Two things that the three señoras had in common were poverty and pain. Even their names, Dolores, meaning pains, seemed to cast a grim prognostication on their lives. Lola, their informal name, did little to lighten life's load.
Lola #1 was not a local person. A shabby, old pickup dumped her and her dissimilar brood of 5 one day on the outskirts of the village, just like they were unwanted dogs or cats. The driver tossed their cartons and bundles on the ground after them and took off in a cloud of dust. "Good riddance to that one," said the driver's wife sitting next to him. However, the driver looked downcast and didn't say a word. And so it was that Lola, with her full, pouting mouth and fat, stocky figure got thrown out of the end-of-the road village that butted right up to the mountain where she was born.
They settled into an eroded adobe ruin, which was destined to be knocked down, but it sheltered them well enough for the time being, it being the dry season. The oldest boy hired out doing fieldwork, two of the older girls went to work as mothers' helpers, and Lola soon began engaging in her well-practiced profession, the reason for her present relocation.
It must be said that she was neat; faithfully she swept her part of the street. She pummeled their worn and tattered things on a volcanic rock in the lake until they were sheer, with no knap. Then she draped them over bushes and rocks to dry in the sun. Her lacey, black underpants, spread flat on a stone, brought smiles to rancheros who watered their cattle daily in the lake.
Local resentment mounted slowly among villagers, mostly women and old men not able to enjoy Lola's skills.
One day, as Lola lay on a petate mat with a man in a field, someone silently put an irrigation hose on the ground near them through the sheltering rock wall, turned on the water, and stepped back to enjoy the results. Looking like drowned rats, sputtering and fuming, they rose and took off swiftly in opposite directions.
Lola's technique to garner clients was to stand motionless, looking like a sullen Olmec statue, near an arroyo highway underpass. There, arrangements between Lola and her client were made and each would go their separate way. When Lola began having fainting spells, her presence there was less certain.
Lola was found dead one hot afternoon on the earthen floor of her hovel. There were no tears. She had endeared herself to no one. Her daughters begged flowers from neighbors who later came and, by rote, recited the rosary. Her son dug the grave. Lola is gone.
Lola #2 was a different sort. Unmarried, she had no help and supported herself by cooking and cleaning for others. She always regretted that her only son had no schooling. At age six, she sent him out to work in the fields, to contribute a pittance toward their welfare. Now he was gone to the United States, to seek a better life. With bright, believing eyes, she would tell neighbors of his promise to send for her when he got settled in the land of plenty. But the people, their hearts long-hardened to such claims, just sniffed.
Much time passed with no word. Desolation darkened her dream. The memory of him hailing the bus to go north began to dim. One day, at a rodeo, she arrived in the bleachers drinking from a bottle of cheap tequila. The band blared, the sun burned down, youths taunted, people pointed and whispered. She clutched the bottle, it being her only ally.
But Lola retrieved her reputation by doing a manda, a public penance. When the Virgin of Zapopan came to the village there was a grand procession with Indians in full, radiant regalia, feathers and standards waving. They danced with clogs and rattles on their feet to the rhythm set by drums and fiddle. And there, in the midst of them, was Lola, looking drab and downcast by comparison but stamping and whirling up a storm, guided by strong resolution. Her feet, accustomed to huaraches were bloody and there was perspiration on her brow. That she redeemed herself, there was no doubt, but also she must have received a powerful blessing from the Virgin. A few days later, her son came walking into the village. He had been working construction in California and came to take his mother to their new and wonderful home.
Lola #3 was a good daughter and followed her mother's advice. "Bear your cross, my daughter," the old lady said, when Lola sought her consolation. "Do you remember what a womanizer and abuser your father used to be? All things will change with time. Just be content that he supports you." She patted Lola's hand. Bruises and hard words were almost all that Lola got from her husband for her wifely devotion. Her joy came from the great circle of love she shared with her eight children. When she lay obediently with her macho husband, she was only there physically. Her mind was on another level, experiencing release from his tyranny and a gentle life for her children.
Outside their adobe home, she held her head high and didn't attempt to explain her bruises. They were especially bright children, all of them, the oldest, at 12, qualifying for a scholarship. All the sons, as they grew into their teens, escaped to a better life in the U.S. helped by relatives.
Frustrated by not having his sons' strong backs to help him in the fields anymore, the husband, one day, had a terrible, tragic tantrum. He pulled Lola's thick braid as she was seated in a straight chair, bent her head back, and something snapped in her neck. The girls ran out calling for help. The Red Cross came and their father was jailed.
Lola's sons flew immediately to their mother's side in the hospital, hastily made arrangements and spirited the whole family to the States, never again to see their father.
The rest is like a fairy tale of success, the children going on to higher education. Although Lola sleeps nightly with a neck brace, she keeps house, takes night classes in English and is as dedicated as ever to the welfare of her family.
