“I remember, Felix,” he said again. “But I don’t know why.” And then, though Felix was dozing, Flavio heard him say in a tired voice, “How could you, Flavio? We were just little boys.”
…
ROSA MONTOYA AND HER GRANDSON stood on the edge of the road looking down at the valley. It was late in the day and still warm, even though it was late in the autumn. The sky was a myriad of dark colors and in the ditch, not far from where they stood, water was running beneath the grass and twisted weeds. Down the hill was the García house and, beyond that, the church. The front door of Guadalupe’s house was wide open, and Flavio had only glanced that way and then moved his eyes quickly away to where his own house sat. The windows in his house were dark, and his father’s truck was parked alongside the small apple trees that were no more than saplings. Flavio knew that his father would be sitting by himself in the kitchen. He would be drinking slowly from a bottle of whiskey and staring straight ahead in the dark room as if he had lost something and no longer knew what it was.
“Your father is home from work,” Rosa said as she reached out a hand and placed it on Flavio’s shoulder. “He works so hard for you and your brother. And Ramona, también.”
“My sister’s not here, anymore,” Flavio said.
“I know that, hijo,” Rosa answered him. “She has gone to a city to be a great artist. But after she learns all there is to know, she will come back to us. You should be proud, Flavio.”
Every so often, Flavio would stumble across some of his sister’s things, a piece of her clothing or a cloth glove or one of the drawings that she kept under her bed. Even though Ramona had been gone only a few months, the things she had left behind were covered with dust and fine cobwebs. Flavio thought that his sister had gone to a place far away where he could never be. He would leave the things he found where they were so that she would have them if she were ever to return. But, in truth, although Flavio could still hear the sound of Ramona’s voice and see the hard line of her mouth, he had forgotten the color of her eyes and the shape of her face. He knew in his heart that his grandmother was wrong. Like his mother, Ramona had left the village and her family so that her life would be full of other things.
“Let me tell you a story, hijo,” Rosa said, and her hand brushed the side of Flavio’s face. “One night, Alfonso Vigil came to our house and he and your grandfather sat outside. It was in the summer when the days are too long. Alfonso had spent the day drinking with his brothers. At that time, I was a new wife and your father was just an infant, too young even to sit up by himself. I brought your grandfather and Alfonso a plate of hard tortillas and chile and the small bottle of whiskey that your grandfather would sometimes sip from in the winter. Alfonso then, too, was a young man, but he walked slumped over. The skin on his face was mottled and hung loose, and his arms were so long and bony that they reached down to his knees. He had looked this way even as a child, and it was rumored that his mother had fallen into a deep state of sadness for a year after his birth.
“I sat in the grass with your father in my arms and listened to them talk. When they fell quiet, each would take a small drink from the bottle. Just before dark, Alfonso stretched out his arm and touched your grandfather’s shoulder and in a voice heavy with whiskey, he said, ‘Epolito, when I was a little boy, I saw a witch and his animal walk into this valley.’ Here, Alfonso grunted softly. ‘The witch’s hair was red like hot embers, and his eyes were blue like he had been born too soon. No one else from the village saw this witch. What it wanted, I never knew.’ Alfonso brought his hand into his lap and folded his hands together. He shook his head and let out a long sigh. ‘I can still see this witch, and high up on my arm is the bite mark where his beast bit me.’”
It was early in the spring when Alfonso saw the witch. His father had sent him to clean debris from a ditch close to the foothills. There was still snow in the shadows behind trees, but the ground had thawed and was mud and small channels of water ran everywhere. The ditch that spring was choked with dead branches and the garbage Norberto Mascarenas sometimes threw in it. By the time the sun had risen over the mountains, Alfonso’s feet were wet and cold and his head was hot. As he dragged a limb tangled with one of Norberto’s old boots from the ditch, he heard the sharp sound of hoofs striking against stone.
