Part 20 (1/2)
”Why not at least stay for lunch?” Carmen asked. ”I can make more nopalitos con papas for everyone.”
”That would be nice,” Don Celestino said, ”except we have a driver who brought us here and he must be in a hurry to get back.”
But when they looked toward the road, Isidro had reclined his seat and was sleeping peacefully behind the wheel.
Most of the small kitchen was visible with only the light from the faint bulb above the sink. Carmen lit the gas stove and heated the two covered pans that sat on the burners. With a match she lit a third burner for the comal so she could make the corn tortillas. On the counter sat a molcajete half full with a pulpy chile verde.
”If we had more people come to visit, maybe her mind wouldn't get away from her as much.” She handed Socorro one end of a tablecloth so they could spread it over the long wooden table.
”For things that happened so long ago?”
”More because she has trouble remembering what was good.”
Together they scooted the table across the cement floor until it was more toward the center of the room.
”But all of us pa.s.s through times like that, no?”
”Yes, I suppose, but it gets worse when it feels like all you can remember was what made you sad.”
Socorro took care of setting the plates and gla.s.ses on the table, and adding a fork and paper napkin from a roll on the counter to each setting. When the food was almost ready, Carmen brought out a pitcher of fresh orange juice from the refrigerator. She was about to call the others when Socorro asked to use her bathroom and then followed her upstairs, taking care with each step since there was no railing or anything to hold on to until the cement stairs reached the beginning of the second level and the door to the bedroom. A brand-new air conditioner, its thick cord lying unplugged to one side, jutted out from one of the windows. On the night-stand sat a portable stereo the size of a small suitcase, and at the foot of the bed two fruit crates held up a brand-new television. The music was turned down on the stereo, but the display panel continued to pulsate with a prism of colors. The only other piece of furniture was a small dresser topped with six or seven framed photos.
”Is this your family?”
”My son and his wife in Chicago, but the baby I still need to meet. And this one over here is my husband from the last time he came here for a few days.”
In the photo they were standing outside near the tree and he had his arm wrapped around her shoulder, though neither one of them was smiling for the camera.
”It must be hard to be so far away.”
”I had to accept it. Worse was when my sons told me that they wanted to follow him. And what could I do, if already they were men? Sometimes it feels like that's all I do, wait and wait for them to come back.” She ran her hand along the edge of a smaller frame.
After she showed her guest the bathroom, Carmen walked back down to finish preparing the meal. Socorro washed her face and neck in the sink and then used a little water to pat down her hair. With the taxi ride and sitting out in the yard she could feel the thin layer of dirt, most of which was gathering into a grayish soapy water in the sink. Before long she heard Carmen calling everyone inside. As much time as it usually took Don Fidencio to eat, she wondered how long they would be here. She thought that later, when they got back to town, she would go ahead and buy a phone card. Her mother would be upset that she hadn't called again, but more just because she had gone on the trip. She wasn't interested in discussing this with her; she was calling only to let her know that they were coming home tomorrow. Later she would have to promise never to do anything like this again. For a few weeks she might have to come home a little earlier, before dark, just to not worry her. She could take care of herself, but her mother must have still been concerned those times she arrived after dark, as she had been doing for the last few months.
She ran her fingers through her hair one last time and was about to use a plastic clip, but then remembered that he preferred her hair down. As soon as she had it down, though, she wanted it up. She brushed it back and for a while tried to find some way to keep her hair up but also down, neither one of which was pleasing to her now.
They sat on long wooden benches that were on either side of the kitchen table. Sunlight now flooded in from the side door, which had stayed open with only the screen to keep the flies out. Carmen served each of the plates with the nopalitos con papas, then pulled the last two tortillas off the comal, wrapped them in a kitchen towel, and placed them at the center of the table. Her grandmother waited patiently for her to explain where everything was on her plate.
”There's no comparing a meal made at home,” Socorro said once she had taken her first bite. ”All these days we were going to restaurants or buying food to take on the bus.”
”Maybe this will convince you to stay longer,” Mama Nene said. ”We have waited such a long time for this man to return and you want to take him away again so soon.”
”Believe me, I am in no hurry to leave, not after what it took us to get here,” Don Fidencio said.
”Then stay the night and you can rest here. Carmen will fix up the other bedroom for you.”
He looked to his brother.
”Remember that we need to get back, Fidencio.” He motioned toward the side door and the road, where Isidro was still sleeping in the taxi.
”But this afternoon?”
Don Celestino glanced over at Socorro and then finally looked back at his brother. ”No, probably not today. But for sure in the morning.”
”So you come for him early tomorrow, now that you know how to find the house, and from here you can leave to the bus station.” The old woman cuffed the table with the palm of her hand. ”That way at least we can hear more of his story.”
”There isn't that much to tell really,” Don Fidencio said, and continued chewing.
”The Indians take you with them and you come back here so many years later, and there is nothing else to say?”
He tried to stall, think of some way to change the subject, but the old woman was holding her milky gaze on him. He wondered how he thought he could ever get away with pretending he was his grandfather. And then he realized he had just accepted the old woman's offer to spend the night.
”I wish there was more I could still remember, but so many years later.” He shrugged with his palms open to everyone else at the table.
”You remembered how to get back here to this place,” the old woman said.
And what was he supposed to say to this? He kept chewing his food, hoping that if he took long enough the old woman would forget she'd asked him a question.
”The other day you told us some more of the story,” Socorro said. ”Maybe you can tell her how you rode on the horse with the army chasing you.”
The girl must have thought she was being helpful. He set down his fork and looked toward the door at the light streaming into the room. A moment later he shut his eyes as he began to speak. ”They had run the horses most of the night and stopped only two times to let them drink water. I had to ride on a horse with the same Indian who had shot my father with the arrow. This one must have been the leader because he rode in front and told them what to do. I wanted to jump down and run away, hide somewhere in the dark, but a little girl had screamed earlier when she saw that the army was following us. She stopped screaming when they cut her throat and threw her body down. I could hear the other horses trampling over her, how it sounded when her bones were breaking under the hoofs.”
”Desgraciados,” the old woman said. ”For that reason they had wanted to run them off. That, or kill them all. n.o.body wanted them around, not here or over on the other side.”
”And later when they stopped, maybe because of what happened with the little girl, the rest of the children, they wouldn't let them get down from the horses, not to drink water or just to stand up, for nothing. And what could we do, if none of us spoke their language?” Don Fidencio quieted after this. The others a.s.sumed he was trying to recall more details of his story, but after a long pause he opened his eyes.
”And the rest?” the old woman asked.
”Who knows?” he said. ”That's all I can remember, after all this time.”
”But you said the other part like it happened only yesterday.”
She had stopped eating and was facing him again. It was clear to him that she wasn't going to let it pa.s.s until she heard everything that happened, whether it actually did or not.
”What I can remember is that as soon as they crossed the river, they left me there and rode off. And from then on, my life was on the other side.”
”And the others?”
”Those ones, they took with them to the north. I stood there and watched the dust rise from the horses galloping away. The army crossed the river later, but they were still too far behind.”
”But tell me why you, if they had taken so many other children?” she asked, her palms open now as if she were waiting to catch something in her arms. ”Why not one of the other boys or girls? You said there had been at least six more.”
Don Fidencio rubbed at the stubble on his chin. Now she was asking him questions he had few answers for. It seemed reasonable to want to know and yet he couldn't recall if his grandfather had even told him this part of the story.