Cipriano squatted beside the bag and brushed away the dirt and debris. He leaned closer and blew hard at what remained. Along the top edge a name was burnt deep into the canvas.
“Madewell Brown,” he said in a whisper. “Madewell Brown. What kind of a name is that?” He reached out and grabbed hold of the pitted handles. When he stood, he could feel the weight of what was inside it.
“Venga, Madewell,” he said. “I think you’ve been out here long enough. Let’s go inside my father’s house and see what it is he’s left me.”
The latch on the kitchen window in Rufino’s house had worked loose and the window was now wide open. But even with a draft, the house still stank of the old man and his clothes and the stained bed sheets and the filthy dishes piled up in the sink.
Cipriano stepped into the room and glanced over at the foot of the bed. It had been just three days since he’d found Rufino lying dead on the floor of the kitchen. The old man must have struggled some for his arms were outstretched, his legs twisted in the blanket. His neck was bent at an awkward angle and he was naked, as if his death had made him too hot. A swath of linoleum was still stained dark from the blood that had run from Rufino’s nose.
Cipriano crossed the room and tossed the bag on the table. He worked the rusted tongues of metal loose from the straps and then swung back the canvas flap, letting loose a mist of dust and the stale scent of urine.
Lying just inside was a layer of tin cans. The labels had peeled away and some had swelled close to splitting. A few were flat and oblong with a key soldered to the bottom. The others reminded Cipriano of the little cans of meat his father sometimes ate. He took them all out of the bag and stacked them on the table.
Beneath the cans were bunches of clothing that had been wadded up and stuffed in. Rufino had told Cipriano that Nemecio had gone through the black man’s bag and taken what he wanted. It made sense that the mess inside had been done by a small boy looking for things of value. Cipriano pulled out some flannel shirts damp with mold, and two pairs of trousers that would fit a man much taller than himself. He found socks knotted together and underwear and a gray cap with the insignia SCG stitched above the bill. There was a bag of what had once been flour and a pair of cleated shoes, clay dirt still caked at the base of each steel nub. Beneath all that, cushioned on a folded blanket at the bottom, was a photograph.
It was framed and covered with a piece of clouded glass. Cipriano turned it over and pried loose the cardboard backing. It came away with the photograph stuck to it. He flipped it back around and found himself staring at two rows of black men dressed in baseball uniforms. The ones in front were squatted down with their elbows resting on their knees. The ones behind them stood with their arms folded across their chests. Lying on the dirt in the foreground was a ring of baseball gloves, rimmed on each side by a wooden bat. In the distance, the land rose barren and ended with a shadow of trees.
Across the front of each man’s uniform were the words “South Cairo Grays,” and each wore a cap like the one Cipriano had found in the bag. He moved his eyes from one face to another. One of you is Madewell Brown, he thought. But there wasn’t anything to indicate who was who. Just fourteen men dressed alike in a place that could have been anywhere.
Cipriano propped the picture against the stack of tin cans. “How did you get here?” he said aloud, looking at them. “How did you ever end up in my father’s house?” Even turned away from the room, Cipriano could see the unmade bed and the stain at the foot of it. He could see the dirt-streaked walls and the flaking paint and the cracked linoleum. He picked up the photograph again and placed it so that it faced the open window.
“There,” he said. “Those are cottonwood trees over by the ditch. And above them you can see the mountains.”
The only thing that remained in the bag was the thin blanket folded along the length of the bottom. Cipriano left it where it was and pulled out a chair and sat down. The afternoon was nearly gone. In a couple of hours, he would have to be at the church for Rufino’s rosary, sitting with his Tia Lupita and anyone else who might want to say goodbye to an old man no one had much cared for.
What was it with Rufino, anyway? Cipriano wondered. And then, carried in by the breeze, he caught the faint odor of sage.
When Cipriano was seven years old, he had asked Rufino why he always had sprigs of sagebrush burning on top of his stove. At first his father hadn’t answered. But when Cipriano asked again, Rufino told him that the smoke from sage could fix things that were bad. His grandmother had told him this, and he was smart enough not to have forgotten.