“‘When I looked up,’ Alfonso said, and he was staring straight ahead now, the bottle in his hand forgotten, ‘all I could see was sun. Then I saw the witch standing a few yards away from me. At first, I didn’t know it was a witch. I thought it was someone I knew pulling a horse and that my eyes were just blinded. Then I saw that he was dressed in layers of rags and that his hair and beard burst red from his head and that at the end of the rope he was holding was an animal I had never seen before.’ Alfonso shook his head slowly and let out a long breath of air. ‘I tell you, Epolito,’ he went on, ‘it looked like a sheep that was too big had somehow mated with a bird and what came out was a surprise even to God. Its legs were thin, and its hips rose as high as a man’s head and there were patches of fur, like wool, that stuck out in bunches. Its head was all strange angles, and its jaw moved back and forth slowly as if its teeth hurt or it was chewing tobacco and thinking about something. I knew that what I was seeing couldn’t be.’”
At first, Alfonso merely stared in astonishment at what had appeared before him, and then he began to laugh. At that moment, as if offended, the witch began to yell loudly in a high-pitched voice. Then he began to wave his arms wildly about and kick his feet as if he were dancing. The laughter froze in Alfonso’s mouth, and a deep chill ran through his body. Then, the beast that had been complacently chewing nothing, suddenly stepped forward, lowered its head, and bit Alfonso on the arm.
“‘And to make things worse,’ Alfonso said, ‘after it was done biting me, it spit on me. And not a little spit either, but a lot of spit like it had been saving it for a long time to give to someone it didn’t like. Eee, I never would have thought that an animal could spit, and if it could, why would you keep it? It was at that moment that I knew that what I saw was a witch and its beast.’”
Alfonso had grabbed his arm and screamed. He could feel blood staining the sleeve of his shirt, and he watched as the witch picked up a large stick and struck his animal on the head. When the witch turned back to Alfonso, Alfonso screamed again and threw himself into the ditch. He crawled out on the other side and scrambled madly up the loose rock on the hillside. When he ran into the branches of a large juniper, he hid crouching and trembling behind it. He stayed there until his clothes had dried and until the sun was directly overhead. Then, still dazed and shaken, he crept back down the hill. When he came to the ditch, he found the witch gone and in the mud were the deep tracks of its demon.
“‘I never saw that witch again,’ Alfonso said, ‘and sometimes, at night, I wonder if I saw it at all.’
“It had grown dark by then, hijo,” Rosa said, “and all I could see was the shadows of your grandfather and Alfonso. Your father was asleep in my arms, and every so often he would whimper softly. I heard your grandfather grunt, and then he said that maybe Alfonso had only dreamed the witch. For a little while, Alfonso didn’t speak, and then he took a drink of whiskey and lowered his head. He said that he had never thought of himself as a man who could see things that weren’t there, and if he could, they should have the decency not to bite and spit and then disappear as if it were nothing. At this, your grandfather stirred in his chair and said that it was growing late and that the next day he was to go to his cows early. Alfonso stood and thanked me for the hard tortillas and chile, and your grandfather and I sat for a little longer and listened to the sound of Alfonso walking home.”
While Rosa had been talking, Flavio had edged closer to her until the length of his body rested against hers. She pulled him tighter to her, and in a voice that was somewhere else, she said, “So you see, mi hijo, that is why Ramona will come back to us. Someday she will remember she once lived in a place where babies are born
in snowbanks and roosters fly in front of stones and witches come walking from the mountains. This is your sister’s place, hijo, even if she doesn’t know that now.”
It was not quite dark, and from far off came the muffled echo of wood being chopped. It sounded to Flavio like hoofs on hollow rocks, and he was glad that he wasn’t alone. He thought Alfonso’s story only seemed one more reason for Ramona not to return. He raised his head and looked up at his grandmother. “Have you ever seen the bite on Alfonso’s arm?” he asked.
“No, Flavio,” Rosa said, shaking her head slowly. “I have never wished to see Alfonso’s arm without his shirt.”
“What did the witch want?”
“Who knows what anyone wants?” Rosa said. “Maybe the witch was lost and came here by mistake. Or maybe what your grandfather said was true and what Alfonso saw was his alone. I don’t know, hijo.” Rosa suddenly took in a sharp breath, and her hand tightened on Flavio’s shoulder. “Look,” she said, “Guadalupe García is here.”
