “Stop thinking that nuns are sweet and kind like Maria in
The Sound of Music.
That’s just a movie. Think of the evil old bruja in ‘Hansel and Gretel.’

“To take the holy host, you first have to make your First Holy Communion,” I told them. “You also have to go and confess your sins—and I mean
all
your sins—to the priest, who hides behind a secret screen, inside a closet that looks like a big coffin—with you on the other side of the screen. Then you have to do your penance, which is whatever punishment the priest gives you for all your sins. And if they’re really, really bad, you might have to say hundreds, even thousands of Our Fathers and Hail Marys.”

Their eyes widened.

“Then on Sunday,” I continued, “you can’t eat anything— not even a tiny crumb—for a whole hour before taking communion. When the Mass finally comes to the Communion part, which is soon after the priest raises a white wafer the size of a big tortilla to the heavens, you get in line, pew by pew, and then start making your way up the aisle in the Communion line, while you clasp your hands in prayer, bow your head, and try to look holy and such.

“And when you finally get to the very front of the altar and find yourself smack in front of the priest, who is holding this big gold goblet full of holy hosts, you close your eyes and stick out your tongue. The priest says something, you say something, and then the priest puts the host on the tip of your tongue. Then you quickly slip your tongue back into your mouth and head back to your pew, where you kneel and hold your hands in prayer and look holy.

“Now listen, it’s very, very important that you let the host dissolve slowly in your mouth. You can’t start chewing it like it’s a piece of pork or something. Remember, it’s Jesus’s body and blood. And never,
never
can you stick out your tongue to show the host to anybody, much less touch it.”

“But why not?” Lucy asked, her little round face serious.

“Because it’s holy,” I said.

“But what happens if you accidentally bite it or you trip and it just pops out of your mouth?” Noe asked, scratching his head.

“You die and go to hell.”

“Right then and there, or when you get old?”

“Right then and there. The ground opens up and swallows you whole.”

“But why?” Lucy asked.

“Because it’s
holy
. And that’s what I’ve learned at catechism,” I said, more and more annoyed.

I took all the white wafers from the Necco roll, put them inside a big yellow cup, and practiced giving Lucy and Noe the host until all the white wafers were gone. I then ate all the others.

Weeks after making my First Holy Communion, I was standing in the Communion line, my head bowed, my hands folded in prayer, when I panicked. I remembered taking a bite, a big bite, of Berta’s chocolate bar just before Mass. Without her fat fingers this time. I’d thought nothing about it then, except for Berta’s odd smirk. I secretly glanced at my Timex watch—a Communion gift from my parents. It was less than an hour since I’d taken the bite!

Oh no! What do I do?
I couldn’t take Communion now. I should just get out of line and go sit down. But what would people think? It would be a sign that I’d done something really, really evil.

I started sweating. My clasped hands trembled as I moved farther and farther up the Communion line toward the priest holding his big gold goblet. Since he was God’s representative, he’d just know a whole hour hadn’t passed when he got to me.

Then it kicked in: this might even be the death of me! It could be that the earth would open up the very second the priest put the host on my tongue. My breathing got faster and faster.

When I looked up, I found myself smack in front of the priest. I stood frozen, looking at my warped reflection on the shiny gold cup.

“The body of Christ,” the priest said.

But nothing came out of me. “The body of Christ,” he repeated, which was my signal to say “Amen,” to open my mouth, and to stick out my tongue.

I just stood there, stunned. I desperately wanted to open my mouth, not to say “Amen” but to tell the priest, “I can’t say ‘Amen’ because I don’t want to die!”

I felt the host being shoved into my mouth and felt myself being pushed to the side. With the host still hanging partly out of my mouth, I quickly brought my hand up and secretly slipped the wafer into my shirt pocket.

I hurried back to my pew, went through the kneeling and praying. But there was no way to fake looking holy. As I knelt, I looked out of the corners of my eyes to see if anyone knew I was carrying Jesus’s body and blood in my pocket.

When I finally got home, I said, “I’m not feeling well, I’m going to lie down.” I changed into a T-shirt and carefully hung up my shirt, making sure the holy host was still safe inside the little pocket.

I said no to lunch and later to dinner, even after Mama fussed and prepared my favorite dish—a big batch of cheese enchiladas. She came and sat down on my bed. Her light brown hair smelled like a flower and she wore a bright yellow dress. She looked at me with her big brown eyes, like Lucy’s. She felt my forehead. “No fever. But you look gray. And you always look gray when you’re hiding something, Sofia.” I shook my head until I couldn’t keep it in anymore. I burst out crying. “I don’t want to die! I don’t want to get swallowed up by the ground!”

I finally told her—in fits and starts and hiccups— what had happened. Mama went to my closet and got my shirt.

“Mama, don’t look in the pocket! You could die, too!” She took the shirt, still on the hanger, to the next room.

When she came back she said, “I called the priest, and he wants us to come over right away.”

I turned blue with fright, but Mama said, “Don’t worry, Sofia, the ground is not going to swallow you up.”

At the rectory, I waited in the foyer while Mama went in to see the priest, carrying the shirt.

I had never felt so frightened in my life.

After a long, long time, Mama appeared, without my shirt. “We need to walk over to the church to pray.” Once there, she said, “I must pray the fourteen Stations of the Cross.” This is what Mama had to do—her punishment— so that I wouldn’t get swallowed up. And as I followed her from station to station in the cold church full of shadows, I said my own secret prayers, for only grown-ups knew how to pray the Stations of the Cross. I also kept thanking God for giving me such a mama.

Later that night Berta came over for a cup of Mexican chocolate.
Still smirking
. But then she heard my story.

“Sorry, Sofia,” Berta said, showing her big teeth. “I
never
thought you’d
die
when I offered you a bite.”

I glared. Mama gave me a look, so I didn’t kick Berta.

Three months later a strange box arrived in the mail, with no return address. Mama opened it and pulled out my shirt. And when I looked at the little pocket, I saw that it had been sewn shut.