“What kind of things does it fix?” Cipriano asked. He had spent the last hour with his father, and now Rufino was making burritos with chile and canned meat.
“Everything,” Rufino said, waving an arm. He rolled up a tortilla and gave it to his son. Then he pulled out a chair and sat down.
“Maybe to you,” Rufino went on, “sagebrush doesn’t smell like much. But to me it smells like the ground after a good rain. Besides, it keeps away my troubles.”
“What kind of troubles?” Cipriano asked. He wondered what could trouble someone who lived all alone. He took a bite out of his burrito and his mouth flooded with sweet juice and salt.
For a few seconds, Rufino just stared at his son, his jaws moving. Finally he slid his eyes away and looked out the open door. “The kind of trouble you don’t want around,” he said. “What other kind of trouble is there? Now, be quiet. Eat your food and stop asking questions. Your Tia Lupita will be here soon.”
“It didn’t keep everything away, did it, Rufino?” Cipriano said in the empty house. He glanced at the things on the table, all of it just more junk he’d have to throw away. He wondered why Rufino had gone to the trouble to tell him about the day he’d met the black man out on the mesa. Or even why it had bothered the old man. As far as anyone knew, Madewell Brown had limped back to the highway and gone on with his life. And if that was so, Rufino was troubled only by a story of two boys who’d gotten a good scare and then made off with something they should have left behind. And now, fifty years later, all it amounted to was a pile of old clothes, tins of rotted meat and a photograph of a baseball team that no one remembered.
Cipriano stood up slowly and stretched out his back. The last thing he wanted to do, he thought, was go to the church. He slid the bag closer, reached in and pulled out the blanket. As he tossed it off to the side, an envelope fell out from the folds and landed face up on the floor. He squatted down and picked it up.
The handwriting was in pencil, a little blurred, but still legible. It was addressed to an Obie Poole, General Delivery, South Cairo, Illinois. A three-cent stamp was in the upper right-hand corner, and there was no return address. When Cipriano held it up to the light, he could see a thin sheet of paper folded inside.
For a brief second, he considered sliding his finger beneath the sealed flap and opening it. But he grunted softly, lowered his hand and held it tight against his leg.
“All right,” he said, “maybe my father owes you this.” He shoved the letter in his back pocket and, leaving everything as it was, left the house. As he climbed into the pickup, Cipriano saw the photograph propped up just inside the open window. Fourteen black men all looked back out at him.
Before the rosary for Rufino was half over, Cipriano wanted to leave. He had no idea why so many people had come, but with the church so crowded, the air was hot and thick. It stank of sweet perfume and stale sweat and the odor of manure that was washing in through the wide-open doors from the field next door. On top of that, the sound of rustling and coughing and the little moans the viejos made when they knelt was a constant reminder that none of these people had had much to do with Rufino. Cipriano felt as though he, too, were at a rosary for someone he didn’t know.
He was sitting in the front of the church between Genoveva and his Tia Lupita. Genoveva’s hand was resting on his thigh, and she sat quietly, her face lowered. On the other side of him, Lupita was
praying silently along with the priest. A rosary was clasped in one hand and Cipriano could hear the sound it made as she moved from bead to bead. At the foot of the altar, a few yards from the three of them, lay Rufino.
The old man was stretched out in the wooden coffin that Cipriano and Tranquilino had made two nights before. His face was haggard and unshaven, and a dark bruise was pooled on one side of his forehead. His eyes were closed, his mouth shut tight. Both hands were folded across his chest, and someone had taken the time to wash them clean. Cipriano shook his head. Genoveva’s hand tightened on his leg, and he knew she was looking at him. He realized that once the priest was done, he would have to sit here while everyone gave their condolences to the family and took one last look at the old man. He thought that, like him, the last place Rufino would have wished to be was in this church.
