“Open your mouth, por favor,” To illustrate his desire, Señor Malevolo worked his finger into her mouth, still firmly grasping her chin with his thumb, and hooked it on her lower lip. Guernica slowly opened her mouth and once again turned her eyes away from the old man. “Look at me, chica,” he said more firmly, pulling her mouth more fully open with his finger, “Do not make me tell you again.”
Guernica’s eyes began to water as she looked into the old man’s leering face.
“Your daughter has good teeth, Señor Gracia.” Señor Malevolo released Guernica’s face and kept his eyes focused just below her chin. “Very beautiful, she is, too. You are to be congratulated.”
“Gracias, Señor,” Leonardo kept his voice low, but tone was clipped, as though speaking through gritted teeth.
“She will keep the house in order for us.” Señor Malevolo seemed not to notice Leonardo’s ire. “Delores could use the help in the kitchen and with the laundry. Isn’t that so, mi quierdo?”
“If you say so, Desi,” Delores’ tone, however, said quite the opposite, and she glared even more sternly at the young woman before her husband.
“I do, mi quierdo. I believe this arrangement will work quite nicely for us all.”
With that, Desiderio and Delores moved into the main house, leaving Leonardo and his daughter alone in the yard.
“Be wary of those two, hija,” Leonardo moved to put his arm comfortingly about his daughter’s shoulders. “Do not let yourself be caught between them.”
“Si, Papi,” Guernica wiped her eyes.
“We must keep low to the ground, hija. Perhaps this storm will pass us by.” Leonardo gently guided his daughter into the cuadra and closed the door behind them. “I am not hopeful, though.”
II.
When he finally arrives, the moon has almost completed its journey across the sky. He wakes her up trying so hard to be silent. She believes his boot fell out of his hand as he tried to slowly remove it from his foot. He starts to swear but stops himself with a hiss. She can see him just in the cave’s entrance, his white suit glowing in the moonlight like a fantasma.
“Is okay, Lankestar,” she says softly, “I am not asleep.”
“Aye, but ye were sure enough, I ken” he grumbles as he moves to her pallet. He bends down and gently brushes her hair out of her eyes. “Yes indeed,” he says softly with a hint of a smile, “I see the Sandman has nae been long gone from your eyes.”
“Non,” Guernica says with a yawn, “I have been just lying here thinking.”
“No good’s ever come o’that,” Lancaster replies through his own yawn. “What were ye thinking on? Ardiss?”
“At first, si, but mostly of Papa.” Guernica raises from the pallet to a sitting position and pats the ground beside her, inviting Lancaster to sit.
He complies and begins working on his other boot. “Would ye be wanting to talk about it?”
“Non, Lankestar,” Guernica smiles when she notices how silently he can do this when he isn’t trying. “Just come to bed; you’ve been riding all day.”
Lancaster grunts neither confirming nor denying this, but he stands long enough to remove his trousers and shirt, fold them carefully over his saddlebags, then lies down beside her in his bleached white union suit, throwing his arm around her from behind and cupping a breast. Guernica wriggles back into his embrace and yawns contently. “Did you discover what you sought?”
“I reckon so,” he takes a deep breath, savoring the fragrance of her hair: light soap and fain’t sweat. “Laney had nae seen any men, so either Ardiss has nae sent out pursuit, which I deem is unlikely, or he sent them out later than would seem best. I suspect the latter would be more in keeping with the Ardiss I know. He will not disgrace his honor. Though it pains him, he will send pursuit. His moral delay, though, has given us time to escape.”
“Si,” Guernica says quietly. “Is that his aim, do you think? To give us time?”
“I wot it is at that,” Lancaster’s voice, too, grows quiet, contemplative.
The two lie together in the dark cave, each engrossed in their own thoughts. Lancaster can feel Guernica trying to hold in the sound of her sobbing. He gives no indication he knows.
She will speak when she needs to, he thinks.
“He took advantage of me,” Guernica voice trembles.
“Ardiss?” Nae, God, not him, please. I do not wish to kill him.
“Non, not Ardeess,” she pauses, gathering will, “Señor Malevolo.”
