Rain of Gold

by Victor Villaseñor

  “But you’re not a burden,” said Victoriano. “You’re part of our family, Socorro.”

  “Thank you, Victoriano,” she said. “But, no, I have to make my own way in the world. I can’t just expect your family to keep feeding me and my two sons forever.”

  She shook her head, feeling terrible. For nearly three years, she’d been sending letters down the mountain to her home every chance she had, asking for one of her brothers to please come and get her.

  By the time the stranger got to the outer edge of their village, every man, woman and child was waiting anxiously. There were only six families left in the canyon, and none of these had any relatives who came to see them anymore.

  At the first of the deserted houses, the stranger came off the main road, but he didn’t take the good trail toward the center of town. He took a lesser trail, staying up close to the main road that circled the canyon, and it looked like he was coming straight to Lupe’s family’s home.

  Lupe glanced at her mother with amazement. No one had come to their home since Flaco and Manos had left the canyon nearly a year before.

  Coming down the trail, the stooped-over man was stepping quickly as though he knew the trail well. But, he also looked so drained and tired that he could hardly keep the huge load, which towered over his head.

  Then, suddenly, for no apparent reason, Doña Guadalupe turned and hurried inside the ramada. Lupe turned to her brother.

  “Do we know him?” she asked.

  Victoriano shook his head. “No, I don’t think so,” he said. “He’s probably just some poor man who thinks the mine is still open and he’s come to sell us goods.”

  Saying this, Victoriano took up ground, preparing to tell the man to move on. But then, coughing, clearing his voice, Victoriano was just getting ready to speak when Carlota suddenly darted down the pathway, screaming, “Papa! Papa!”

  Sophia and María were right behind her, running, too.

  Lupe stared at her brother in complete shock. She suddenly understood why her mother had gone inside.

  “I’m going inside with Mama,” said Lupe to her brother.

  Victoriano nodded. “And I’ll stay out here.” He now understood, too. Their mother had recognized their father long before any of them.

  Inside the lean-to, Lupe found her mother at her bed, brushing out her long, silvery hair. In the soft, golden sunlight coming in through the cracks of the lean-to, Lupe could see that her mother had tears in her eyes.

  “Mama,” said Lupe, “it’s Papa.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said. “Please, go on out with the others and greet him. I want to be alone.”

  Lupe heard her mother’s words and yet, she didn’t obey her. “Mama,” she said, “you don’t have to see him if you don’t want to.”

  Putting her brush down, Doña Guadalupe turned and looked at her youngest daughter. “Oh, mi hijita,” she said, seeing her baby of the family standing there so strong and ready to defend her.

  Doña Guadalupe burst into tears and Lupe went to her and held her in her arms, feeling her mother’s large, soft breasts go up and down against her own lean, hard chest with each sobbing cry. Crying was good; it opened the heart and cleansed the soul.

  Outside, the right eye of God was slipping down behind the mighty cliffs, and the canyon was getting dark and cold. Lupe’s sisters were laughing and helping their father get the huge load off his back.

  “Oh, Papa,” said Sophia with tears of joy in her eyes, “I was so afraid that you were angry at us and weren’t going to come for my wedding.”

  “But how could I be angry with my angels?” said the old man, hugging Carlota and talking to Sophia at the same time. “You are my loves. Look at all the presents I brought you for the wedding.”

  “For us?” screeched Carlota. “All that’s for us?”

  “Why, of course, mi hijita, it’s all for you,” he said.

  “Oh, Papa! Papa!” screamed Carlota, kissing him on the cheeks, the mouth, the nose, the chin. Then she let go of him and ran to undo the bundle that he’d carried up from the lowlands.

  Sophia took her father’s hand in hers and she looked at him in the eyes for a long time. “I’m so glad you came,” she said, wiping the tears from her eyes. She kissed him respectfully on the cheek, holding him close. Sophia was eighteen years old. She was a fully grown, mature lady, and she’d remained short and delicately made like Carlota. “Come, Papa,” she said, leading him up the pathway.