“I’m sorry for your loss, hijo,” Esperanza Garcia whispered to Cipriano. Her hand was in his and it felt as light and dry as dust. She had been an old woman for as long as Cipriano could remember. Her skin was tight against the fine bones in her face, and her gray hair was thinned out. She was wearing a black dress that fell below her knees, her stockings loose and shapeless around her ankles. She leaned a little closer to Cipriano.
“Did you know,” she went on, “that when your father was a boy, he would walk by my house to go to school?”
“No,” Cipriano said. “I didn’t know that.” By now the church was nearly empty. Outside, the sun hung just above the foothills. The stench and heat that had been inside the building were gone. From a distance came the hollow bawling of a cow. Next to Cipriano, Genoveva was talking quietly with Esperanza’s son Ruben. And last of all, off by himself, was Nemecio Archuleta. He was standing with his head bowed, his hands folded in front of him.
“Oh, sí,” Esperanza said, nodding. “He was a sweet little boy. I used to feel so sorry for him walking all alone.”
Cipriano looked down at his hands, wondering how long this would go on. The last person he would have thought of as being sweet was Rufino. The old woman’s face was so close to his that Cipriano could taste her breath. Her skin was webbed with fine lines, the veins beneath them blue and thin.
“Pobrecito Rufino,” Esperanza said. “But let me tell you something, hijo. I never believed he did what they said. This village can be cruel sometimes.”
Cipriano glanced up. “What did they say about him?” he asked. But before Esperanza could answer, Lupita leaned across him and took Esperanza’s hand. She pulled at the old woman gently.
“Esperanza,” Lupita said, smiling. “It’s so good to see you, Esperanza. Come talk to me a little.”
“Oh, Lupita,” Esperanza said, “it’s been so long. I’m so sorry about Rufino. Venga, Ruben. Help me to Lupita.” With a nod, Ruben, himself an old man, took his mother’s arm and the two of them moved past. Cipriano leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and looked over at Genoveva. She was staring back at him, a slight smile on her face. Behind her, Nemecio had inched a little closer to the altar. His hands were still clasped together, and he was craning his neck, peering into the coffin.
“Cipriano,” Genoveva said, reaching for his hand. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’m fine.”
But he didn’t look fine to her. From the moment he’d walked into the church, she’d seen how tired he was. His face was drawn and the creases alongside his eyes seemed to be etched deeper into the skin. When she’d asked him what was wrong, he’d only shaken his head and said the same thing he’d said now. She closed her eyes for a second and breathed quietly. “He was your father, Cipriano,” she said softly. “How could this not be hard?”
Cipriano grunted and pushed back against the bench. “Is that what you think?” he said. “That he was my father?”
Genoveva had never liked Rufino. The few times she had gone with Cipriano to his father’s house, the old man had done his best to ignore her. He had spoken only to his son and taken care never to be left alone with her. So she had sat at the kitchen table or beneath the portal quietly, wondering what part of this bitter old man was buried inside Cipriano, hoping she would never see what it was.
“You knew Rufino,” Cipriano went on, his voice harsh. “He was never much of a father.”
“No,” Genoveva said, sharply and let go of his hand. “You’re right.” She had stopped smiling and was staring straight ahead at the coffin. “But at least he left you alone. He could have done worse.”
“Oh, sí,” Cipriano said. “Rufino was good at that. He was good at leaving everyone alone.”
As the church began to fill with shadows, the priest called out from the back that it was getting late and that soon they should leave. Lupita stood with a deep sigh. She bent over and brushed Cipriano’s hair with her hand. “I’ll see you at the house, hijo,” she said. “Don’t be too long.” And then, along with Esperanza and her son, she began to make her way down the aisle.
“Lupita’s right,” Genoveva said. “We should go.” Suddenly she wanted to be out of this place, away from this dead old man and outside where she could breathe. “People will be coming by,” she said, standing up. “I told Lupita I would help her with the food.”
