He bought an old Mennonite kitchen table made of pine and the man helped him carry it out and set it in the bed of the truck and the man told him to take the drawer out and stand it in the bed.
You go around a curve it'll come out of there.
Yessir.
Liable to go plumb overboard.
Yessir.
And take that glass and put it up there in the cab with you if you dont want it broke.
All right.
I'll see you.
Yessir.
He worked long into the nights and he'd come in and unsaddle the horse and brush it in the partial darkness of the barn bay and walk across to the kitchen and get his supper out of the warmer and sit and eat alone at the table by the shaded light of the lamp and listen to the faultless chronicling of the ancient clockworks in the hallway and the ancient silence of the desert in the darkness about. There were times he'd fall asleep in the chair and wake at some strange hour and stagger up and cross the yard to the barn and get the pup and take it and put it in its box on the floor beside his bunk and lie face down with his arm over the side of the bunk and his hand in the box so that it would not cry and then fall asleep in his clothes.
Christmas came and went. In the afternoon of the first Sunday in January Billy rode up and crossed the little creek and halloed the house and stood down. John Grady came to the door.
What are you doin? Billy said.
Paintin windowsash.
Billy nodded. He looked about. You aint goin to ask me in?
John Grady passed his sleeve along the side of his nose. He had a paintbrush in one hand and his hands were blue. I didnt know I had to, he said. Come on in.
Billy came in and stood. He took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it and looked around. He walked into the other room and he came back. The adobe brick walls had been whitewashed and the inside of the little house was bright and monastically austere. The clay floors were swept and slaked and he'd beaten them down with a homemade maul contrived from a fencepost with a section of board nailed to the bottom.
The old place dont look half bad. You aim to get you a Santo to put in the corner yonder?
I might.
Billy nodded.
I'll take all the help I can get, John Grady said.
I hear you, said Billy. He looked at the bright blue of the sash of the windows. Did they not have any blue paint? he said.
They said this was about as close as they could get.
You fixin to paint the door the same color?
Yep.
You got another brush?
Yeah. I got one.
Billy took off his hat and hung it on one of the pegs by the door. Well, he said. Where's it at?
John Grady poured paint from his paintcan into an empty one and Billy squatted on one knee and stirred the brush into the paint. He passed the flat of the brush carefully across the rim of the can and painted a bright blue band down the center stile. He looked across his shoulder.
How come you to have a extra brush?
Just in case some fool showed up wantin to paint, I reckon.
They quit before dark. A cool wind was coming down from the gap in the Jarillas. They stood by the truck and Billy smoked and they watched the running fire deepening to darkness over the mountains to the west.
It's goin to be cold up here in the wintertime, pardner, Billy said.
I know it.
Cold and lonely.
It wont be lonely.
I'm talkin about her.
Mac says she can come down and work with Socorro whenever she wants.
Well that's good. I dont expect there'll be a lot of empty chairs at the table on them days.
John Grady smiled. I expect you're right.
When have you seen her?
Not for a while.
How long a while?
I dont know. Three weeks.
Billy shook his head.
She's still there, John Grady said.
You got a lot of confidence in her.
Yes I do.
What do you think is goin to happen when her and Socorro get their heads together?
She dont tell everthing she knows.
Her or Socorro?
Either one.
I hope you're right.
They aint goin to run her off, Billy. There's more to her than just she's good lookin.
Billy flipped the cigarette out across the yard. We better get on back.
You can take the truck if you want.
That's all right. Go on. I'll ride that old crowbait of yours. Billy nodded. Ride him blind through the brush tryin to beat me back. Get him snakebit and I dont know what all. Go on. I'll ride behind the truck. Horse like that it takes a special hand to ride him in the dark. I'll bet it does. A rider that can instill confidence in a animal. John Grady smiled and shook his head. A rider that's accustomed to the ways and the needs of the nighthorse. Ride the bedgrounds slow. Ride left to right. Sing to them snuffles. Dont pop no matches. I hear you. Did your grandaddy used to talk about goin up the trail? Some. Yeah. You think you'll ever go back to that country? I doubt it. You will. One of these days. Or I say you will. If you live. You want to take the truck back? Naw. Go on. I'll be along. All right. Dont eat my dessert. All right. I appreciate you Comin up. I didnt have nothin else to do. Well. If I had I'd of done it. I'll see you at the house. See you at the house.
JOSEFINA WAS STANDING in the door watching. In the room the criada turned, one hand lofting the weight of the girl's dark hair for her to see. Bueno, said Josefina. Muy bonita. The criada smiled thinly, her mouth bristling with hairpins. Josefina looked back down the hall and then leaned in the door.
fl viene, she whispered. Then she turned and padded away down the corridor. The criada turned the girl quickly and studied her and touched her hair and stood back. She passed her thumb across her lips gathering the pins. Eres la china poblana perfecta, she said. Perfecta.
Es bella la china poblana? the girl said.
The criada arched her brows in surprise. The wrinkled lid fluttered over the pale blind eye. S', she said. S'. Por supuesto. Todo el mundo to sabe.
