“Yes, I know that,” Sofi said, “and now that I think about it, your father was always considered the black sheep of the family, so I can see why they didn’t keep in touch with us after Loca’s funeral. It was nice that they showed up, at least my cuñada with a couple of her kids did, even if her husband didn’t. Now, I remember! That little Casimiro was busying pinching you the whole time Father Jerome was giving his sermon! Do you remember, Fe?” Sofi was saying all this rather joyfully, because, of course, she was trying to be joyful about Fe’s new relationship and without thinking she said to La Loca, “Remember, ’jita?”

Loca did not answer but instead put a cookie sheet with a batch of biscochitos into the oven and Fe gave her mother a hard nudge, moving her lips so that only her mother could get the message: Loca was dead then. Remember, Mama? Sofi “got it” and immediately felt bad for having been so insensitive to her ’jita Loca.

“So how was it that he found you?” Sofi asked Fe.

“Well, he __ came into __ bank one day __ open __ __ new account and there I was. __ there he was. And __ rest __ history … we liv ___ happily __ __ ter!” Fe said.

And if __ that ___ been true.

11

The Marriage of Sofia’ s Faithful Daughter to Her Cousin, Casimiro, Descendant of Sheepherders and Promising Accountant, Who, by All Accounts, Was Her True Fated Love; and of Her Death, Which Lingers Among Us All Heavier than Air

It was that month in the “Land of Enchantment” when it smelled of roasted chiles everywhere. Fresh red ristras and sometimes green ones were hung on the vigas of the portales throughout—all along dusty roads, in front of shops and restaurants to welcome visitors and to ward off enemies. Propane-run chile roasters were hand-rotated by bagboys in front of local supermarkets and everyone who didn’t grow their own lined up to get their chiles, women were packing them up, whole, dried, and in sauces, to send off to homesick boys stationed in Panama and to wayfaring relatives in Wyoming and Washington, D.C., but mostly to feed their familias right there and to freeze for the winter.

That chile-roasting month was also the month that la Fe chose to be wed—yes, married at last—not to the shriveled-hearted wimp who had been her first novio, but to her very own cousin, Casimiro.

But above all, when the pungent, nostalgic aroma of roasting chiles filled the air again in following years, that month would always be remembered by everyone who had known her as the one in which la Fe died right after her first anniversary.