“There is a mistake here,” he said. “Never have I harmed anyone.”
“Even now,” Percides went on, as if the priest had said nothing, “when I look down the hill I can see the rain in sheets and I see him with his head bowed and his clothes wet and his hands tied behind his back. And in my own mouth is the taste of mud. The whole village was there that day, huddled together like cowards beneath the cottonwood tree. And by then, my grandfather was already lost somewhere inside the church. The priest said a prayer, and then he led the horse slowly forward. Emilio fell back like a child falling, and his face looked up to the sky in confusion and rain fell in his eyes.” Percides stopped talking and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she said, “I curse you for this. And I curse this village for what it did.”
“Percides,” Father Joseph said, and even he could hear the trembling in his voice. “I have never heard of such a thing happening.” The wick in the kerosene lamp flickered, and when Father Joseph glanced at it, his eyes fell upon the santo. The Lady stared back at him, her hands together at her breasts, and suddenly he knew that what was true and what wasn’t did not matter in this house.
“Hija,” Percides said, “tell the priest.” Then she turned her head so that she was once again staring up at the ceiling.
“My great-grandfather was Emilio García,” Guadalupe said. The girl was lying on her stomach now, her fingers tracing the small cracks in the adobe floor. “He was the son of Pilar García and the grandson of Cristóbal García, who was the first person ever to come to this valley, and he was hung from the branches of the cottonwood that stands beside the church. It was raining, too.”
“That’s good, mi hija,” Percides said. “Now tell this man to leave us.”
“Leave,” Guadalupe said, and she looked up at Father Joseph and smiled.
Seven
FLAVIO SAT MOTIONLESS IN HIS PICKUP in the parking lot outside Felix’s Café. The engine was running and he was leaning back against the seat, his hands still on the steering wheel, looking out at the plate-glass windows of the café. Behind him on the highway, traffic was still moving, but this time northward, away from the fire. Half of the sky, just to the left of the café, was a vast, black cloud of smoke.
“I told you,” Felix said. “Pepe went to Santa Madre. He won’t be back until late.” He was sitting in the middle of the seat and, like Flavio, was gazing straight ahead out the windshield. “Besides,” he went on, “I don’t think I want to stay here anymore.”
Flavio stirred on the seat and pulled himself up a little straighter. “I don’t care,” he said, which were the first words he’d spoken to Felix since driving from the fire. “We’re not leaving until Pepe gets back. Or Ambrosio. Or someone. And move over a little. It’s too hot to have you sitting so close to me.”
After pulling off the road, Flavio had jumped out of the cab and tried the front door of the café. It was locked. When he cupped his hands and peered through the glass, not only had he seen no sign of life inside the place, but it looked as though the café hadn’t even been opened for business that morning. The chairs were still stacked on the tables, and the tile floor shone from being mopped the night before.
“What’s happening here?” Flavio had mumbled to himself. “Where’s Ambrosio?” Then he had walked quickly around to the back of the building. There, he had found the door to the kitchen locked as well. He had called out Ambrosio’s name, but there was no answer. He went over to Ambrosio’s small trailer and cracked open the door. In one glance, he could see that the trailer, too, was empty. Dirty dishes were piled in the sink, and the bed against the far wall was unmade. On the table in the middle of the room was an empty whiskey bottle, a deck of cards, and a few coins. The air inside the trailer was stifling and smelled like that of a man living alone for too long. Flavio had closed the door and then, moving slower, had gone back to his truck.
“This is where you live, Felix,” Flavio said, without turning his head. “This is where you’ve always lived.”
“I might get sick again if I go back in there.”
“Ambrosio will be back soon. He’s probably at the store getting a few things. He can watch out for you until Pepe gets back.”
“Oh, sí, Ambrosio. I bet you he’s at Tito’s singing his songs,” Felix said, which was exactly where Ambrosio was.
