Maria herself always began to have hopes for the babies she birthed, as soon as she saw them.
Perhaps as they grew they would be lucky, have health, find good women or men to marry, rise above poverty, and be spared disease and loss. Few were spared. But each time when the baby was in her arms and the moment of peace came, Maria let her hopes rise. She smiled at the little child and bathed it in warm water. She wanted to welcome it to life; perhaps it would be one of the lucky ones.
So it was when Negra's baby finally came--it was a boy. Maria was tired, but she liked the look of the little male child. He cried with spirit, the spirit of life. Maria smiled at him and whispered to him. He was to be named Jorge, too, after his father. He was a fine boy, and Maria could not help smiling at him. The mother was asleep, too tired to need her smiles. The little boy wiggled and cried, and Maria took him outside to show him to his father. The tortured look left Jorge's face and he looked at his son with surprise, the surprise men so often showed when they saw that a living human had been created from the actions of love--actions they had taken long before and perhaps had forgotten.
"This is a good boy, I like the way he wiggles. He will give you lots of trouble when he grows up and can walk," Maria told him.
Then, as she was about to take the baby back inside so the old women could cleanse him of the birthing blood, Maria looked around for her children.
Several times during lulls in the labor, she had gone out to speak to them briefly. They sat with the goats between the shoemaker's house and the butcher's shed. While the butcher was butchering the pig, Maria's children were just sitting.
"It's cold. I want to go back to Se@nor Call," Teresa said, each time. She was sullen, as she often was if her mother denied her her way.
"You can come in where I am, only sit in the kitchen," Maria told her.
"No, I don't want to sit in that kitchen.
I would rather be cold," Teresa replied.
Then the crisis arrived, and Maria forgot about the children. Once when Negra was screaming, she heard the cowbell and was reassured. She had to concentrate on what she was doing, and she could not listen every moment for a cowbell when the little room rang with the full screams that came with a birth.
Now, though, with little Jorge safely born, she turned to look for Teresa and Rafael and didn't see them. The goats were still there, but not her children. She ran to where the goats were, scattering them in her fear. Then she saw the cowbell lying in the dirt. Joey had taken it off Rafael--why hadn't she known he would?
Fear chilled Maria so, that she almost dropped the baby. She ran with him to Jorge and thrust the baby into his hands.
"Take him to the sisters," she said. "Did you see Joey?" "No--how do I hold him?" Jorge asked.
Maria had no time to instruct the new father; he would have figure out for himself how to hold his son.
She ran to the butcher, who had taken the pig's hooves and ears and was putting them in a sack.
Most of the pig had been cut up. Parts were heaped on a bloody table, and other parts were piled on strips of sacking.
"Did you see Joey?" Maria asked.
"You are bloodier than I am, and I've butchered a pig," Gordo told her. He was a little disgusted with the woman, for she had blood all over her arms. Still, she was shapely, and she was his neighbor. When she cleaned herself up he thought he might go visit her, perhaps taking her a little sausage. He might ask her to make him menudo or some other tasty dish.
"No, Joey wasn't here," he told her.
Maria knew better--Joey had been there.
She had to have help, and there was only Gordo, the butcher.
"He was here. He's taken my children," Maria said to him. "Come and bring a gun, don't wait!" In the desperate hope that Teresa had disobeyed her and taken Rafael home, Maria ran to her house. She had her knife in her hand.
Call was laying outside the back door when she got there. He had hobbled out, using a chair for a crutch, and he had a pistol near him. But the chair was too short to be a good crutch, and he had fallen again. He was lying on his back. His leg was bleeding, and his eyes were open.
"Did he come?" Maria asked.
"He came--I can't do anything," Call said.
"I can't do anything," he said, again. He was so weak that she could barely hear him whisper, and it was surprising that he could even have hobbled the few steps he had.
Maria felt fear shaking her, more powerful than any fear she had felt in her life. She did not have time to move Captain Call back to bed.
She grabbed his pistol.
"What did he say, se@nor?" Maria asked. "Did he say anything?" "No," Call said. "He came in and looked at me and left. He's wounded." "Not wounded enough. I have to take your gun," Maria told him.
Call lay in helplessness. He had wanted to kill the boy, but he had no strength and no way. The boy had simply looked at him insolently for a moment and left. He was not a large boy, but he had a cold look. Call had rolled off the bed, pulled himself up with the chair, and found his pistol. But it was no good. He was too weak, and he soon fell. The world was swimming, and he couldn't see well. He could not make himself rise, and even if he had risen it would have done no good. Joey Garza was gone.
Call was helpless and he had failed, again.