  At the top of the pathway stood María and Victoriano, both tall and large boned. María was grinning ear-to-ear with her large full-lipped mouth, but Victoriano wasn’t grinning. He was as cautious as a young buck just before the rutting season.

  Instantly, María flew into her father’s arms, almost knocking him down.

  “María,” laughed her father, “please, not so strong, my God! Give your old father a few days rest before you decide to break his bones! Oh, you’re strong!”

  “I’m sorry, Papa,” she said, “but I’m so happy to see you! We’d thought you’d abandoned us and didn’t want to see us anymore.”

  “But how could you imagine such a sacrilege?” he said.

  “Well, you never answered mother’s letters, and she wrote to you three times, putting back Sophia’s wedding twice because of you.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “But you must realize that this Revolution has destroyed Mexico. And with the americanos gone, all communication with La Lluvia has died.”

  He kissed María again, then he looked up at Victoriano, who, because he was standing on the uphill side of the walkway, appeared even taller than his father.

  “Look at this man!” said Don Victor. “This giant who towers over me! Why, could this be my little boy, Victoriano?”

  Against his will, Victoriano blushed. His father came up to him, taking him in his arms and hugging him. Victoriano stood rigid. He and Lupe were the youngest. They didn’t remember many good things about their father.

  “Oh, mi hijito,” said the grey-haired old man, tears coming to his eyes, “I’ve dreamed of this moment so many times.” His breath quickened, eyes flooding with tears, he was so moved.

  Victoriano felt his father’s heart pounding against his chest and he truly wanted to say that he’d dreamed of this moment, too, but the words just wouldn’t come. A part of him hated his father, resenting that he’d even returned. Besides, he was embarrassed of doing all this hugging in front of Socorro. He didn’t want to be treated like a child in front of the woman he loved.

  Lupe came out of the ramada. Don Victor saw the long-legged girl and his eyebrows knitted together.

  “No,” he said, “this young lady couldn’t be my Lupita, could she?”

  “Yes,” said Carlota excitedly, “it’s Lupe, Papa, and Mama’s inside. I’ll go get her.”

  “No,” said Lupe quietly. “Mama wants to be alone.”

  “But Papa’s here!” said Carlota.

  Lupe held her ground. “She knows that, Carlota.”

  Carlota’s face twisted with sudden, unexpected anger. “You lie,” she yelled at Lupe. “I’m going to get Mama!”

  Instantly, Sophia was on her. “No, Carlota!” she said, holding her by the arm. “You wait out here with the rest of us. Lupe doesn’t lie, and if Mama says she wants to be alone, then she wants to be alone.”

  “But Papa’s home,” pleaded Carlota, trying to get away from her older sister.

  “Mi hijita,” said their father, stepping forward, “everything is going to be all right.” He took Carlota tenderly in his arms, then turned to Lupe. “And thank you, Lupita, for coming out and informing us of your mother’s wishes.” He reached for Lupe, too, but she didn’t go to him.

  “Lupe!” screamed Carlota. “He’s our father! What’s wrong with you?”

  Lupe said nothing. She just stood there, nervously holding her ground. She didn’t even know this man, so how could she possibly go to him and allow him to hug her?

&nb
sp; “Cálmate, Carlota,” said Don Victor, his lower lip beginning to quiver. “She was very little when I left. She doesn’t remember me. Isn’t that right, mi hijita?” he asked.

  Trying to keep calm, Lupe nodded yes. But inside, her heart was racing so fast that she felt she’d burst. All she’d done was come outside to say that their mother needed to be alone. She hadn’t meant to start all this trouble.

  It was dark down in the canyon when everyone in the village gathered to see what things Don Victor had brought. There were bright pieces of material for dresses, long pieces of delicate white lace for Sophia’s wedding dress, four new pairs of huaraches—which were about three sizes too small for the children. And there were bags of dry beans, dry meat, flour, raw sugar, salt and several long rolls of bright, colorful ribbon, and two new Indian blankets. The whole front of the ramada looked like an open-air market with all the new wonderful things.

  “Oh, the lace is so beautiful,” said Sophia, holding the fine material in her hands.

  “It came from Guadalajara,” said Don Victor proudly.

