La Perra Clotilde

She pulled up to the curb behind the dog racetrack near the lumberyard where Noel got wood for his frames. She threw up. Straight ahead she saw a pay phone. “I’m feeling sick. Maybe a stomach virus.” Of course it would be Betzaida who picked up the phone. What else could Betzaida say, but fine take the day off. Still Adela could hear the grudging in her voice. She hung up the phone and vomited again.
A tiny dog, with the shape of a greyhound but way too small to be one, came sniffing the vomit which landed in a spot of weeds by the concrete post holding up the pay phone. She stomped her foot to scare off the tiny greyhound. The little bitchdog wagged her tail. Adela bent down and looked into its honey colored eyes. She fell in love.
She picked up the stray and put her into the car. Tio Nestor would complain but she and Noel would have to find a new place soon, now that Pulgarcito was almost here. Noel would love the dog who sat prim on the passenger side with her gray paws crossed. “Clotilde.” That had been the name of her spinster second grade teacher in Ventura. Her suffragette cut salt and pepper hair had been close to the same shade as the pup’s trim fur.
Adela drummed her fingers on the red plastic of the steering wheel. Clotilde turned to face Adela, her ears perked, completely alert to the mood of her new master. Adela held Clotilde’s dog gaze. She must deserve that utter dog trust. She’d deal with Nestor and Matilde. Clotilde curled up alongside Adela and fell asleep. How long had it been since the dog had felt safe? She made au turn and headed for the coast. For now she was completely free. Maybe, maybe, she’d take the dog to her nephew Guille. Nati never said no. She watched the wage slave traffic heading the other way glad she was not among them for this one morning. She fell into a trance letting the highway open up and take her in, open up and take her in. She was always in a story but never sure whether it was the fairy tale or the horror story. Clotilde whimpered. Her stray dog belly was probably half full of pebbles. She’d read that about rescued dogs. She liked to read about rescued dogs. She hoped to be one. One day she’d meant to rescue one and this was the day. Pulgarcito was a rescued spirit. Who might he be? He’d chosen to enter the world through her.
She exited the highway and turned onto the road to La Morada, to Nati’s house by the sea. To her right one after another of the wooden casitas seemed to smile with their always open front doors and small front porches. They were painted brilliant blues and greens and pinks. She had a memory of standing in bright sunlight between Mirta and Leo on one of those front porches painted dazzling red. She got the idea that in La Morada all houses were red and constantly spinning. She spent long moments as a child trying to figure out how people in La Morada got in and out of their spinning red houses. Did they jump? Were there moments when the spinning slowed? She liked to study merry go rounds in parks for clues. She’d been stunned when she again visited La Morada to find the houses standing perfectly still. Why had they stopped their marvelous spinning?
Just beyond the edge of the first cluster of houses she took the right turn.The narrow road rose sharply, narrowing, burrowing into the side of the rising Pico. She passed a lone marathon runner training laboriously up the narrow dirt path between the road and the rain jungle. He was tall, thin, dark. She recognized Polo from la Universidad. Somebody else she’d never seen again after she dropped out of the Uni to run off with Noel.
She stopped at the first lookout and let Clotilde out. The dog stayed close to her heels. A young family stood by the wooden rail. Two small boys clutched their father’s legs. A mother aimed a camera at them and at the view behind them. The day was clear enough to see El Pico and the cascade of clouds beginning to plume from the summit. How beautiful this mountain was, surely sacred. Below she saw the yellow ribbon of the shore, the hive of little houses of La Morada, the turquoise sea. Adela had no memory of Nati in the spinning red house. Where had Nati been that day? She’d never thought to ask her why the houses spun although Nati was older and should have known how people from La Morada got in and out of their smiling front doors. It was one of the first mysteries she believed she must figure out on her own. Pulgarcito was still in that private world. She would never truly know his. But for now they were in the same one, together. His blood vessels vined into hers.
The young boy was tugging at her hand. He’d been tugging softly for a few seconds before she noticed him. He spoke no Spanish, no English but pointed to the camera in his Mother’s hand. The woman smiled and handed Adela the autmatic carboard box camera. The family lined up with their backs to the view of El Pico and its plume, one boy stood in front of each parent. Adela mimicked a big smile. Just as Adela pushed the red button Clotilde yelped and they all laughed. Still grinning with delight the family set off into the mountain side. Adela watched them vanish into the hiking trail.
Now she was alone. Clotilde squatted by a big tree and peed. She rummaged in the trash along the road and came to Adela with a half eaten codfish fritter. She offered her prize to Adela and then scarfed it in one bite.
Adela locked the car and set off down the trail herself. Clotilde pranced beside her, running into the woods and back out again. Adela watched the dog’s muscles glide under the gray skin and the honey eyes glisten with dog awareness. Clotilde was master of her game. Having gotten herself a human was her best play. She was a dog very pleased with herself. For long moments Adela had forgotten her nausea. Through the branches she got a whiff of pot and heard broken bits of rap music. It was the first rest station on the trail and a group of you;ng men perched on a log gazebo , two on each of the rails of the four sides, two at the benches, one at the water spout, one at the tab le. One of them waved to Adela. She recognized her neighbor Irma’s son, Tomas.
At the next rest she caught up to the foreign family. They must be speaking Arabic. The wife waved her over and pointed to the food spread out on the picnic table. Adela shook her head. The man pointed to an empty space on the bench beside the older boy. She shrugged and sat. For Pulgarcito she accepted from the woman a flat piece of bread with a bit of yellow spread, She pointed to her stomach, and mimicked rocking a baby with her arms. “B ebe.” The woman’s smile broadened. She poured juice for Adela, a sweet pink fruit punch, a drink for children. The woman makes Adela a plate with more flat bread and more yellow spread. It is lemony with bits of garlic and mashed garganzos. The flavors agree with Pulgarcito. She is surprised her stomach doesn’t turn. The husband ad the two boys walked down behind the gazebo into the woods. The woman beams, talking fast. Adela guesses she is telling the story of her pregnancies, her labors. She cuts a piece of pastry stuffed with walnuts and sticky with syrup. It is very sweet and delicious. Clotilde is sniffing and wagging her tail and the woman