After finding Felix gone earlier that morning, Ambrosio had walked back through the café and out the kitchen door to his trailer. He had sat at his table for a while playing cards and sipping a little whiskey. The breeze had picked up by then, and it blew the thin, warped door to the trailer back and forth. He thought that he should be in the kitchen heating up the beans and making coffee, and then he wondered what his children were doing in Mexico and if their day was as hot and dry as it was in this valley. He took one long drink of whiskey, draining the bottle. Then he stood up, wobbling a little bit, and said out loud, “To hell with the damn beans. My name is Ambrosio Herrera and I am more than a heater of beans.” Then, he pulled on his black boots and his cowboy hat and walked down the road to Tito’s Bar. At that moment, he was drinking his fourth beer with Fred Sanchez, and both were talking excitedly at the same time about different things.
Felix reached out and touched Flavio’s arm. “I’m sorry, Flavio,” he said, “if I upset you when I said that you helped start the fire.”
Flavio pulled his arm away. “Things like this don’t happen to me,” he said.
“Maybe they have always happened and you just got used to them.”
Flavio grunted and looked over at Felix. “I would remember burning down the mountains,” he said. “How could I forget a thing like that?”
“I forgot eight years.” Felix shrugged. “My son became a man and one by one my old friends died, and I didn’t notice anything.”
“I was in Ramona’s field irrigating her alfalfa,” Flavio said slowly, “and you came walking out of the hills like a ghost.” He could see himself standing by the ditch with his shovel, the day still cool and gray with no sun. He remembered seeing a shadow moving between the piñons and thinking it was a deer.
“Who knows,” he said softly. “Maybe I saw the Lady, too, and I didn’t know it.” Flavio rubbed his eyes with his fingers. They felt hot and scratchy, and he realized that it wasn’t just from being tired, but from the smoke in the air. He let his hand drop to his lap. “What a mess. I don’t even want to think about what will happen if someone’s house burns down.”
Felix patted Flavio’s arm. “It’s not our fault, Flavio,” he said. “We didn’t ask for this. Besides, things could be worse.”
“Oh, sí?” Flavio said. “You tell me how,” and it was then that the two police cars pulled up close behind Flavio’s truck, blocking him in.
One of the vehicles was the beat-up green jeep that the village sometimes used when there was a reason to go into the mountains. Its body was rusted out along the frame, and the passenger door was dented in from sliding off the highway years before and slamming into a post. It was a vehicle, though, that always kept running and when shoved into first gear would crawl its way up anything. The other car was from the state and, other than a faint layer of dust that dulled the color, there wasn’t a mark on it. Both doors swung open, and the two officers climbed out. They glanced at each other, and then each walked up to one side of Flavio’s truck.
The state cop stopped a few feet away from the side of the pickup. Then he stooped down and looked in the cab window.
“Are you Flavio Montoya?” he asked, speaking Flavio’s name flat and empty, without even a hint of an accent. He was of medium height and too thin. His uniform was wrinkled and carried the stale odor of tobacco. His face was burned brown from the sun, and a web of fine lines stretched down from the corners of both eyes. He pressed one hand flat on his thigh; the other rested loosely on his revolver. The name tag on his shirt read N. Oliver.
Flavio stared at him for a few seconds and then leaned forward and looked out the ot
her window at Donald Lucero. Donald was one of the two Guadalupe police officers and had been for the past ten years. He was a big man who was known to have little sense of humor and to see only what was in front of him. He was not someone to whom Flavio had ever given much thought, but Flavio knew his father and all of his uncles.
“¿Cómo estás, Donald?” Flavio said. “I haven’t seen you in a long time. How is your family?”
Oliver let out a long breath of air. “Sir,” he said. “I asked you a question.” He had been a police officer in northern New Mexico for twenty-five years and lived with his second wife, who was too young for his age, and two small daughters in a house outside Las Sombras. He spent his days smoking cigarettes and driving the highways and back roads in the northern part of the state, and he had never had much luck in the small villages.
