by Jory Sherman
“What was the dream about?” Hattie asked, a quiver of excitement in her voice.
“I’m not sure. It’s all so confusing. But I know this dream means something. At times it seemed so real. I know my boy was in it. And Martin and David.”
“See?” Hattie said. “There’s meaning to that there dream.”
“Pshaw,” Wanda said. Then she tried to change the subject. “We thought we’d string beans today. Pick them first, of course. It’s so quiet around here with the men gone.”
“What do you think the dream meant?” Hattie asked. Her eyes glittered like beads of sorghum.
“I don’t know,” Ursula said, “but I have the feeling there’s some meaning there. That there’s something I must do.”
“You can help us string up the beans,” Wanda said, an airy lilt to her voice.
“There were signs in that dream, Ursula,” Hattie said. She licked her lips like a cat yearning for a feast.
“When I left my room, I had the overpowering urge to go over to the Baron ranch, be with David and Roy. I think the dream had something to do with going over there.”
“You mean…” Wanda said, suddenly interested.
“I mean, maybe we should help Martin. Or something.”
“That could be it,” Hattie said.
“What do you think of Martin Baron?” Wanda asked point-blank.
“Me?” Ursula said. “Well, I don’t know him very well, of course. He seems good-hearted. He gave Roy this piece of property.”
“Don’t you blame him for the death of your husband?”
“I had some resentments. But Jack was a wild one. I was sometimes surprised he lived as long as he did. He was a horse thief and he had killed men.”
“What about Martin’s son?” Wanda asked. “Do you like him?”
“Anson? I don’t really know him. Roy sets a great deal of store in him, I guess.”
“I don’t know him, either,” Wanda said, “but I think it’s terrible that he’s run off and left his father to fight for the ranch by himself.”
“I heard that, I guess,” Ursula said. “Roy didn’t say much about it. Said that was the way Anson was.”
“But I heard Anson really owns the ranch,” Wanda said. “So why wouldn’t he fight for it?”
“He’s a strange one, that Anson,” Hattie said.
“Mother, you don’t know him, either,” Wanda said.
“I know he doesn’t respect his father.”
“No you don’t.
“He didn’t even cry at his mother’s funeral.”
“Who?” Wanda asked. “Anson or Martin?”
“I think Martin cried,” Hattie said. “I know Anson didn’t shed a tear. He’s a cold one. Hard-hearted.”
Ursula sighed. “He does seem distant, at times. I noticed that girl, the doctor’s niece, staring at him all during the funeral.”
“Then she went chasing after him after he left. He didn’t even come to the condolences,” Hattie said. “Uppity, that’s what he is.”
“Mother, don’t go judging people,” Wanda said.
“He’s cold, that one,” Hattie said again. “Cold as ice.”
Ursula leaned back as if exhausted from thinking and picked up her cup again. She blew on it and let coffee trickle into her mouth. Now, after uttering those words about going to the Box B, the dream seemed to resurface in her mind, and parts of it became more clear all of a sudden.
“Well, we could go over there,” Wanda said, musing aloud.
“We should go over there,” Ursula said. “In fact, I am going over there. As soon as I get dressed.”
“I’ll go with you,” Wanda said.
“We’ll all go,” Hattie said, caught up in the others’ enthusiasm. “Better than sitting around here, stringing up beans.”
“I think Roy and David would want us there,” Ursula said. “I’m not afraid of a fight. Lord knows, I had enough of them with Roy’s father.”
“Neither am I,” Wanda said, sitting up straight. “I can shoot a rifle or pistol with the best of any man.”
“Me too,” Hattie said.
Ursula smiled. “I’ve shot mad dogs and meat myself. I still have a pistol my father gave me. I’ll get it out.”
“We have pistols, too,” Hattie said, “and we keep them loaded. We’ll show that Aguilar a thing or two.”