Down the hill, Guadalupe was standing just outside her door, looking at where Rosa and Flavio stood. Flavio watched her raise her hand shyly as if to wave. “We should go now, Grandmother,” Flavio said and took hold of Rosa’s hand.
“I have watched her all her life,” Rosa said softly, “and now she is a woman growing old.”
Flavio pulled at his grandmother’s hand, and she moved with him a few steps. He thought he heard Guadalupe calling from her house, but when he glanced there, she had already gone back inside and there was only the empty doorway. “Let’s go, Grandmother,” he said and his voice was frightened.
Rosa turned her head and looked down at her grandson. Then she stooped before him and placed her hands on both sides of his face. “Don’t worry, mi hijo, you will never lose me. You are my grandson and I love you. And I am so proud of you.” She smiled and stroked his face. “I, too, was once in that house. It was long before Guadalupe was born, and when I was taken away by my father, she was left by herself. My place has always been with you, Flavio.” She didn’t say anything for a few seconds, but looked at her grandson quietly until his breathing slowed and he forgot that he had been frightened. “Come, hijo,” she said, and she stood up. “Let’s go to your father and make sure that his dinner is warm.”
MORE THAN SEVENTY YEARS LATER, Flavio stood in the door-way of Ramona’s empty house and, as if for the first time, he heard the words his grandmother had spoken that evening. He could see the highway and the exact place where the two of them had stood. For a second, time wavered in Flavio’s mind and he wasn’t sure where he was.
“We walked across the valley in the dark to my house,” he said softly and closed his eyes so as to see better. His grandmother had heated lamb and chile that night and then warmed two tortillas and covered them with a soft towel. While she had cooked, Flavio and his father had sat at the table. Every so often, Lito’s eyes would rest on his son and then he would move them away and look elsewhere. After the dishes had been washed and the kitchen swept, Rosa had taken her grandson to his room and wished him goodnight. It had been the first time that Flavio had slept in his own house since the death of his mother, and sleep had not come easy. He could hear his father sitting in the kitchen, the scuff of his boots on the floor, the shifting of his body in the chair. Outside, he could hear dogs barking. By then, Alfonso Vigil was an old man, and Flavio had wondered if the mark on his arm still ached and if he, too, was lying awake listening to the noises in the village.
“Enough,” Flavio breathed out and turned back into the room. He stepped over the santos and walked past Felix and into the kitchen. At the sink he turned on the tap and then cupped his hands and splashed his face again and again with cold water. When he straightened up, he wiped his face dry with the sleeve of his shirt and looked out the window. He could no longer see the foothills. They were blanketed with smoke and a line of fire was dancing along the far edge of Ramona’s alfalfa field.
“It’s hard to believe my own eyes,” Flavio said. “This morning I was irrigating that field and now it’s on fire.” He watched as the flames jumped the ditch and began making their way toward the small sad plants that he had neglected all summer. “I should have watered you all these months,” he said, “and maybe none of this would have happened.”
A cramp of hunger knotted up his stomach, and he realized that he had eaten nothing all day. He pulled open one of the cabinet doors above the counter and then stepped back, startled, when a nest of black sticks and chewed cardboard and rodent droppings toppled out. When it struck the counter, a cloud of dust rose and he could smell the rancid odor of mold and urine. Cursing, he brushed the mess onto the floor with the side of his hand, and then reached into the cupboard and took out a small tin can. He wiped it on his pants and peered down at the label. It was a can of little hot dogs.
Flavio wiped the can again against the side of his leg and, looking at it fondly, carried it into the living room. He sat down on the sofa beside Felix, who had fallen asleep hunched over, his face resting on top of his knees on the sofa. Felix’s back shuddered with each breath he took, and small noises were coming muffled from his mouth. Flavio put his hand on Felix’s shoulder and shook him a little. “Wake up, Felix, and we’ll eat a little something.”