Maria felt helpless too, because she didn't know where to look for her children. Joey could not have gone too far, since it had only been a short time that she last looked out and had seen Rafael sitting amid his goats. But where had he gone? If he had put the children on a horse, she would have no chance of catching them. She could not track a horse, and no one in the village could, either. Joey might take her children far away, where she could never follow or find them. She ran to the cantina. Two vaqueros were there drinking. Perhaps one of them had seen something.
But the two vaqueros were very drunk. They looked at Maria with disgust, as Gordo the butcher had.
"Go wash yourself, you stink!" one vaquero said.
Maria raised the gun at him. It was the wrong moment for a man to tell her she was not clean enough.
When they wanted her she was always clean enough, even if it was the time of the month when she was bleeding.
She didn't shoot the vaquero, though; she didn't have time. She just pointed the gun at him and saw his eyes widen at the thought that he might be shot by a filthy, dirty woman. Then she ran outside. As she ran she heard a high, moaning bleat from the direction of the river. It was a sound like a sheep makes when it is dying. She had heard it many times when the butcher was killing sheep. But it was not a sheep she heard this time--it was Rafael, who had lived with the sheep and made the cries they made. The boys in the village often taunted him for it. They called him sheep boy, and they told him his father had been a ram. When too much fear seized Rafael, his moan became the screaming bleat that Maria now heard.
Maria ran toward the sound. She remembered that long ago, Joey had sometimes tricked Rafael into playing a drowning game. He would persuade Rafael to put his head underwater to watch the fish; then Joey would jump on his head and try to drown him. Only the fact that Rafael was strong had kept Joey from succeeding. Maybe that was what he was trying to do, drown his brother and sister. Maybe he was too weak from his wounds to take them all the way to the cliff where he had said he would kill them.
Maria fired the pistol in the air, for she wanted to make Joey think men were coming. She wanted to do anything to get him to stop, so that she could get there before he killed Rafael. She heard the bleating again and kept running toward the sound, feeling a terrible fear. Teresa was the weaker child and might already be dead, killed by her brother Joey.
Joey might realize that Rafael was too strong to drown, and he might stab him or shoot him before she could find them.
Maria had two fears: one, that she might not arrive in time to save her children; and two, that the warp of her life might have forced her to the moment when she would have to kill her evil son. Her sweetest, most begu
iling dreams were dreams in which Joey was good again, as he had been when he was just a little boy.
But then she would awaken to heartache and discouragement so profound that it made her limbs heavy, for Joey was no longer a little boy and he was no longer good. Even in her discouragement she had the wish that it would be someone else, not her, who met Joey in battle and defeated him.
Now the two fears came together in her, and she carried them both as she ran. She had the gun and the knife. If only someone else would come--the butcher, Jorge, the drunken vaqueros, anyone. But Maria looked behind her as she ran, and there was no one coming.
Guided by Rafael's high, bleating call, Maria ran through the thin mesquite until she came to the river, near the spot where old Estela sat to listen to her dead children. Joey had pulled Rafael and Teresa into the deepest part of the river. Rafael was soaked, but he was alive.
When Maria got to the river, Joey was holding Teresa's head under in the deep water.
But Teresa was not dead. Joey had tied her thin legs with a rawhide rope, but Teresa's legs were still thrashing. Rafael's head was bleeding.
Joey had beaten him, trying to knock him out so he could drown him; but Rafael had been too strong.
Maria shot the gun again, twice.
She did not shoot at Joey, she just wanted him to stop. His back was to her when she came up, and she saw that his wounds were bad. When he turned to confront her, he looked pale. But he did not release his sister--he held her as if she were a large slick fish. Maria saw Teresa get her head up and gulp at the air and felt a moment of pride at how hard her girl was struggling for her life. Then Joey shoved her under again, but Teresa only wiggled harder. Her body looked like that of a struggling fish under the water.
Maria saw old Estela, sitting on the other bank, watching. She was listening for her own children and did not seem to care that two of Maria's children were being drowned before her eyes.
Maria went into the water and shot again. The bullet hit a rock and whined away.
"Let her go!" Maria yelled at her son.
"Who are you to be killing your own sister?" Joey turned his head toward Maria briefly and gave her that cold look he had, the look that made her feel she was not there. Maria had always hated that look. She was his mother and she was there, but not to Joey's eyes--he kept trying to get a better grip on his wiggling sister. Drowning Teresa was what interested him, not the fact that his mother was threatening him with a gun.
Joey was glad his mother had come. He wanted her to see what he was doing. Catching Rafael and Teresa had been easy. He had tied them up and thrown them on his horse while the shoemaker's wife was screaming. It was irritating that Rafael's skull was so thick that even three blows with a rock had not weakened him enough that Joey could drown him. Joey had hobbled Rafael's feet; he could finish him later. He was annoyed with his sister, too. He had not supposed that she was so strong or could struggle so hard. Despite all he could do, she kept getting her head up, gulping air. He could not get a good enough grip on her neck to keep her under. Because of his wounds, he was not strong enough for the task he was trying to do.