Eduardo stood in the doorway. The criada saw the girl's eyes and turned. He jerked his chin at her and she went to the dresser and laid down the hairbrush and put the pins in a china tray and went past him and out the door.
He came in and shut the door behind him. The girl stood quietly in the center of the room.
VoltZate, he said. He made a stirring motion with his forefinger.
She turned.
Ven aqu'.
She came slowly forward and stood. He took her jaw in the palm of his hand and raised her face and looked into her painted eyes. When she lowered it again he put his hand into the gathered hair at her neck and pulled her head back. She turned her eyes up toward the ceiling. Her pale throat exposed. The visible bloodpulse in the thick arteries at either side of her neck and the small tic at the corner of her mouth. He told her to look at him and she did but she seemed to have power to cause those dark and hooded eyes of hers to go opaque. So that the visible depth in them was lost or shrouded. So that they hid the world within. He recaught his grip in her hair and the smooth skin tautened over her cheekbones and her eyes widened. He commanded again that she look at him but she was already looking at him and she did not answer.
A quiZn le rezas? he hissed.
A Dios.
QuiZn responde?
Nadie.
Nadie, he said.
That night she felt the cold pneuma come upon her as she lay naked in the bed. She turned and called to the cliente standing in the room.
I'm bein as quick as I can, he said.
By the time he'd slid into the bed beside her she'd cried out and gone rigid and her eyes white. In the muted light he could not see her but he placed his hand on her body and felt her bowed and trembling under his palm and taut as a snaredrum. He felt the tremor of her like the hum of a current running in her bones.
He came out into the hallway half dressed and pulling on his clothes. Tiburcio appeared from nowhere. He pushed the man aside and knelt in the girl's bed and unbuckled his belt and whipped it from about his waist and caught it and folded it and seized the girl's jaw and forced the leather between her teeth. The cliente watched from the doorway. I didnt do nothin, he said. I never even touched her.
Tiburcio rose and strode toward the door.
She just went that way, the cliente said.
Speak to no one, Tiburcio said. You understand me?
You got it, old buddy. Just you let me get my shoes.
The alcahuete shut the door after him. The girl was breathing harshly through the belt. He sat and pulled back the covers. He studied her without expression. He bent over her slightly in his black silk. The soft false whisper of it. A morbid voyeur, a mortician. An incubus of uncertain proclivity or perhaps just a dark dandy happened in from off the neon streets who aped imperfectly with his pale and tapered hands those ministrations of the healing arts that he had seen or heard of or as he imagined them to be. What are you? he said. You are nothing.
WHEN H E STEPPED OUT onto the porch and let the screendoor to behind him Mr Johnson was sitting on the edge of the porch with his elbows propped on his knees watching the sunset where it deepened and flared over the Franklins to the west. Distant flocks of geese were moving downriver along the jornada. They looked no more than bits of string against the raucous red of the sky and they were far too distant to be heard.
Where are you off to? said the old man.
John Grady walked to the edge of the porch and stood picking his teeth and looking out across the country along with him. What makes you think I'm off to somewhere?
Hair all slicked back like a muskrat. Boots.
He sat on the boards beside the old man. Goin to town, he said.
The old man nodded. Well, he said. I reckon it's still there.
Yessir.
You couldnt prove it by me.
When was the last time you were in El Paso?
I dont know. Been a year, I'd say. Maybe longer.
You dont get tired bein out here all the time?
I do. At times.
You dont ever want to make a run in to sort of see what's goin on?
I dont believe it would help. I dont believe there's anything goin on.
Did you used to go over to Ju++rez?
Yes I did. Back when I was a drinkin man. The last time I was in Ju++rez Mexico was in nineteen and twentynine. I seen a man shot in a bar. He was standin at the bar drinkin a beer and this man come in and walked up behind him and pulled a government fortyfive out of his belt and shot him in the back of the head with it. Stuck the gun back in his breeches and turned and walked out again. He wasnt even in a hurry about it.
Shot him dead?
Yes. He was dead standin there. Thing I remember is how quick he fell down. Just dead weight. The movies dont ever get that part right neither.
Where were you?
I was standin almost next to him. I seen it in the bar mirror. I'm partially deaf to this day in this one ear on account of it. His head just damn near come off. Blood everwhere. Brains. I had on a brand new Stradivarius gabardine shirt and a pretty good Stetson hat and I burned everthing I had on save the boots. I bet I took nine baths handrunnin.
He looked out across the country to the west where the sky was darkening. Tales of the old west, he said.
Yessir.
Lot of people shot and killed.
Why were they?
Mr Johnson passed the tips of his fingers across his jaw. Well, he said. I think these people mostly come from Tennessee and Kentucky. Edgefield district in South Carolina. Southern Missouri. They were mountain people. They come from mountain people in the old country. They always would shoot you. It wasnt just here. They kept comin west and about the time they got here was about the time Sam Colt invented the sixshooter and it was the first time these people could afford a gun you could carry around in your belt. That's all there ever was to it. It had nothin to do with the country at all. The west. They'd of been the same it dont matter where they might of wound up. I've thought about it and that's the only conclusion I could ever come to.