  Carlota and María were jumping up and down with joy, showing off all the different materials.

  Victoriano brought out a chair and helped Socorro to sit down so she could nurse her twins. The two little boys were really too big for nursing but still, Socorro insisted on breast-feeding them. Victoriano tried hard not to look at her large, full breast when she opened her blouse and put her rosy nipple into the baby’s mouth, but it was very difficult. Nervously, Victoriano went inside and got a couple of pieces of pine pitch. He lit them and was placing them around the front of the ramada when their mother came out of the lean-to.

  “Good evening,” said the short, plump, grey-haired old lady, standing at the entrance of the ramada in the dancing light of the pine-pitch torches.

  Everyone turned to look at her, and they were shocked. She didn’t look at all like their mother. Her hair was all tied up and she wasn’t wearing her eternal apron. She had some of Socorro’s red lipstick on her mouth and some rose-colored powder on her cheeks.

  “Oh, Mama!” said Carlota. “What have you done to yourself? You look awful!”

  Sophia stepped forward. “Just don’t pay any attention to her, Mama,” said Sophia. “You look perfectly wonderful, Mama. Doesn’t she, Papa?”

  “Why, of course,” said Don Victor, smiling grandly. “She looks just like my angel on the first day I saw her.”

  He took off his hat and bowed to her with a flair and everyone gasped—he was so bald.

  “¿Cómo estás, querida?” he said.

  “Muy bien, gracias,” said their mother.

  Lupe saw an expression come into her mother’s eyes that she’d never seen before. Her mother and father were flirting and yet being as cautious with each other as the coyote who’d just found another coyote in his territory.

  “You must be very tired,” added their mother.

  “Oh, yes, I almost died, I tell you, coming up the last hill. But, well, seeing you, my love, I’m rejuvenated,” he laughed.

  “I see,” she said, blushing.

  The whole ramada became so quiet that the soft breeze sounded noisy in the tree branches behind their home.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, “for a kiss from your lips and the touch of your skin.”

  And saying this, he came toward her with his hands outstretched. For a moment, it looked like their mother wasn’t going to allow him to touch her, but then she did, and they were in each other’s arms.

  High above, the towering cathedral rocks were on fire as the last of the sun turned into liquid flame, dissolving into the darkening night. He, the day, was going; she, the night, was coming.

  Then they all went inside—Doña Manza and her family and all the other people who’d come to hear the news of the outside world. Don Manuel and his family were the only ones who weren’t present, and Don Tiburcio had sent word that he’d be up later.

  Sitting down before her father, Carlota took off his boots and brought a pan of warm water to wash his swollen feet. Don Victor moaned and groaned with pleasure as he pushed back his hat, bringing out a bottle of tequila.

  “It’s a miracle that this bottle got here at all,” he laughed. “I fell so many times that I was sure it had broken.”

  He drank down a big swallow, then passed the bottle to the other men, who numbered seven, including Ojos Puros.

  “Well, tell us,” said one man, “is it true that Francisco Villa was killed and the Revolution is over?”

  “Oh, no,” said Don Victor, “that rumor is two years old. Villa has fully recovered from his wounds, and he’s up and strong as ever.”

  Everyone was shocked. They’d thought that the Revolution had finally come to an end.

  Their father continued talking. Lupe sat across the shovelful of coals from him, watching her mother sit beside him, serving him tea and sweet breads.

  Once, Lupe saw her father put his hand on her mother’s leg and her mother’s eyes danced with merriment. Lupe got embarrassed and glanced at her sisters and brother to see if they’d noticed. But only Victoriano seemed to have noticed.

  “So there I was, hiding in town,” laughed Don Victor, “with dead people piled up all around me, when these armed men came riding into town. This blind, old woman was out in the middle of the street, and I thought they’d run her over. But to my surprise, seeing the blind woman, their leader reined in his horse, reached in his saddlebags and brought out a gold coin, dropping it into her can. ‘Gracias, mi general!’ said the old woman. ‘But I thought you were blind,’ he said to her, ‘so how did you know I was a general?’ The toothless old woman laughed. ‘Easy. These days every other son-of-a-bitch is a general!”