Ursula looked at the other two women and beamed. Then she began to think of the enormity of her decision, and theirs. But she knew her thoughts had been guided by the dream of moments before. She knew, in her heart, that she was supposed to fight alongside her men. Mixed with the resolve, though, was a growing fear that she might be interfering with destiny, with fate. She began to feel faint and she sat back in her chair and blinked her eyes as Hattie and Wanda began to waver out of focus.
“What’s wrong?” Wanda asked.
“Are you all right, Ursula?” Hattie started to get up out of her chair.
“I just wonder if we’re doing the right thing. I mean, Roy didn’t say anything yesterday in town, and neither did David.”
“You don’t look well,” Hattie said.
“I’m all right.”
Wanda finished drinking her coffee and arose from her chair. Hattie sat there, looking at Ursula.
Ursula touched a hand to her forehead as if to steady herself. She found she was able to focus and she stared back at Hattie.
“I think I’m frightened of this war everybody’s talking about,” Ursula said.
“You mean with this Aguilar feller?”
“No, I mean the war between the South and North.”
“I just hope Roy doesn’t have to fight in it,” Wanda said, finally leaving the room. Then, “Or David, either.”
“What’s the world coming to?” Hattie asked of no one. “If you ask me, all of this trouble can be laid right at President Lincoln’s doorstep.”
Ursula was no longer listening. She got up from the table and turned away from Hattie, started for the door. After she left, Hattie muttered to herself, then spoke aloud.
“Some people are just downright rude and ungrateful,” she said, and poured herself another cup of coffee. Outside, the eastern sky began to lighten and she leaned over and lifted the chimney on the lamp and blew out the flame.
21
MARTIN RUBBED THE granules of sleep from his eyelids and turned on his bed to look out the window. It was still pitch-dark outside, but he heard noises downstairs, noises that had awakened him: the clank of a pan, the scrape of chair legs, the light patter of footsteps. The crickets had gone silent, but he heard the leathery flap of a whippoorwill’s call and the far-off bawl of a cow lowing for its calf.
“Damn,” he said. “Shoulda been up already by now.”
His voice sounded strange to him in the hollow room. Caroline’s room. He had slept there, after debating with himself about it the night before. He had felt strange coming into the room; its emptiness shrieked at him through the empty silence and when he smelled the cloying scent of Caroline’s perfume still clinging to her clothes and her bed, the tears had welled up unbidden in his eyes. It had taken him a long while to slip into sleep. He kept hearing her footsteps on the hardwood floors, and hearing her whispers in the darkness, whispers that he was certain called out his name.
He finally realized that he was just hearing things, that his memory was playing subtle tricks on him, and had fallen asleep to the soothing orchestras of crickets and the soft sough of the wind sniffing at the eaves and brushing gently against the windowpanes.
Martin had not dreamed, or if he had, could remember none, and he was grateful for that. His mind was cluttered enough as it was, with worry over when Matteo might attack, and how he should make ready for such an event. He did not want to be kept prisoner in his own house, nor did he want to cry wolf if Matteo was not coming. But he had to be ready, and he had to make sure he was not caught by surprise.
He left Caroline’s room and walked to his own. He slipped
on a clean pair of trousers and a shirt, brushed his hair and rubbed his beard to see if he needed to shave that morning. There was stubble, but he could go another day. The aroma of coffee wafted to his nostrils and he left his room to go downstairs, drink a cup to clear away the last of the cobwebs in his sleep-silked brain.
The house was dark except for the stream of yellow-orange light that leaked around the closed kitchen door. Martin walked toward it, his boots ringing loud on the hardwood flooring. The noises in the kitchen stopped as he drew closer and when he opened the door, he saw Esperanza rising from the table as if to leave. Lucinda stood by the stove, frozen there, while Lazaro had ducked his head under the table as if to hide.
“Good morning,” Martin said in Spanish.
The women replied in kind. Esperanza bowed slightly. “I am going,” she said.
“No, do not leave,” Martin told her. “I wish to talk to you.”
“To me? Why?”
“Anson said that I should. Is Lazaro going to stay under that table? What is he afraid of?”
“He is afraid of you, my patrón,” Esperanza said.