“Who?”
III.
It happened two years after the Malevolos took over the farm. Guernica had blossomed into a fine young woman. She was known throughout Delicias as the most charming girl in all of Chihuaha, slim of figure, light of foot, with an easy smile that brightened any room. The village gossips devoted much of their laundry days to speculating over which of their young men Guernica would accept as her novio, but so far she had shown little interest in any man other than her father to whom she was devoted.
The only time Guernica showed anything less than pure joy and grace was whenever the Malevolos were in residence. Then her smile faded, her step grew heavy, and her shoulders slumped.
One day, after they had been in residence two weeks, Guernica was wiping down the table after Desiderio and his wife had broken their fast. She first used a rag to wipe the crumbs from the table to the floor. She could hear Desidero in the next room speaking to his wife, but she could not make out what he said.
As Guernica dipped her rag into a wooden pail filled with soapy water perched precariously on a three-legged stool, she heard Delores reply. “No, I will not allow it. No.”
“I did not ask permission,” Desidero said. “Do it or I will, I care not which.”
There was a second or two of silence before Guernica heard Delores respond, in a much more subdued tone. “Como desee. It will be so.”
Ringing her rag out thoroughly, Guernica began to carefully scrub the table with slow circular motions in the ensuing silence.
“You are doing it wrong, you stupid chica!” the harsh voice of Señora Malevolo startled her as she was dipping her rag into the pail for the third time, and she flinched, upsetting the bucket and splashing water on the floor.
“Ay carajo!” Delores yelled, “Now look at what you have done! I tell you every day, pendeja, sweep the floor before you wash, but you always know differently.”
“I am sorry, Señora,” Guernica took her rag and knelt to floor to sop up the spilled water. “I will clean it up.”
Delores, though, would not be placated. “Now look at you!” Her voice quavered with inexplicable rage. “You are mixing the crumbs into the water and making a larger mess. Stop it now!” The larger woman stepped to where Guernica knelt under the table and fetched her kick to the backside with such force that Guernica fell over face first into the muck.
“Perhaps you need to see your mess closer up, you useless chocha.” Delores nudged Guernica with her foot.
“Si, señora,” Guernica spoke into the floorboards, tasting damp and soapy crumbs and feeling tears of shame and rage form at the corners of her eyes. “Lo siento. Lo siento mucho. Please do not kick me anymore. I will do better.”
“See that you do,” Delores used her foot to push Guernica further under the table, causing the waist of the girl’s skirt to slide almost to her haunches, revealing the girl’s undergarments. With a derisive snort, Delores turned from the table and left the dining area. She paused at the doorway and spoke over her shoulders. “You will be sleeping in the house from now on. Señor Malevolo wishes to have you nearby in case he needs you.”
Guernica slowly pushed herself up from the floor, rearranging her skirt. “I do not wish to leave my papi,” she responded trying her best to sound contrite.
“I do not recall asking your opinion of the matter, puta. You will sleep in the house from now on, starting tonight. Sleep in your old room. Do not lock the door.” The older woman left the room. “Clean up that mes
s.” She said over shoulder.
When Guernica told her father about the encounter, he pulled her to him in a hug and kissed the top of her head.
“You must be more careful, hija,” he said quietly stroking the back of her head. “These are not people to anger. Do as you’re told and draw no attention to yourself.”
It is far too late for that, Guernica thought, though she remained silent.
“I do not think it is a good idea for you to sleep there. I do not like the way that man looks at you or the way that woman treats you, but I see no way around it.” Leonardo sighed deeply and pushed his daughter back to look in her face. “You must promise me that you will lock your door every night.”
“Si, Papi,” Guernica nodded, seeing no benefit in telling he father she had been expressly forbidden to lock her door.
So Guernica quietly moved back into her old room under the scornful eye of her mistress and the significantly less scornful eye of her mistress’ husband. She spent the rest of the day occupied with her regular duties and tried to convince herself that there was nothing at all to worry about.
