“Be careful, woman, you’re a long way from home. Go back to your bunkhouse. Treat that man like you treated Ollie and maybe he won’t hurt you.” He laughed. “You might even break in Juan—he’s old enough to need a woman. He’ll be seventeen soon—almost a man now.”
“A man?” She smiled. “Are you blind? That pretty one, a man?” she asked with derision in her voice.
Unwittingly, Carlos had given her the only weapon that could hurt him.
“No woman will ever seduce him. He’ll never give you a grandson. Everyone has seen it but you. Are you afraid to take your blinders off? Ask him how he helped his gringo escape and in your truck,” she goaded, knowing she had drawn blood.
His face remained totally impassive. He turned his head so the anguish in his eyes would not betray him, the anguish that flooded through his body with every breath he drew.
Her words finalized in his mind what he had known in his heart, the intuition he had denied for so long.
She sensed her advantage like an animal that smelled blood.
“You’ve been gone a long time—there are powerful men who have kept this organization going for you. What will your compadres think of their great El Jefe when your son wants to play house with their manly sons? How much respect will you get then? They will laugh at you behind your back—at their El Jefe whose son is maricón. I will have it better in the bunkhouse.”
He stood, his back to her, bent like a great gut-shot animal, devastated by her mocking words.
Turning at last, he spoke slowly and with deliberation. “You’ve made it very clear what I must do. I promise you that man will never bother you again and that ram is a threat that needs to die.”
He walked to the gun cabinet, chose a thirty-eight revolver, snapped the cylinder out, spun it and saw that it was loaded, then placed it in his waistband. It felt good riding against his belly.
Lupe walked ahead of him, gloating to herself. “I’ll be out of that bunkhouse tonight.” She pulled the blanket closer and wiped her face with one corner as she lengthened her steps to keep up with his long strides.
As they neared the fence, the big ram charged.
“Shoot. Shoot,” Lupe screamed as she turned to face Carlos and looked directly into the deadly black eye of the thirty-eight. As the unaccustomed sound of the gunshot scattered the sheep, the smell of gunpowder hung in the air. Almost carelessly, he dropped her limp body into a nearby wheelbarrow and moved it behind the cabin.
The men came down from work late that afternoon. The remnants of breakfast and the empty coffeepot greeted them as they opened the door to a cold, damp bunkhouse. Juan ignited the heater and looked for the can opener.
Later that evening, Carlos lit the lantern and the wheelbarrow was pushed up the muddy path without the dinner basket Lupe had carried the last time she’d gone up there.
Carlos dug steadily, the dim light of the lantern making ghostly shadows as it moved with each push of the wind.
He hunched his massive shoulders against the driving rain as the hole grew deeper, and at last he was satisfied. He lifted her as though she were weightless and dropped the body in the muddy pit.
He looked down at her and wiped from his face the rain that dripped around the brim of his hat.
“You laid with him in life,” he said with a grim smile. “Now lay with him in hell.”
At daylight Juan headed out to feed the sheep. The sun broke through the clouds and a glancing ray of light glinted on an earring held fast in a congealed splatter of blood on the floor of the wheelbarrow.
He shuddered, now knowing where Lupe slept.
The tight fist in Juan’s gut tensed as he sensed the presence of his father before the tall shadow fell before him.
Silently, Carlos leaned against the baled hay, lit a cigarette and watched his tall, slender son fork hay to the noisy sheep—his son who had the refined, beautiful face of the gringa woman who had born him. The large, dark eyes; the softly curved lips, the same elegant bearing. The hands that held the pitchfork with long, graceful fingers were the hands of his mother.
I loved her with every breath that I took, as I loved him when she laid him in my arms, he thought.
The memory cut like a knife, then the icy chill of revulsion flooded the past.
How could I have sired this—this man with the ways of a woman? For years I knew it wasn’t true—not my son, then I thought it’s just a passing phase. I knew he would change, outgrow this foolishness as he grew older. His whiskers would mark him as a man…but now I see the truth. I would sooner he be dead.