“Well, there’s no need. Finish your breakfast, Lazaro. Esperanza, have you finished eating?”
“Yes,” she said quickly.
“Sit,” Martin commanded. Esperanza sat back down in her chair. Martin sat down and looked at Lucinda. “Just coffee.”
“Yes, Patrón,” she said, and went to the cupboard for a cup.
“What is it you wish to speak to me about?” Esperanza asked.
“In a moment. I do not think we should speak about this while Lazaro is here.”
“I will go,” Lazaro said. He had slithered back in his chair without making a sound.
“No, finish breaking your fast,” Martin said. “I will speak to Esperanza after I have finished my coffee.”
“I do not have hunger,” Lazaro said. His plate sat before him, and Martin could see that he had not eaten much of his beans or beef. There was a half-eaten tortilla there, too. Esperanza had not finished her meal, either.
Martin looked at Lazaro’s dark, closed eyes, the way the lamplight emphasized the dark shadows that lined his closed lids. Lucinda had three lamps burning, the wicks turned up high, and whichever way Lazaro turned his head, his sightless eyes carried with them the darkness of his blindness.
“More coffee, Esperanza?” Lucinda asked, as she set a cup before Martin. Esperanza, her lips pursed tight, shook her head.
“What passes, Esperanza?” Martin asked.
“The vaqueros are already awake,” she said. “They have eaten. Roy and David are up, too, and they are in the barn where the cannon is. The blacks are helping them with the heavy wagon.”
“You see much,” Martin said.
“The noise of the men awakened me,” she said. “I am getting ready to leave.”
“Leave?”
“I thought I would take Lazaro away from here and go back to Mexico.”
“Why?”
“I just think it would be better now that the señora is gone. We do not feel at home here without Señora Caroline.”
Martin cleared his throat, sipped at the hot coffee. Lucinda stood by, watching him as one would watch a man drinking poison. He looked at Esperanza and tried to smile.
“You and the boy are welcome here,” he said in English. “There is no need for you to leave just because my wife is not here. You will be paid as always.”
“I think I will be more happy if I take Lazaro away and go to Mexico. Queremos salir.”
Martin saw the stubborn jut of her jaw, heard the finality in her words. “Wait until after we talk, then decide what you wish to do.”
“Our things are packed up in bundles. We are ready.”
Martin turned to Lucinda. “Don’t stand over me like that. Sit down, Lucinda. Eat. Drink some coffee.”
Lucinda jumped as if sparked with a jolt of static electricity. Her hand flew to her mouth in embarrassment.
“No. I am sorry. Do you not have hunger? There is much to eat.”
“No,” Martin said, as Lucinda walked toward the stove. “I will drink my coffee and speak to Esperanza before I go to the barn.”
“Very well,” Lucinda said, and added a stick of wood to the firebox of the stove.
Esperanza sat there, looking stony-faced at Martin. Lazaro seemed frozen in his chair, listening to every sound. Martin couldn’t swear to it, but he thought he could see the boy’s ears twitching like a rabbit’s. But, he realized, it was only an illusion.
Martin drank his coffee and drummed his fingers on the table. Lazaro cocked his head slightly as if trying to decipher the sound. Lucinda wiped the counter with a cloth. Esperanza stared at Martin and beyond him, seemingly lost in her own thoughts.
“I will go outside and fetch water,” Lucinda said, grasping the handle of a pail on the kitchen counter. Martin nodded, but no one said anything. Her sandals made soft sounds on the floor and the back door opened and banged shut, deepening the thick silence in the kitchen.
Martin finished his coffee. Esperanza jumped up from her chair. “Mas café?”
“No,” Martin said. “Do you wish to talk here or outside?” he asked Esperanza.
“We will talk here. Lazaro, go outside and tell Lucinda to wait until I come out.”
Lazaro, without a word, shot out of his chair and fled the room. The back door cracked like a rifle shot when it slammed closed, and Esperanza’s body seemed to jump as she stood there.