After she had cleared the evening meal from the table and cleaned the kitchen to Delores’ begrudging satisfaction, though, the nervousness that had quietly lurked in the pit her belly all day began slowly to assert itself. Sitting in the corner of the kitchen reserved for her own meals, Guernica found she could stomach only a few bites before losing all interest in food. Through the window, she could spy her father’s light in the cuadra. She desperately wished she could go there and lay down on her familiar pallet and go to sleep to the sound of her father’s soft snores from the opposite corner.
Her reverie was broken by the sound of Delores’ impatient sigh at the kitchen door. “It is getting late. Quit day dreaming and clean your dishes. It is time to close the house, and you need to be in the bed.”
“Si, señora,” Guernica rose and took her plate to the scrap bucket.
“Look at all the food you are wasting, you stupid bruja!” She slapped at Guernica’s head, but the younger woman ducked. “Do not put the food on your plate, if you do not mean to eat it.”
“Si, señora.”
“Delores’ snorted derisively. “Good. Clean up your mess and get ready for bed. Señor Malevolo will be in to make sure you are ready for bed shortly. Do not disappoint him.”
“Si, señora.”
When Guernica finished the kitchen and made her way to her bedroom, she found Desiderio waiting for her. He stood by her bed wearing nothing but his night shirt and a leering grin. Despite her unease, Guernica found it difficult not to grin at the image of the old man’s knobby knees quivering beneath his shirt and his pigeon-toed feet peeking out from beneath the hem.
“Oh there, you are, my dear.” He said as Guernica stopped just inside the doorway. “Come in, come in. I was just checking to make sure you were settling in.” When he raised his arm to beckon her in, Desiderio’s night shirt shifted revealing more than just his knocking knees poking into the material of the shirt. Guernica, trying not to look too obviously lest he take it as an invitation, moved to the opposite side of the bed and made to light the candle on the bed table.
“I am fine, señor, she said, bending over the candle. “Thank you for your concern.”
“Not at all, mi querida,” Desiderio shuffled to the end of the bed and held the footboard for support. “I simply could not bear the thought of someone with your young and delicate frame sleeping on the floor of that drafty old shed.”
As he moved around to Guernica’s side of the bad, his joints cracked. When Guernica rose and turned around, the old man stood directly behind her, still leering. Guernica could see a tiny drop of saliva forming in the slightly drooped corner of his mouth. Guernica smiled and tried to duck around the old man, but he grabbed her about the waist with surprising strength.
“Did your padre not teach you it was polite to thank your betters for their favors?”
“Si, señor, gracias.” Guernica tried to gently remove Desiderio’s fingers from the waist of her skirt, but they were like tempered iron. “Muchas gracias.” Her voice trembled, and she averted her eyes.
“Denada, mi querido.” Desiderio pulled Guernica so tightly to him she could feel every inch of his body beneath the shirt as if it weren’t there at all. “Denada but words are easy. You need to show me your gratitude.”
“Por favor, señor.” Guernica tried to keep her voice steady as Desiderio slowly backed her towards the bed. “Please, no. I will scream.”
Desiderio pulled the waist of Guernica’s skirt with enough force to rip it at the seam and tumble the girl to bed. Before she could scramble away from him, the old man grabbed her calf and pulled her under him as he straddled over her on the mattress.
“No, you won’t scream, I think.” He leaned and planted a kiss directly on Guernica’s mouth before whispering into her ear. “For if you do, puta, I will have your father arrested and hung as a traitor.” He snaked his hand beneath Guernica’s blouse and groped clumsily at her breast. “Do not think I will not. I have the ear of Don Porfirio. El Presidente will listen.”
“No,” Guernica breathed. “Stop.”
Desiderio removed his hand from her blouse, rose up, and slapped the girl across the face. “You do not tell me what to do, puta. I tell you.” He rose off her and strode to the door with no sign of the quavering steps he had shown earlier. Drawing the latch across the door, he turned back to the bed with the whimpering girl sprawled across it. “And now I am telling you to take off the rest of your clothes and be quiet, or I will give you more to whimper about.”
IV.
As Lancaster holds her from behind and Guernica tells her story, her voice gradually slowly breaks into sobs.