“Where is the gringo? Your lover?” came Carlos’ scathing questions.
“I loved him, but he was not my lover. Now he is safe—you meant to kill him, too.”
“Yes, and I am tempted to kill you, you maricón.” His frustration and rage struggled with his indecision.
“Yes, you could do that. But I will live in your mind as long as you draw breath.”
Carlos stood, as if undecided, facing his son with only his rage and shame existing between them.
“I’ll take you and that gringa whore to San Francisco in the morning, and if there is a God, I pray I’ll never see either of you again, in this life or in hell,” he delivered in his guttural Spanish.
“And I will say amen to that—father.” The word “father” conveyed in the same scathing tone as Carlos had used for “maricón.”
• • •
The truck was on the road almost before daylight.
Her coat pulled tight, the woman slouched against Carlos with eyes closed to the world. A small bag, loosely held in slack fingers, fell to the floor. No effort was made to retrieve it.
Juan sat pressed as close to the door as possible, staring out the window at the fleeting landscape. They rode in a strained silence and it seemed to Juan that the trip was endless.
Never had he heard the word “maricón.” How could he have known the meaning? He had known he was different from others—he had turned in disgust from the ugly, rough talk, the casual references to sex, the unabashed nudity in the cold shower. He had closed his eyes to the blatant antics of Ollie and Lupe.
His father’s accusation verbalized a feeling Juan had never consciously acknowledged, but he realized now that the feelings he had for Steve were feelings that he would not—could not—have for a woman.
As a child, he had worshipped his father and his father had returned that love. But it seemed, as he grew older, his father had put a distance between them that he did not understand. He always felt as though his father was watching and waiting. Waiting for what?
What is strange about me? Why am I different? I remember that as I grew older, I was not quite like the other boys.
Juan did not notice when the tears came; he only knew a great sense of loss, a fear of the difference that made him a shame to his father.
He had been so lonely, and then there had been Steve.
• • •
The big city seemed to fall on him like an avalanche—constant noise of cars, the thundering herd of humanity, an environment so totally different than anything he’d ever known. He felt his world disappear. Then came the paralyzing fear in the thudding of the heart against his ribs, and the cold sweat that caused his shirt to cling to his back.
Where will I go? What will I do?
Carlos pulled to the curb and Juan turned to look desperately at his father. Carlos, his face emotionless, nodded to the door. As Juan stepped out, Carlos threw a roll of bills to the sidewalk, put the truck in gear and watched in the rearview mirror to see Juan step over the money and walk out of his life.
What Carlos didn’t see were the scalding tears that stood in his son’s eyes; he didn’t feel the wordless agony that Juan felt knowing he was not a man his father wanted to call “son.”
The woman awakened and smiled. “Oh, we’re here already? Just drop me off at the nearest hotel; I’ll call a cab.”
Carlos nodded as he stuffed some bills in her
bag, then left her at the door of the first hotel he saw.
CHAPTER 7
Carlos turned the pickup toward the Calaveras Mountains and drove steadily, his mind in turmoil, fighting emotions he could not identify. The memory of the defeated, helpless slope of his son’s shoulders as he walked into the park seemed to burn in his mind like an ember that would not die.
He stopped only once, at a liquor store, carried out two bottles and unscrewed the cap of one before he started the motor. After a long gulping swallow, he recapped the bottle and let it rest in his lap.
He noticed as he bumped over the potholes of the ranch that the bottle was half empty, but comforted himself with the knowledge that there was one more in the sack.
Now it was late—the never-ending rain had finally ceased. The moon crept across the sky where angry, dark rain clouds had retreated slowly behind the mountain’s dark shadows.
It had been a long day, and he lay down on the rumpled bed fully clothed and buried his face in a pillow. He slept uneasily, waking often, and in his dreams Juan’s face kept intruding. The stricken look on his son’s face when he had flung the word “maricón” like a rock denied Carlos the sleep he begged for.