Cipriano looked past her, at Nemecio. “You go ahead,” he said. “I’ll come soon. I want to talk to Nemecio.”
Even though Guadalupe was a small village, there were still those Genoveva barely knew. Nemecio Archuleta was one of them. She had seen him walking the highway with his plastic bag full of cans or standing stoop-shouldered outside Tito’s bar late in the afternoon. She had seen him in these places and then, just as quickly, forgotten him. He was like an old abandoned adobe. A thing that was always there, but not one you ever wished to speak to. She had no idea why Cipriano wanted to stay and talk to this man.
“And then you’ll come?” she asked.
“Yes,” Cipriano said to her. “I won’t be long.” He listened to Genoveva’s footsteps as she walked to the rear of the church. He waited until she said good-bye to the priest. Then he spoke to the old man standing beside his father’s coffin.
“Cómo está, Nemecio?” he said. “I’m glad you came by.”
Nemecio pulled his head back as if startled. Then he dropped his hands and stepped back from the coffin. “I’m doing the same,” he said. “I’m doing okay.” He was a small man dressed in clothes that were a little too big for him. His hair was white and long over his ears. His face was dark and weathered from sun and wind.
“I came to say good-bye to Rufino,” he went on. “We were friends when we were boys.”
“I know,” Cipriano said. “Rufino told me.”
Nemecio edged closer to the altar and ran his hand along the top edge of the casket. “That was a long time ago,” he said, more to himself than to Cipriano. “I’m sorry he’s dead. I thought about him sometimes.”
“Yeah,” Cipriano said. “I thought about him sometimes, too.” He stood up and walked to the altar. The stench of whiskey and sweat came from Nemecio’s clothes. His eyes were blossomed with blood spots, the skin beneath them dark and swollen. The hand he had on the rim of the coffin was shaking slightly.
“Even though he was my father,” Cipriano said, “I didn’t know Rufino so good.”
“Rufino wasn’t an easy man,” Nemecio said, shrugging. “There’s nothing you could do about that.” He patted the side of the coffin gently. “Well,” he said, “I just wanted to come by. I better go. Give Lupita my best. Tell her I’m sorry.”
“I’ll do that.” As the old man turned to leave, Cipriano said, “Hey, Nemecio. Let me ask you something.”
The old man looked back. “Qué, Cipriano?”
“The day Rufino died,” Cipriano said, “he told me a story.”
“Is that right?” Nemecio said, a little smile on his face. “I don’t remember Rufino telling too many stories.”
“I don’t, either,” Cipriano said. “But in this story, the story he told me, the two of you are
boys and you’re out hunting rabbits on Perdido mesa.”
Nemecio kept smiling and began to shake his head. “Perdido mesa,” he said slowly. “No, Cipriano, I don’t think so. I think he got something wrong.” He glanced at the rear of the church. “I got to go,” he said, but he didn’t move from where he was.
“Rufino told me that the two of you ran across a black man. Do you remember? He was hurt. He had a canvas bag with him.”
Nemecio was standing motionless now and staring down at the floor. Even the shaking of his hand had stopped. “Why are you doing this, Cipriano?” he asked softly. “I came to say good-bye to your father. I didn’t come to hear this.”
“I thought you could help me,” Cipriano said. “I can’t figure out why Rufino told me this story. Besides, I don’t care what you took from him.”
The old man jerked his head back like he’d been slapped. “I didn’t take nothing,” he said harshly. “I never took nothing from nobody.”
Nemecio’s trembling started up again, so bad that a nerve beside one eye began to throb. From above came the sounds of the vigas shifting ever so slightly.
“That’s not what Rufino told me,” Cipriano said, his voice low.
For a second, Nemecio didn’t say a word. Then his shoulders sagged and he shook his head. “I got to go, Cipriano,” he said.
As the old man walked away, Cipriano caught sight of the priest. He was just inside the church doors, his arms crossed. “Is there anything wrong, Cipriano?” the priest asked.
Madewell Brown Page 6