How bad of a drinkin man did you used to be, Mr Johnson? If you dont care for me to ask.
Pretty bad. Maybe not as bad as some might like to remember it. But it was more than a passin acquaintance.
Yessir.
You can ask whatever you want.
Yessir.
You get my age you kindly get weaned off standin on ceremony. I think it embarrasses Mac at times. But dont worry about askin me stuff.
Yessir. Was that when you quit drinkin?
No. I was more dedicated than that. I quit and took it up again. Quit and took it up. Finally got around to quittin all together. Maybe I just got too old for it. There wasnt any virtue in it.
The drinkin or the quittin?
Either one. There aint no virtue in quittin what you aint able any longer to do in the first place. That's pretty, aint it.
He nodded toward the sunset. Deep laminar red. The cool of the coming dark was in it and it was all around them.
Yessir, said John Grady. It is.
The old man took his cigarettes from his shirtpocket. John Grady smiled. I see you aint quit smokin, he said.
I intend to be buried with a pack in my pocket.
You think you'll need em on the other side?
Not really. A man can hope though.
He watched the sky. Where do bats go in the wintertime? They got to eat.
I think maybe they migrate.
I hope so.
Do you think I ought to get married?
Hell, son. How would I know?
You never did.
That dont mean I didnt try.
What happened?
She wouldnt have me.
Why not?
I was too broke for her. Or maybe for her daddy. I dont know.
What happened to her?
It was a peculiar thing. She went on and married another old boy and she died in childbirth. It was not uncommon in them days. She was a awful pretty girl. Woman. I dont think she'd turned twenty. I think about her yet.
The last of the colors died in the west. The sky was dark and blue. Then just dark. The kitchen windowlights lay across the porch boards beside them where they sat.
I miss knowin whatever become of certain people. Where they're livin at and how they're gettin on or where they died at if they did die. I think about old Bill Reed. Sometimes I'll say to myself, I'll say: I wonder whatever happened to old Bill Reed? I dont reckon I'll ever know. Me and him was good friends, too.
What else?
What else what?
What else do you miss?
The old man shook his head. You dont want to get me started.
A lot?
Not all of it. I dont miss pullin a tooth with a pair of shoein tongs and nothin but cold wellwater to numb it. But I miss the old range life. I went up the trail four times. Best times of my life. The best. Bein out. Seem new country. There's nothin like it in the world. There never will be. Settin around the fire of the evenin with the herd bedded down good and no wind. Get you some coffee. Listen to the old waddies tell their stories. Good stories, too. Roll you a smoke. Sleep. There's no sleep like it. None.
He flipped the cigarette out into the dark. Socorro opened the door and looked out. Mr Johnson, she said, you ought to come in. It is too cold for you.
I'll be in directly.
I better go on I guess, John Grady said.
Dont keep one waitin, the old man said. They wont tolerate it.
Yessir.
Go on then.
He rose. Socorro had gone back in. He looked down at the old man. Still you dont think it's all that good a idea, do you?
What dont I think?
About gettin married.
I never
said that.
Do you think it?
I think you ought to follow your heart, the old man said. That's all I ever thought about anything.
Going up Ju++rez Avenue among the crowds of tourists he saw the shineboy at his corner and waved a hand to him.
I guess you're on your way to see your girl, the boy said.
No. I'm goin to see a friend of mine.
Is she still your novia?
Yes she is.
When you gettin married?
Pretty soon.
Did you ask her?
Yes.
She said yes?
She did.
The boy grinned. Otro m++s de los perdidos, he said.
Otro m++s.
cndale pues, the boy said. I cant help you now.
He entered the Moderno and took off his hat and hung it among the hats and instruments along the long wallrack by the door and he took a table next to the one reserved for the maestro. The barman nodded to him across the room and raised one hand. Buenas tardes, he called.
Buenas tardes, said John Grady. He folded his hands before him on the tabletop. Two of the ancient musicians in their dull black stage suits were sitting at a table in the corner and they nodded to him politely who was a friend to the maestro and he nodded back and the waiter came across the concrete floor in his white apron and greeted him. He ordered a tequila and the waiter bowed. As if the decision were a grave one well taken. From outside in the street came the cries of children, the calls of vendors. A square shaft of light fell slant from the barred streetwindow above him and terminated out on the floor in a pale trapezoid. In the center of it like a thing displayed in a bent and veering cage sat a large lemoncolored housecat washing itself. It shook its head and yawned. It turned and looked at him. The waiter brought the tequila.
He wet the top of his fist with his tongue and poured on salt from a tableshaker and he sipped the tequila and took a wedge of sliced lemon from the dish and crushed it between his teeth and laid it back in the dish and licked the salt from his fist. Then he took another sip of the tequila. The musicians watched him, sitting quietly.
He drank the tequila and ordered another. The cat was gone. The cage of light moved across the floor. After a while it started up the wall. The waiter had turned on the lights in the other room and a third musician had come in and joined the first two. Then the maestro entered with his daughter.
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