He looked for another bottle—he knew there was one still in the sack under the seat of the truck. He opened the kitchen door to the bright moonlight and stumbled to the pickup. He sprawled back against the seat and held the bottle to his lips, again and again. The crushing knowledge was finally accepted as it pounded through his brain as if by a giant hand—a battle that took no prisoners.
He could hear the sheep so plainly he didn’t need to turn the headlights on to see their vague shadows that were scattered about the barnyard.
The deep, menacing bellow of the old ram sounded, answering the call of the undisputed matriarch.
Carlos cursed, knowing that the old ram had torn through the fence at last. He could see the sheep rampaging in and out of the barn and knew that the hay would be scattered everywhere in the morning.
“I should have killed that old bastard a long time ago,” he muttered.
He staggered into the house, found his gun and lit the lantern. It would be dark in the barn.
“I’ll be chasing those damn sheep all night.” Then, “No, I’ll get those wetbacks up….”
The light burned brightly in the lantern, unnecessary in the moonlight but essential in the barn, so dark where the moon rays didn’t reach.
The snort and angry bawl of the hostile animal sounded near and Carlos’ drunken mind reminded him he had better be quick with the gun.
He advanced, swinging the lantern, farther into the barn. Suddenly from the darkness, the ram exploded, knocking Carlos sprawling. As he fell, his head struck a cement pier block that held a pillar supporting the roof. The lantern flung from his outstretched hand, and with the glass chimney broken, kerosene and flame exploded and, in an instant, the dry hay ignited.
The men in the bunkhouse were awakened by the screaming sheep and the outraged bellow of the old ram. They opened the door to the suffocating smoke that coiled into the sky to watch, awestruck, the furious flames that devoured the barn.
At last, the tormented mind of Carlos was stilled.
CHAPTER 8
Stepping over the money, Juan walked away, then paused to look around. The park pulsed with humanity. It seemed choked with young people in wildly colored clothing adorned with feathers, beads, chains; they were singing, dancing…a couple lying on the grass in an intimate embrace caused him to blush as he turned his head.
The curious stares of the passing celebrants made him conscious of his heavy boots, ragged mud-splattered jeans and ill-fitting shirt, partly covered by an old, discarded jacket.
The panic kept building. Where will I go? What will I do? He felt the trickle of sweat slide down his back as the terror enveloped him.
He was lost in the avalanche of people in this unknown world. A desperate burst of overpowering fear swept over him and he started to run. He ran until his lungs were begging for breath, his steps slowed to a stagger, and the pavement rose up to meet his pounding feet.
He turned aside to discover a seldom-used path that led to a secluded part of the park. The steady whine of traffic and noisy voices faded into the distance.
The path seemed to end at a thick stand of bushes, a hiding place heavy with pink and white buds about to burst at the first ray of sunshine.
Exhausted, he sank down and lay back, his arms pillowing his head. The body slowly stilled, but his mind refused to be reconciled.
How have I come to this? From my grandmother who loved me—my life in that tiny mountain village. Why wasn’t I allowed to play with the other children? Because “You are El Jefe’s son.”
El Jefe’s son. How I waited for my father’s visits—how I loved him. And I knew he loved me. When I grew older—thirteen? fourteen?—he came so seldom and would only watch me, not looking me in the face, and I could hear grandmother’s pleading voice, his angry responses, my name, often. And all I wanted from him was his love.
Then suddenly from there to that horrible, lonely place, always raining, cold, working from daylight to dark. Me, who had never known physical work, only the love and care of an old woman.
The loneliness—I thought I’d die of loneliness…and then there was Steve. I loved him. I loved him from the moment our hands touched in that first, shy handshake. If that means I am maricón, I’ll shout it to the world. I love him.
How wonderful our short time together had been—smoking a little pot, learning from each other the different languages, laughing at our mistakes. I taught Steve to roll a joint and what a cigarette that was—but he was so proud of it.
