LA OONA
Map Hoarding
A large woman not accustomed to pantyhose or checking her blouse for opened buttons lingers on the work phone with travel agents. Before anything, serious concerns must be addressed: “So what about a three-day safari instead of two? Will jeep rental remain discounted? What about elephant sightings?” She’s also never been snowshoeing or snowmobiling. She asks about winter in Siberia; is it good for both? She ignores business calls while she pores over the world maps she secretly stashes in her desk. Then she uses them for pillows in her rusted El Camino when she’s fired again.
Scrap Stealing
Oona needs something late at night, something affording an explorer a little peace. Weeks later, she starts as night clean-up on a public-access cooking show. The staff finds her beastly. The cameraman regards her more affectionately: the overalls and faded bandana are nostalgic; relics from when a woman could toil the earth like a man but never be mistaken for one.
With everyone gone for the night, no one spots her licking aioli-covered spoons or wiping dirty bowls with her fingers. Oona practices the way the heavily-rouged Chef Shalimar pronounces things. Oh merci, but no, I couldn’t possibly have more niçoise. She heaves herself into a twirl, yanks open the industrial refrigerator and—eyes covered—crams the first thing she grabs into her mouth. Guessing fuzz-covered pearl onions, delectable olives, something else. She is a demure tourist leaving finished plates for handsome waiters to take. In the morning, Shalimar rants how there are no clean utensils, and the rest of the crew is equally unimpressed by the spoiling meats and unwashed dishes strewn about.
In her car once again, Oona eats the only thing smuggled out before getting fired, pretending no mold covers the baguette.
Dress Snatching
The language barrier doesn’t matter. The old mother who hires her knows the hunger of a woman with chewed-off nails. The mother and daughter designate Oona the carrier of heavy things: buckets of supplies and a vacuum. No woman is given more than she can handle. They work when undocumented workers can scurry unseen—at night when the owners of the homes are on vacation. The women never protest the power of invisibility; they clean furniture, polish shoes, feed exotic pets. At first Oona is unnerved by how similar the houses are to the villas in her travel magazines. She trembles, unable to touch a thing to dust it. The daughter scolds, bravery is critical in these places. Oona eventually steels herself enough to open doors. Then closets. Then drawers and jewelry boxes. Then climbs out of her overalls and covers herself with embroidered scarves and silks.
“You better not rip that dress,” the daughter warns from the bedroom door.
“¿! Madre de Dios, qué estás haciendo!?” Mother stumbles onto the sight: Oona struggling into a blue sequined gown which can’t make it over her hips.
Oona chokes, not knowing how to respond to the mother’s cackling foreign words.
Daughter chuckles. “She wants to know why you want to clean houses. Your spirit is too big, it doesn’t fit in these people’s cages.”
Both reach to pry the dress off her sweating skin. Oona ducks, grabs her clothes from the floor, and bolts. Daughter tries to catch her, but mother grips her arm. ¡No, dejala! She’s one of the First Ones, a star person. Besides…dresses don’t matter. These people never notice missing things.
Oona’s tears trail into her hair as she races into the warm night. She yanks off the bandana, freeing her long, black braids.
Woman at Home
Oona didn’t refer to the last one as a job, but a date, a wonderful evening she spent all day prepping for. She lies in the El Camino flatbed for a little tanning, cooling her skin with wet napkins.
The sidewalk to the community college was a red carpet, made especially for supple skin and gowns. Even if the gown is now a shredded tube dress.
The bespectacled instructor welcomes her, but the life-drawing students barely look up as she peeks in. She insists she doesn’t need any help with the dress. Sequins scatter on the floor like shells. Once free, Oona steps onto the platform. The young pathfinders stop their pre-class doodling. Some gasp. Others quietly cheer. For shading and contouring, she is perfection. Age-stained mounds lead to unseen valleys. Folds of skin cascade to dimples. Oona offers her endless self, soft and vast, hoping they find their way. And she prays, careful not to move her lips too much in distraction, that if she suddenly vanishes from their sight, they’ll always remember.
Eutemia Cristina Hernandez is of Dine’ (Navajo), Portuguese, Spanish, Puerto Rican and Mexican Indian ancestry. She grew up in both Puerto Rico and Colorado and obtained a dual B.A. in Religious Studies and English Literature from the University of Colorado. Her work has appeared in Unlikely Stories 2.0 and Adbusters (under the nom-de-plume Harriet). When not writing, she can be found modeling for art projects, pole dancing, or wandering the Rocky Mountains identifying plants and trees.