“I should have fought harder,” she cries. “I should not have given in so quickly.”
Lancaster gently tightens his hold around her shoulders and allows Guernica to weep silently until she drifts back into sleep.
Chapter Six – Gary Wayne & Boris
I.
They rode the rest of the day with little incident. About mid-afternoon, Gary Wayne swore he saw some kind of “fearsome critter” on the horizon.
“It looked for all the world,” he claimed, “like a giant rabbit with horns on it like a deer or something.” Gary Wayne held his hands about three feet apart to illustrate the impressive size of the bunny, then put both hands, fingers spread, to either side of his head to simulate antlers.
Boris reined Valiant in bringing him to a halt and stared blankly at his friend. “You saw a jackalope?” Boris asked doubtfully. “Out here? In the desert?”
“Well, I ain’t ready to name it or nothing,” Gary Wayne replied, “but I saw what I saw.”
“Be careful, Gary Wayne,” Boris tried to stifle his smile, “you are starting to sound like Pilsner.”
Gary Wayne let out an irritated sigh, straightened his back in the saddle, and kicked Gringo to a walk, leaving Boris behind him. “Eddie Pilsner,” Gary said over his shoulder, “claims he seen some kind of snake, leopard, lion thing sneaking around his ranch last year. Now you and I both know that’s plain crazy.”
Boris trotted Valiant up to Gary Wayne, who refused to look at him. “Crazier than a jackalope?”
Gary Wayne twisted his mouth into a sneer and finally turned to face Boris. “Yeah,” he said irritatedly, “Everybody knows we ain’t got lions and leopards here. But rabbits and antelopes is a whole ’nother issue.”
“So let me get this straight,” Boris cupped his chin in one hand and stared off into the horizon as if trying to will Gary Wayne’s jackalope back, “You think an antelope tupped a rabbit and made a jackalope?”
“I don’t make no claim about who tupped who. I’m just saying it ain’t crazy talk like Eddie Pilsner.”
“A rabbit,” Boris spoke very slowly, “and an antelope?”
“Horses and jackasses make mules,” Gary Wayne reasoned, “I don’t see why a jackrabbit and an
antelope cannot do it, too,”
Boris said nothing, just continued to ride alongside Gary Wayne.
“I ain’t an idiot, Boris.”
“Nobody said you was, Gary.”
“It was a jackalope I seen,” Gary Wayne nodded to himself, “and it ain’t like it is the first strange thing I’d seen in my life.”
And here we go, Boris thought. Again with Nat Greene.
But Gary Wayne just settled into silence, riding along, sunk in his own head.
II.
Bretton celebrated the new year with even more fanfare, if possible, than it did Thanksgiving and Christmas combined, or at least it seemed so to young Gary Wayne. Admittedly, though, it was his first time away from his family and home for any significant period, so it could well be that each successive holiday seemed much grander than the last.
Ardiss certainly seemed to take a particular pleasure in the New Year festivities. Popular tradition claimed that what one did during New Year’s Day foreshadowed the year to come; therefore, Ardiss had made it a tradition that no one would eat their ham or collards or black-eyed peas until something interesting happened. “We don’t want our year boring,” he claimed at the beginning of every New Year’s dinner, “so we got to make sure it won’t be.”
Ardiss’ criteria for interesting, though, were very broad. While certainly a good street brawl had fit the bill once or twice and once a cattle stampede narrowly avoided had been clearly enough to bring on the victuals, most years’ meals were presaged by dirty limericks, exaggerated tales of some deputy’s exploits out in the wilds, or once even Eddie Pilsner’s crude, hand-drawn interpretation of the snake/lion beast he claimed was draining his cows dry.
New Year’s dinner was held each year in St. George’s Episcopal Church. This year, Gary Wayne and Boris, only recently promoted to the kitchen staff, were both working the chow line which ran down the east side of the fellowship hall. As the townspeople filed through the line holding their tin plates out, Boris served the meat and cornbread while Gary Wayne spooned collard greens and black-eyed peas.
Guns of the Waste Land: Departure: Volumes 1-2 Page 6