“Sit down,” Martin said.
Esperanza sat down again and folded her hands in her lap. She was wearing a thin cotton dress dyed a light brown. She wore a small crucifix on a chain around her neck. Her hair was bunned in the back, with not a stray hair poking from its raven mass. Her dark eyes glittered like obsidian beads in the glow of the lamplight.
“What is it you wish to talk about?” she asked.
Martin squirmed in his chair, avoiding her piercing gaze while he composed himself. He stopped tapping his fingers on the table and then didn’t know what to do with his hands. He sighed and drew in a deep breath, held it for a moment before he spoke.
“I reckon there’s no way to pussyfoot around it,” he said in English. Esperanza’s eyebrows arched as if she didn’t understand. “Might as well just come out with it. Anson said that you might tell me about Lazaro and my wife.”
“Did he says that?” she asked in broken English.
“Yes,” Martin said tightly.
“Well, I do not know what it is he wanted me to tell you.”
“I think Anson believes that Lazaro did not give my wife the infection, the disease, that killed her.”
“That is true.”
“But did you not tell me that my wife took Lazaro to her bed at night?”
“Only to comfort him. And he gave her comfort, too.”
“I do not understand.”
“Patrón, your wife was given the disease before Lazaro was even born.”
“What? How?”
“I do not know if you will believe me or not.”
“Tell me. I will judge the truth of what you say.”
“Then you must listen with care. What I tell you now is the truth. The señora did not want me to tell you this while she was alive. She knew it would make you angry. She knew that you would want revenge.”
“I will not be angry. Tell me.”
“It will do you no good to be angry now. The thing that happened to her was a long time ago.”
“Are you going to tell me?” he asked.
“Be patient. It is difficult to tell, but it is the truth.”
“Tell it. I am listening.”
“One day, Señora Caroline and I were alone here in the house. Lucinda was in town buying the groceries. Augustino Aguilar rode up and gave the knock on the door. I let him inside the house as I was told to do. The señora was upstairs. She was not yet dressed. Augustino called up to her and she told him to wait, that she would soon come down.�
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Martin felt a cold chill down the back of his neck, but he felt warmth as his blood turned hot and rushed to his throat and face. “Go on,” he said, with a tightness in his voice, as if the words were hammered out of iron slabs.
“I asked Augustino if he wanted a cup and he said that he would take one. I went to get the whiskey and when I returned to the front room he was gone. I heard his boots striking the stairs as he ran up them. I stood there with the copa in my hand and I heard the door slam shut. I did not know what to do. I truly did not know what to do.”
“Then what happened?” Martin asked.
Esperanza sighed deeply and went on with her account. “I heard footsteps. I heard voices. The voices became loud. I heard Augustino’s voice. It was very loud. Then I heard a sound that was like a blow from a fist. I heard the sounds of hands slapping.”
Martin stiffened as Esperanza paused to catch her breath and search her memory. He waited until she had composed herself, then nodded for her to continue.
“I heard the señora scream. I dropped the glass of whiskey. I listened some more. I listened very hard.”
“And?” Martin interjected.
“It was quiet for a few little moments and then I heard the grunting from Augustino and I heard the señora weeping with loudness, with great fright.”
“What did you do?”
“I lost all reason,” Esperanza said. “I ran up the stairs and I went to the señora’s room. The door was closed, but I pushed it open. I went inside and saw a most terrible thing, a most shameful thing.”
“What did you see?” Martin asked, his voice full of a dry husk as if his throat was lined with parched gravel. “Speak English.”
“The señora was on her bed, lying on her back and Augustino was mounting her. His trousers were wadded up at his ankles and he was between her legs. His body was rising up and down and I could see his stiff mast going in and out of the vagina of Caroline.”
“What was she doing?” Martin’s voice was so faint he could barely hear himself ask the question, and the question tore at his heart like the sudden jab of a locust thorn.
“She was fighting him. She was beating his shoulders with her fists and her face was wet with tears and her sobs sounded like the cries of a wounded animal.”
