Excerpt from Where There Was Fire by John Manuel Arias, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Teresa looked to her rattling nightstand, its varnished wood glimmering in the moonlight. There, she had locked away the only tail she'd ever collected: her husband's, José María's.

A man's voice broke through her radio's static.

"It's almost midnight, folks, and it's a scorcher," crooned the announcer. "This next song is for all the lovers out there."

"Historia de un Amor" played in a sensual, somber cloud. It was a familiar song for those who couldn't sleep. Eydie Gormé's seductive soprano filled the bedroom. A trio of guitars accompanied the velour of her voice. A damp nightclub's smoke blew out from the speaker and danced a lazy bolero with the humidity.

"Tonight, the moon turns red as a heart," said the radio announcer before signing off. "So hold that lover close."

Another of her grandmother's sayings bubbled up in Teresa's memory. Beware of rainless nights. Never let your husband stand directly beneath a blood moon. His body will beckon for his tail, and it will find him with the help of the light.

Her nightstand quieted, and Teresa felt the other side of the bed again—not for the memory of her grandmother this time but for José María. He should have been home hours ago to escort her to the theater. They'd been invited by Cristina, Teresa's best friend, who lived across the street. But José María never showed up, so Teresa had gone to tonight's play without him.

Teresa's head pulsed, and she couldn't quite remember how she'd gotten to bed. She sat up, filing through the day's memories.

She'd woken up at five in the morning to make coffee. José María was already awake, sitting sullenly at the kitchen table. It was the largest banana harvest of the year, so Teresa assumed he was mentally preparing for the day, and despite the rest of the country observing Holy Week, the American Fruit Company forced every worker to complete twelve-hour shifts. To fill the tense silence, Teresa reminded José María of Cristina's invitation to see a production of Bodas de Sangre, a classic García Lorca play. Teresa knew he'd be exhausted from hacking millions of bushels, but she thought it would be a treat: to breathe easily in the new air-conditioning of the National Theater, to think of something other than the fruit.

"The reviews are spectacular," she said in response to his hms and mhms, but she knew she wouldn't get anywhere. José María had told Teresa many times he found Cristina pretentious, a classist who looked at him with the same eyes as her mother, Amarga; but like a good fake socialite, Cristina smiled instead of sneered. He said Cristina merely put up with him because of Teresa's friendship. "To women like Cristina and your mother," he said, "I'm just a peasant with bananas for fingers."

José María left without finishing his coffee. Went off to the harvest on an empty stomach, his gleaming machete in hand. Teresa had ironed his suit anyway and set it out on their bed.

She looked to her feet, where it still lay, crumpled from tonight's uneasy sleep.

Teresa's two daughters, Lyra and Carmen, had skipped into the kitchen after their father left. Teresa fed them gallo pinto and a fried egg each. Coffees with milk, a pineapple cut into yellow suns. Then Teresa walked them to the house of a classmate, whose mother was to take them on a trip to the zoo. "The monkeys are the best part," Teresa had said before kissing Lyra and Carmen on the lips, just as her grandmother used to do, and shooing them off to their friend.

At midday, Teresa's mother, Amarga, left the refuge of the guesthouse and came over for lunch. Passing through the washroom between the yard and the kitchen, she grimaced and put her nose to José María's drying work clothes. "They still stink," she said, scrutinizing the grainy white bar of soap Teresa had used to scrub them. "With chemicals like that, you have to use baking soda."

Copyright © 2023 by John Manuel Arias