“You are too white and too blond,” his wife would tell him. “And worse, you are from somewhere else.” These were all things Oliver knew, but the older he got the more difficult it had become for him to make sense of them. He had grown tired of the wrecks on empty stretches of highway and the mangled carcasses of deer he would find on the side of the road. When he passed through the small villages, he could glimpse the guarded look in the people’s eyes, and he realized that like them, he only wished to drive through their lives. He would light yet another cigarette and look out his window at the sagebrush. From time to time, he would say to his wife that once there had been a reason he had chosen this job but that now he had forgotten what it was. Then, his wife, who had lost much of her happiness in the last few years, would close her eyes and let her mind fill with other things.
“Sir,” Oliver said again, and he suddenly felt a chill as if something had passed before the sun.
Flavio turned his head and looked up at Oliver. “Yes,” he said. “I am Flavio Montoya.”
“I have a few questions I’d like to ask you, if I may,” Oliver said. Whatever had been cold in the air left, and he was once more standing in the heat beside an old truck. “Can you please shut off your vehicle for me.”
“Oh, sí,” Flavio said, and he reached out, his hands shaking slightly, and switched off the ignition. A wave of heat rose from the hood of the truck, and Donald Lucero turned his body away.
“Can you tell me who your passenger is?” Oliver asked.
“My passenger?”
“The man sitting beside you.”
For a moment the two men just stared at each other. Then Flavio moved his eyes slowly past Oliver and looked at the sky. If he hadn’t known any better, the smoke could be no more than one of the thunderstorms that came to the valley every summer—clouds so black they were almost blue. Wind would sweep over the hills, and sometimes the storm would catch Flavio in his fields. When he would return home, wet and muddy and cold, Martha would be waiting anxiously by the door, afraid in her heart that her husband had been hit by the lightning that slashed from the clouds and never cared what it struck. She would be waiting with a towel and would help Flavio with his boots. The house would be lit well and would smell of things baking. They would sit together in the kitchen, and Flavio would drink hot coffee and Martha would watch the dark day and how the rain fell on the apple trees.
“Mr. Montoya,” Oliver said sharply. “There is a fire burning in this village. Can you help me out and tell me who your passenger is?”
Flavio moved his eyes back to the police officer. Oliver’s eyes were bloodshot, and there was a haggard look to his face. He looked like a man who didn’t sleep well and when he woke was always tired. “Who are you?” Flavio said. “I’ve never seen you before.”
“My name is Nick Oliver,” he said. “I’m out of Las Sombras. Can you tell me who’s sitting beside you?”
“Felix,” Flavio said, “this man is asking you a question.” When there was no response, Flavio turned his head. Felix was lying back against the seat. His eyes were closed and his head was twisted at an awkward angle. His mouth hung wide open and he was snoring lightly. Flavio shook his shoulder, which only seemed to make Felix snore louder. “Eee,” Flavio breathed out, “why are you doing this to me, Felix?”
“The viejo’s name is Felix García,” Donald said over the cab of the pickup. “He owns this café. I don’t know what he’s doing out here. He had a stroke a long time ago and hasn’t gotten around much since then.”
“His son went to Santa Madre,” Flavio said, looking back at Oliver, “and I’ve been watching out for him. We were sitting here waiting for Pepe to show up.”
“You might be waiting a long time,” Oliver said. “The highway south to Las Sombras was closed thirty minutes ago. It’s only open to emergency crews. The only way into this valley right now is from the north.” Oliver stood up straight. He let his hands drop to his sides and looked over the cab at Donald. “You sure we haven’t made a mistake?” he said. “These guys aren’t exactly kids messing around.”
“This is the only Montoya who lives in the village,” Donald said. “And I didn’t hear wrong.”
The two men stared at each other and then Oliver dropped his eyes. He reached in his shirt pocket and dragged out a cigarette. He cupped his hands away from the wind and lit it. When he glanced back up, he looked at Flavio. “Can you please get out of your vehicle, Mr. Montoya,” he said. Then he took hold of the handle on the truck door and pulled it open.
