In my heart, I willed her to stay, hoping against hope that she wouldn’t leave us alone. But she undoubtedly had work to finish —laundry, perhaps, for her own two children and the rest of us who lived there. I sighed quietly as she left, taking with her every trace of safety and protection. I feared the night even more than the day.
After the lights went out, I covered my entire body, even my face, with the threadbare sheet I had been given. Though I couldn’t get comfortable on the thin mattress, that wasn’t what was causing my uneasiness. I couldn’t put it into words other than a growing fear of the unknown that weighed heavily on me. What was going to happen to me and the people I loved? This uneasiness accompanied my fear of what I knew would happen during the night ahead, and it pressed on my chest like one of the cinder blocks from the walls.
Within minutes, I could hear them. I peeked out from under the sheet and saw giant rats scurrying along the top of the wall below the thin metal roof above us. They were beginning their nocturnal habit of scavenging for any errant morsel they could find. The rats had easy access from the outside to the inside through the ventilation gap at the top of the concrete wall. I plugged my ears, a feeble attempt to drown out the clickety-click of their tiny toenails on the cement overhead.
“Are you asleep?” I whispered to my little brother, Hyrum, lying closest to me.
No response.
I knew I couldn’t handle the terror of the night alone, so I crawled stealthily to a mattress fifteen feet away where Celia was also wide awake. “Can I sleep with you tonight?” I asked, knowing full well neither of us would actually experience restful slumber. She didn’t answer, but pulled back her sheet and scooted over to make room for me on her mattress.
We lay quietly for a few moments, and then I whispered, “I hear the rats.”
“I know. Me too.”
“I’m afraid one’s going to fall off the ledge and land on me.”
Celia snuggled close and said, “I’ll protect you.”
I nuzzled my face into her neck and felt her warm breath. I cuddled closer to her and stroked her long, blonde hair, a simple act that calmed me. Oddly, I felt something hard.
“You have a knot or something in your hair,” I whispered.
Celia brushed her long, blonde hair daily until it felt silky smooth, so I was surprised to feel a knot. I sat up and tried to see what it was in the dim light.
Suddenly the “knot” moved, burrowing half an inch into her locks. I shivered —the “knot” was alive —and then I screamed, a deep shriek of both shock and terror. “It’s a beetle!”
Mexican beetles aren’t like the tiny June bugs or beetles we typically see in the United States. These beetles could be as large as a walnut.
Celia bolted upright, her muffled screams joining mine. I tried to part her hair and find the beetle that had nestled closer to her scalp, but it was difficult in the dark.
As I watched helplessly, Celia frantically dug her fingers into her mass of hair. I felt a cold shiver start in my spine and tingle all the way to my neck and down to my fingers, almost as if the beetle were crawling on me. Finally, I saw something catapult through the air over the two mattresses where Hyrum and others were still asleep, bounce off the wall, and fall back onto the floor. It lay still for a few seconds —stunned or perhaps just getting its bearings —and then the giant black beetle scurried off to softer, friendlier surroundings. Probably another mattress. Or worse, the hair of another of my sleeping siblings.
Celia whimpered uncontrollably, and I did my best to soothe her. “Here, let’s lie back down under the covers.” The threadbare sheet was a poor barrier between us and the beetles and the rats, but it helped with mosquitoes. It was certainly better than nothing.
A few minutes later, I felt another beetle land —hard —on top of the sheet near my stomach. It began to crawl slowly toward my head. This time I was prepared. I flicked the sheet underneath the beetle’s body, but it didn’t budge. I hated to move my hand or any part of my body out from under the sheet because I feared other beetles would scurry into my safe cocoon. But I had no choice. I poked my arm out from underneath the protection of the sheet, reached on top of the thin fabric, and grabbed the beetle. I could feel its body twitching, which scared me, but I managed to hold on to it and toss the bug as far away as I could.
Celia and I looked at the room full of our siblings, sleeping peacefully. We were both exhausted from battling the beetles. “I don’t think I’ll be able to go to sleep,” I said.
“I know. Me neither,” she whispered back. “I’m afraid the sheet will slip off and one of them will crawl under here.” She paused, then shuddered. “Or in my mouth.”
“We could take turns, like army men on watch.” I didn’t relish the idea. After all, we both desperately needed sleep with a long workday ahead of us tomorrow.
“Okay, let’s do that.”
“You go ahead and sleep first.” I stroked her hair once more, shivering as my hand passed over the area where I’d felt the beetle only moments ago. Before long, I heard deep breathing and felt her body relax. Thank goodness someone could sleep. I lay listening for scratching sounds, my beetle and rat alarm on high alert. The room stayed blissfully silent, except for the deep breaths around me. I turned over and lay with my back toward Celia.
Suddenly, someone cranked up the music from the cantina down the street. What had been a soothing melody, a mix of voices and guitar, became a noise fest of Mexican ranchera music, with the familiar gritos Mexicanos (a Mexican shout during a popular song or celebration) that kept me awake. I actually yearned for the long, hot workday, which would be minus the bugs, rats, and raucous music, as I finally fell asleep.
It turns out, I didn’t have to endure another night of the pulsing beat. The next day, Rena took her kids along with me and Hyrum back to Catemaco. My dad needed her to type up his lengthy sermon and book notes. Celia had been sent to Mérida to help our older sister Lillian and her husband, Mark, with their small children. Antonia was none too pleased with our intrusion back in her small apartment.
We had been in Catemaco a few weeks when, on Halloween night in 1978, we were awakened in the wee hours of the morning by a sharp and insistent knock at the door. Six-year-old Hyrum, who didn’t know any better, groggily got up from his pallet on the living room floor, walked over to the door, and opened it. Suddenly, five or six federales (Mexican police) herded him out of the way and filed in, spread out, and began searching every room while we watched in terrified silence. They were carrying automatic weapons, so we didn’t dare argue with them. I heard loud and gruff orders directed at the adults, and soon all of them were standing up with their hands in the air.