Juan smiled as he remembered how Steve had pulled the bent nails from the old ram’s pen—the ram that Steve said was Ollie’s father.
We laughed so hard. Steve was my only happiness. I am so grateful I could help him escape. I would have been glad to have given him my life. I’ll love him forever.
Faraway sounds of the tumultuous city seemed to fade as the sun hid behind tall buildings. The same vagabond wind that sifted so carelessly through Carlos’ ashes urged a heavy, damp fog ashore that covered the big town, then crept over the park, holding his son in a clammy embrace.
Juan found a more sheltered spot in the rhododendrons and lay down, emotionally and physically exhausted. He tried to get comfortable, but a cold chill seemed to seep into his very bones. He lay awake, his thoughts tormenting him, his body shaking. He slept intermittently to wake at every night sound, then fade back to a sleep that gave him neither rest nor comfort.
The sun awoke him and he lay there unmoving as the same fears that magnified in the night struggled for an answer in the bright rays of the sun.
He forced himself to stand on legs that threatened to betray him, turned his head to see two men approaching slowly, one holding a big dog by the collar.
Instinctively, Juan wanted to run—but where?
The man spoke, “Who do you s’pose that is? He’s sure staggerin’ around.”
“Must be some flower child that got lost—probably stoned. I could use some of that. Might have a couple bucks on him, too,” answered the other.
“Hell, don’t bother with him. He don’t look like he’s got a nickel.”
“Well, sometimes they hide it in their shoe. Let the dog loose,” then added, “Damned if it ain’t a spic. Sic the dog on him and I’ll bet he’d run all the way to Mexico.”
“Maybe he ain’t alone…”
“Can’t you count? That cheap wine makin’ you see double again?”
“C’mon, let’s see what he’s got. There’s one of him, two of us, and I got the brass knuckles.”
Juan watched them with a feeling of anxiety as they moved closer.
“Hey, you. What are you doin’ down there? Let’s see what you got in yer pockets.”
Juan didn’t comprehend the words or the sudden blow that knocked him almost senseless to the ground,
causing an instant flow of blood that spurted from the deep gash that opened from forehead to cheekbone.
CHAPTER 9
Yes, I want to go home—it seems like I’ve been gone forever. The thought nagged me. I need to see Ma and find out what Sis is up to. All these people, all this noise—I’d rather hear the sheep. I’ve tried to call home, but the phone is always busy—Sis, no doubt.
I wonder what Juan is doing. How is he ever going to get away? Where would he go? I miss him; he was like a brother. If it weren’t for him, I’d be dead.
That damn Ollie. Why doesn’t he leave me alone? All I did was help bury him. Okay, I dug his damn postholes—and tended those sheep. Why me?
“Hey, kid. How many postholes today?” And the blood—won’t he ever stop bleeding? Will he ever stay dead?
I’ve gotta get home.
I’ve scared everybody so badly with my nightmares that they’ve moved my mattress and blanket to the servants’ quarters on the third floor. Now I’ve got my own private room that has a door with a transom at the top. It’s supposed to be a linen closet, but it’s bigger than my room at home.
I lay there in the dark, afraid to go to sleep as usual. Even with the dubious aid of downers, I can sense his presence. The moment my eyes are closed, Ollie is there. I hear the words, “Hey, Kid…” bubble out of his mouth and, as his head hovers above me, I squirm away from the blood that always drips from his ravaged throat. The screams that tear from mine bring blood, too.
Somewhere, deep in my core, I know it isn’t real and yet, when I fall off into that deep blackness of sleep, he is there, almost as though he waits for me—or I wait for him.
Here I was, screaming and fighting among all those people who only wanted to be happy.
After the fourth night, they zonked me with a rainbow of pills—seems like everyone wanted to donate, then they shut the door. I sank down, down into a place so black that even Ollie couldn’t find me, the blanket pulled tightly over my head.
And Yesterday Is Gone Page 6