FLAVIO STOOD WITH HIS BACK TO HIS TRUCK. Oliver and Donald Lucero were standing together a few feet in front of him. The wind was blowing dust on the opposite side of the highway, and every so often it swept through the parking lot, sending up swirls of dirt and empty cigarette packs. The air was hazy from smoke, and in it was the taste of trees burning. One car after another was driving by the café, and as they passed, they slowed down and stared.
Oliver dropped his cigarette butt and stepped on it. Then he took off his hat and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. His hair was a dull brown and damp with sweat. “It’s too damn hot,” he said to no one. “And this wind just makes it hotter.” He put his hat back on and looked at Flavio. “Can you tell me where you were this morning, Mr. Montoya?”
“What’s all this about?” Flavio said. “Why are you asking me these things?”
“This is about you telling him where you were,” Lucero said. “You see these cars? The whole west side of the valley is being evacuated and if the fire jumps the highway, everyone will leave.” He was taller than Oliver and thicker in the body, and he stood half facing the road, watching the traffic. He shifted his eyes to Flavio. “People are saying that you started this fire, Flavio. If it’s true and if this fire gets any worse, I wouldn’t want to be you. This is our village, jodido, and it’s burning down. So if I were you, I’d answer the man’s questions.”
For a moment, no one spoke. Then Flavio said, his voice trembling, “I’ve lived here all my life.” But even he knew that what he had said meant nothing.
“Can you tell me where you were this morning?” Oliver said, and he spoke softly, as if embarrassed.
“I was in my field,” Flavio said. “I was irrigating like I do every morning.”
“What time did you start irrigating?”
“Before it was light.”
“Did anyone else see you?”
“How should I know?” Flavio said, lifting his arms and then dropping them. “I was in my field.”
“Can you tell me exactly what time it was when you picked up Mr. García?”
Flavio fell quiet. Then he took a step backward and leaned against the side of his truck. He could feel his heart beating too fast in his chest, and he realized that he was frightened. He had no idea what to say to this Anglo whom he didn’t know. And worse, he could see each question leading to another until he would become so mired in his own answers that not even he would know what he was talking about. Behind him, in the cab, he could hear the rough sound of Felix snoring. Flavio shut his eyes and took a few deep breaths until his mind went away and he remembered the time he had killed his gr
andmother’s favorite rooster by mistake.
This rooster was so old that his feathers were falling out and those that were left were black and grew only in clumps. It was small, with swollen purple feet, and Ramona had once told him that when this rooster was young, it had been known to kill small dogs. It was the oldest rooster among his grandmother’s chickens, and he and Flavio had never gotten along well.
It was Flavio’s chore each day during the summer to feed the chickens. When he would go to their coop to toss them handfuls of chipped corn and seed, the rooster would skulk around the perimeter of the fence until Flavio’s back was turned. Then, it would fly at him in a rush, its mouth open, its wings flapping in a flurry of madness. Flavio would scream and flap his own arms, and then, with chickens all about his feet as if nothing were happening, he would flee the coop for safety.
One afternoon, when Flavio was returning home from Felix’s house, he saw his grandmother’s rooster perched on a low branch in the cottonwood that grew near the ditch. It was squatting down as if either nesting or hiding, and even from where Flavio stood, he could see that the rooster was watching him as he walked to the house. Flavio stopped dead in his tracks, and then he waved his arms and yelled for it to get back where it belonged. He grabbed a handful of small stones and flung them into the tree but the rooster didn’t even stir. Flavio suddenly pictured himself running down the road with his grandmother’s rooster chasing him. If that happened, it would be seen by, or at least told to, half the village. He bent over and picked up a large rock. After a quick glance toward the house, Flavio let the stone fly, and at that second, the rooster stood up on the branch as if to crow. The rock struck it full in the head, and Flavio watched horrified as his grandmother’s favorite rooster fell dead into the irrigation ditch.
A Santo in the Image of Cristóbal García Page 11