  Don Victor laughed and everyone joined him. “The officer got so mad, I was sure he was going to shoot the old woman, so I took off down the alley as fast as I could go. Oh, to disappear, I tell you, is the only way to survive a war!”

  And Don Victor continued drinking and telling story after story, and the ramada filled with laughter.

  “And now for my final story,” said Don Victor, “I’d like you all to see what I brought special for my girls. It’s the newest thing in Europe and Mexico City!” He rolled out a bolt of shiny pink material, more delicate and fine than anyone had ever seen, and he shouted, “Underwear for my daughters!”

  Doña Guadalupe gasped, spilling her tea. Carlota leaped up, prancing about the ramada like a pony. Sophia hugged Lupe close with terrible embarrassment. Hiding her face, María ran out of the ramada, colliding into Don Tiburcio.

  “What’s the commotion?” he asked. He was all dressed up with a coat and tie. He had flowers in one hand and a gift wrapped in beautiful white paper in the other.

  “Oh, Dios mío!” screamed María, running back into the ramada. “Sophia! Sophia! He’s here!” she yelled. “And I think he heard what Papa said!”

  Turning crimson with embarrassment, Sophia saw her short, dark fiancé come inside. “Oh, no, Papa!” she begged. “Please don’t say another word!”

  Sophia was horrified. In their culture, no one ever spoke of a woman’s undergarments, much less in front of her betrothed. But Don Victor wasn’t to be stopped. He had the entire ramada howling with laughter, and he loved it.

  Standing up, Don Victor met his future son-in-law at the entranceway. He hadn’t seen Tiburcio in nearly eight years. Towering over him, Don Victor extended his hand. “Come right in,” he said, “and take a look at this fine pink material I bought. Did you really think I was going to let my daughter marry you with old, worn-out underwear?”

  Don Tiburcio stopped dead in his tracks, wringing the little bouquet with both hands.

  “Well, speak up, Tiburcio,” continued Don Victor. “Did you?”

  Don Tiburcio was as red as three-day-old chili. “Well, I must confess, I never thought about it, Don Victor.”

  “But you should. Why, a woman’s underwear is the
most important part of her wedding dress!”

  Finally, Doña Guadalupe couldn’t stand it anymore. “All right,” she said, getting up. “That’s enough!”

  “But why?” asked Don Victor, reaching for the box of candy and flowers that Don Tiburcio had brought Sophia. “Look what he brought me, querida!”

  “Please,” said Doña Guadalupe, taking the flowers and box from her husband, “make room for Don Tiburcio.”

  “Oh,” said Don Victor, rocking on his feet as he grinned ear-to-ear. Suddenly it was obvious that he’d drunk too much. “So it’s now ‘Don’ Tiburcio to you, eh? Why, I remember when you were nothing but a runny-nosed muchacho and your mother ran the store,” he said.

  The ramada went silent. No one knew what to say. But, before things could get worse, Doña Guadalupe spoke up.

  “Don Victor,” she said calmly but firmly, “ever since the americanos closed down the mine and abandoned us, it’s been only Don Tiburcio who has kept us alive up here. He’s been the one willing to go down to the lowlands—with the mountains full of bandits— and get us supplies. None of us would be alive if it wasn’t for this man’s great bravery.”

  “I see, I see,” said Don Victor, reaching for the last of the tequila. “And money-tight-pants Manuel, doesn’t he send his muleskinners down the mountain every month for merchandise anymore?”

  Lupe lowered her head, clutching her chair. She was so embarrassed to realize how little her father knew about his family’s situation.

  “No,” said Doña Guadalupe, handing the flowers and beautifully wrapped present to her daughter, “since the americanos left, Don Manuel has been well, like in mourning.”

  “In mourning?” asked Don Victor, rocking on his feet.

  “Yes,” said Doña Guadalupe, “for the last few months no one has even seen Don Manuel.”

  “It’s true, Don Victor,” said Doña Manza, “the americanos were Don Manuel’s entire life. He thought that he’d become one of them and that they were going to take him and his family to the United States with them when they left, but they didn’t. They left him here instead, to watch over the abandoned mine.”