For a second, Felix’s breathing almost stopped, and then his lungs gasped in a quick breath and he creaked his head sideways. “I was dreaming, Flavio,” he said and, groaning, lifted the upper part of his body. “I was dreaming that Delfino was here with one of his pigs and it made little barking noises like a dog.”
Flavio dug in his pocket and pulled out his knife. “Delfino was here,” he said, “but none of his pigs.” He slid the knife blade through the tin on top of the can and began cutting in a circle.
“Where did he go?” Felix asked, and then he saw the can in Flavio’s lap. “Eee,” he said, and suddenly his head stopped shaking and his hands fell still. “I always liked those red hot dogs. I used to eat them wrapped in a tortilla with some ketchup.” He watched as Flavio pulled back the lid and then took one out and ate it. “The last time I remember eating,” Felix said, “was eight years ago, and then it was a burrito with chicharrón that Ambrosio made for me. He was good at keeping the floors clean, but not so good with my food. I think my pots made him nervous. If I told him to get me a few cups of flour, he would go outside and stand there singing his stupid songs as if he hadn’t heard me. Who knows why I kept him around as long as I did. That chicharrón burrito tasted like it was full of small stones.”
Flavio took out another hot dog and gave it to Felix. “Thank you, Flavio,” Felix said, and then the two men sat together quietly eating.
After a while, Flavio said, “Felix, Guadalupe García was my tía.”
Felix grunted and small bits of meat flew out of his mouth. “That explains everything.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Flavio said as he took out the last hot dog and gave it to Felix. “Because even if she was my aunt, I still don’t understand.”
Felix shoved the hot dog into his mouth and let it sit there, sucking out the juice. Finally he shrugged. “Don’t ask me,” he said. “She was your tía, not mine. Maybe I am a García, but I was never those Garcías. You should know these things if she was your family.” He wiped the grease from his face with the sleeve of his shirt. “Those were good hot dogs, Flavio,” he said.
Flavio leaned back against the sofa and shut his eyes. He thought that if it were any other day, he’d take a nap. When he woke up, he would sit outside under his apple tree and drink a little coffee and look at the mountains. Then it occurred to him that he didn’t have an apple tree anymore or even a cup to hold his coffee.
“Felix,” Flavio said, opening his eyes. “Ramona’s field is on fire.”
Felix’s body jerked slightly. “Oh sí? That’s too bad, Flavio. I remember that field when your grandfather would irrigate. The alfalfa was as high as our heads.”
“Yes,” Flavio said as he
bent over and put the empty tin can on the floor. “I think it would be better if we leave here, Felix,” he said then and pushed himself to his feet. He took hold of Felix’s arm and helped him stand, and the two of them walked slowly across the room to the doorway.
“I don’t want to go out there,” Felix said. “My belly hurts.” He dropped a hand to his stomach. “It’s not safe for us out there, Flavio. We are just two old men of no use.”
“We can’t stay here,” Flavio said. “The fire is already in Ramona’s field,” and he pulled gently on Felix’s arm.
“Maybe Delfino will put out the fire.”
“Delfino is not fighting this fire anymore.”
“Wait, Flavio. Let me catch my breath and then we can go.”
Flavio eased his grip on Felix’s arm and let him sag against the door frame. Then he turned around and looked at Ramona’s paintings hanging in dust on the walls. In the kitchen, he could see the sink where his grandmother had cooked and washed dishes and later where Ramona would often stand and stare out the small window daydreaming. He brought his eyes back to the living room and looked down at the santos scattered on the floor. All of them seemed to be looking back at him.
“Wait here for a moment, Felix,” he said. He took a few steps back into the room and gathered the Ladies in his arms. He carried them all to the couch and set them there next to each other. And then he touched each one. The last one he touched was the one his nephew, Little José, had carved.
The grin on her face reminded him of someone who was never quite sure of where she was, but was happy to be there. Her eyes were wide and a drop of red paint that had fallen from José’s brush stood out on one cheek. Her hands were together, not so much in prayer, but as if they were clapping. Flavio frowned at her.
A Santo in the Image of Cristóbal García Page 20