Joey was not at all surprised that his mother had come. She had been working with the woman in childbirth, and she was as bloody as a wounded animal. The fact that she had old Call's pistol didn't worry him. His mother wouldn't shoot him, and even if she tried she would miss.
When the drowning was over he would make her take the pellets out. Once that was done he would get his strength and his pride back, and would go near the City of Mexico and rob some trains with rich people on them. His mother had doctored old Call, for he had seen the old Ranger in bed in her house.
Joey had started to kill him, but had felt the same indifference he felt when he let Famous Shoes live. It would be wasting a death to kill such a worthless old person. Who could take pride in killing such old, half-dead people? It was better to do what he was doing: avenge himself on the bloody woman who stood there pointing a pistol at him.
Maria shot one more time. It hit the water near Joey, but he didn't even look up. She had stopped expecting to scare her son. She shot in hopes that someone would hear and come to see what the shooting was about. Even if the drunken vaqueros came, it might be enough; then Joey might stop.
But Joey didn't stop. He had managed to get Teresa's body between his legs, and he tightened his legs and used both hands to shove his sister's head under the water. Maria waded into the water and struck Joey high on the shoulder with her knife. Joey screamed--the wounds on his back were sore. He turned to his mother with a look of hatred. Maria struck again, high on his other shoulder. She only wanted to cut Joey enough so he would let Teresa go. When Joey turned again, Teresa wiggled free and sucked in air.
She kept wiggling until she was out of reach.
Joey grabbed for her, but Teresa was quicker. Even with her feet tied, she was as quick as a fish.
Joey took a few steps toward her, but Teresa was already yards away. In the water she was quicker than he was.
In fury, Joey turned on Maria and drew his own knife. He would kill Rafael with the knife and then chase down Teresa.
Maria saw where her son's eyes were pointed.
She put herself between Joey and Rafael. She still held her knife, but she didn't want to stab her son again. The wounds she had given him were light and were meant to distract him, not hurt him.
She could help him recover and live. She would do it--take out the pellets of heavy shot, wash his wounds, nurse him, if only he would relent.
He must relent, though. She would not give him her other children, his brother and sister.
"Stop this!" Maria cried. "You're hurt, you're weak! Stop this killing! Come home with me and let me wash you. I'll feed you and I'll hide you until you are well." "Wash yourself, whore!" Joey said, in his cold tone. His eyes were like sleet. Maria held her knife high. Joey would not stop. He would not become her good son again. All she could do now was protect Rafael. Joey's cold look made Maria want to give up. Her son should not look at her with his look of sleet--it was a poor return for the care she had given and the love she had borne.
But it was Joey's look, and she could not change him. She had to give up. That way she could protect Rafael and Teresa, and she would protect them, no matter what she had to do.
When Joey came close, Maria raised the knife and tried to cut his arm; anyplace to slow him but not kill him. She saw Joey's knife but didn't feel it strike--not the first time, not the second, not the third.
"Leave your brother alone!" she screamed.
"Leave him alone. Don't hurt your brother!" Joey was trying to push his mother out of the way so he could grab his brother's hair, when the bullet struck him. He turned his head at the shot.
Maria turned, too. They saw Gordo, the butcher, standing on the riverbank with his old carbine.
"Don't kill her, you rascal!" Gordo yelled. "Don't kill her--I might want to marry her!" Across the river, Teresa crawled into the shallows, and old Estela hobbled over and helped her out of the water. Teresa was very frightened. Her mother had been right; Joey was bad. She was worried, for she heard shots and she could not see.
"Where is my mother?" she asked the old woman.
Old Estela's eyes were dim, and she couldn't see the far bank of the river.
"She is over there," old Estela said. "I think I hear her talking to my children." Joey fell backward into the water. Maria cut Rafael free, and the two of them began to drag Joey to the bank where the butcher stood with his gun. Before Maria could get out of the river, she fell, too. She fell across her son's legs, and the river began to swirl her blood away.
Gordo carried Maria home. She was awake, but he saw where she had been stabbed and knew she would not live. It angered him, for he had already begun to think of her as his wife and was looking forward to laying with her. She had eluded him when she was a girl, and now she was going to elude him again by dying. It was an aggravation, such an aggravation that h
e refused to bring her devil of a son's body to her.
"He's dead, Gordo," Maria said. "Bring him home." The butcher ignored her. He also refused to lift Captain Call and bring him back inside the house. He put Maria on the bed, and as he went out, he spat on Call. Later, the two drunken vaqueros came to Maria's house and they, too, spat on him. One wanted to put a rope around the old man's neck and drag him to death, but the other vaquero argued that it would be better just to let the old man die. He was too famous. If they put a rope on him, the Texans might find out about it and hunt them down.
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