A Handbook to Luck by Cristina Garcia

Author:Cristina Garcia
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction
ISBN: 9780307267221
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2007-04-10T04:00:00+00:00

PART TWO

A white star fell into the garden, Unexpected, unsought. Luck, arrow, flower, fire…

—LUCIAN BLAGA

(1981)

Marta Claros

It was dark when Marta woke up and headed to her backyard chicken coop. The first hints of light stirred the sky, as if the day were coming from far away. Marta walked past her arbor of bougainvillea and the rosebushes she’d planted last summer. She’d dug an herb garden, too, as Dinora Luna suggested, to have fresh remedies on hand against others’ ill intentions: rosemary, lemongrass, chili peppers, spearmint. Their mingled scents made Marta feel safe.

It was against city ordinances to keep chickens in Los Angeles, but Marta wasn’t the only one in her neighborhood raising them. Those who didn’t have chickens were bought off with fresh eggs, so there was little danger of getting caught. Marta cracked open the door to her coop and stooped inside to the soft clucking of hens.

Buenos días, señoras. ¿Cómo amanecieron? She breathed in the acrid scent of the hay and shed feathers. If only she could settle in among them, know the sweet ache of laying an egg. Her body seemed so stingy in comparison.

Marta went from nest to dusty nest, gently checking under the hens for eggs. Nothing from Carmen or Elsa. Nothing from Malva, Hortensia, or Pura. Nothing from the usually prolific Verónica. Only Daisy was left. No te asustes. Así, así. Marta hated to disturb Daisy, but she didn’t want her thinking she could forgo an inspection altogether. As Marta reached toward her, the hen pecked her hard on the knuckle. It didn’t hurt but a speck of blood oozed forth, as if her skin had sprung a slow leak.

¿Tienes algo para mí, preciosa? Marta slid her hand beneath the reddish hen and felt the contours of one perfect egg. She picked it up, still warm from Daisy’s body, and brought it to her lips. Carefully, Marta passed the egg along her face and neck, down her bosom and belly and between her legs. She prayed that some of Daisy’s fertility might rub off on her.

Frankie complained to Marta about the number of eggs she collected. It wasn’t normal, he said, to leave them on plump pillows around the house. Nobody he knew sewed clothes for them either. Eggs, he said, were for eating. Marta defended herself. At least she didn’t sleep with the chickens, the way her mother used to do. What did it matter that she’d bought them a crib and a baby blanket?

“Crazy woman, what are you doing?” Frankie demanded when he saw the egg-filled crib. Marta refused to answer. Did she need to explain to him that the highest form of love was obligation?

In the prosperous neighborhoods of Los Angeles, the parks were filled with babies handed over to nannies to raise. Marta heard of one pregnant mother in Santa Monica who spoke openly of maybe aborting her child, her second. After her daughter was born, she went unnamed for six months. According to Celestina Pulayo, who worked two doors down from the family, the mother referred to her child simply as “the nanny baby.

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