by Come Sunrise
Rosa was moaning softly, and tears were running down her cheeks, but she only shook her head again. He moved to where she lay and stood above her, fists clenched at his sides. "You tell me his name, or I'll make you sorry you were born."
Again Rosa shook her head.
He squatted beside her and grabbed a handful of the thick black hair. "Why, for Chrissake? You've got everything you want, more money than you can spend.... Why?"
She tried to speak, but her mouth was parched with fear. Finally she managed to say, "You don't come so often anymore."
Tommy stared at her, incredulous. "And you can't do without it? Is that it? If you don't get laid enough, you can't stand it? Jesus!" He was trembling with rage, and the fear in her eyes made it worse. He'd treated Rosa better than any man she'd ever known in her life. And this was his reward. "Ok," he said softly. "I understand now. I'll just have to give you something you won't forget, something to let you know how things really are."
He was still holding her by the hair, and he used the grip to swing her over on her belly. Then he thrust himself into her body between her buttocks.
Rosa screamed with pain and rage. "You animal! You lousy cripple! He treat me like I somebody! Like a human being . . ."
When he withdrew his organ it was covered with blood. He used the water in the pitcher beside the bed to wash himself, then carried it to where she lay sobbing. Unceremoniously he dumped the contents of the pitcher over her quivering rump and knelt beside her to towel dry her flesh and inspect the damage. "You'll be ok," he said finally. "It's just a little torn. Put some salve on it."
He went into the outer room and got dressed. When he returned she was in bed with the covers drawn up to her chin. "If I ever hear of that redskin coming here again, I'll have you both strung up," he told her. Then he took two hundred-dollars bills from his wallet, put them on the washstand, and left.
Tommy didn't return to Rosa's for nearly a month. When he did she was docile and subdued, and he figured the incident was over and forgotten.
By December 1921 Tommy Westerman met with deference when he went to town. He heard the same greeting from the black shoeshine boy working the lobby of the swank new Hotel La Fonda or the manager of the First National Bank, "Good morning, Mr. Westerman. Anything I can do for you, sir?" Tommy enjoyed it, but he was smart enough to be cynical. He remembered when everyone was watching him, expecting him to fail.
Tommy was thinking of that when he looked up and spotted John Hughes, the bank president, through the coffee shop window. He was crossing to the east side of the plaza where his Greek-columned temple of finance stood, a symbol of one kind of power in Santa Fe. Tommy waved. Hughes waved back. They were buddies now.
Tommy stirred his cold coffee and stared at it unseeing. A stamped addressed envelope lay on the counter next to his hand. Tommy didn't touch it. The letter was an omen of sorts, but he couldn't make up his mind if it boded well or ill.
The waitress approached and broke his reverie. "I'll just hot that up for you, Mr. Westerman." She smiled while she poured fresh coffee.
"Thanks, Lucy."
"Don't mention it. Awful mild for Christmas Eve, don't you think?"
"I do indeed."
"Must be even warmer down on your ranch. I guess you'll be goin' home today, loaded with presents for your pretty wife and the kiddies." She sighed wistfully, seduced by her vision of the good life-married and rich. She was single and poor.
Tommy removed a five dollar bill from his wallet. "Sorry there's no card, Lucy. This is just a token for the season, and all the good coffee you serve me."
She thanked him effusively and moved away. Tommy still didn't drink his coffee or touch the letter. He did have presents for the children, just as Lucy surmised, but it was a long time since he'd bought anything for Amy. He remembered the bugle-bead purse he'd given her their first Christmas together. That was before they were married, while she was living with Lil and Warren. She'd given him a cashmere scarf. He had it still, though he hadn't worn it in years. His fingers crept tentatively toward the letter.
What would it prove? If Luke came and they were all three together in the house that Tommy had created, in the world where he was master, would it change anything? Perhaps. He would see Luke and Amy together, and he would know for himself if what he believed was true, or the lie Amy always claimed it to be. Luke was a different man now, a priest, but that would make no difference to him or to Amy.
He picked up the envelope abruptly, left the coffee shop, and made his way through the hotel lobby, stopping at the newsstand for a paper. The masthead of The Santa Fe New Mexican announced that it was the region's oldest daily. Next to it Tommy spotted a copy of El Neuvo Mexicano, the Spanish weekly. They were both published by the same company. That was the way it was in Santa Fe.
"Shine, Mr. Westerman?"
"Not just now, Jason. Thanks anyway, and merry Christmas." Tommy dispensed another five dollar bill. By the time he'd collected his packages at the desk he'd divested himself of twenty dollars in Christmas tips. The one to the bellboy who carried the presents to the Packard made it twenty-five.
Tommy stood hesitantly beside the car. He was conscious of the letter still in his pocket. For a few moments he didn't move. Finally he turned and hurried in the direction of the post office. He didn't slow down until after he'd mailed it; then he had to lean against the building and catch his breath. He had the sensation of having started a process with a doubtful outcome. It wasn't just Luke. Other truths would need to be explained if his brother came.
"Shit!" he cursed quietly. He didn't know what or who he was swearing at. Himself maybe. He pushed back into the crowd of last-minute shoppers. Once he stopped to examine a display of expensive perfume and the idea of a gift for Amy teased him. Then he saw in the glass the reflection of Rick Ibanez. Tommy turned. Rick was across the road, striding rapidly and exchanging greetings with people he passed. Ibanez either didn't see him, or didn't acknowledge him. Tommy watched until he was out of sight.
There was a sour taste in his mouth, and all thought of a present for Amy was gone. Nor did he want to go home just yet. He'd be there in the morning when the children woke. That was the only part of Christmas that mattered to him. This year Tom Junior was three and Kate was four. They'd really appreciate the tree and all the toys. He intended to be with them for that, but there was plenty of time.
Suddenly he wanted to be away from the tinsel and the hearty bonhomie of the season. He headed for a small private club where he knew he'd find a card game. Santa Fe had always been a gambling town; it still was.
The club was in a dark basement devoid of any concessions to the December madness. One table of players was full, but at another the day's big loser was happy to give Westerman his seat.
"Five card stud," a grizzled man said. "Jacks or better to open, no limit on bets."
"I'm only in for a couple of hours," Tommy said. "Win or lose I quit by four. Have to get home and spend Christmas with my kids." The other ranchers nodded agreement.
He played insanely, without caution. and he won big. "Money goes to money," one of the losers said.
Tommy scooped the pile of bills into his pockets and rose to leave. "Yeah, ain't it the truth."
He climbed the stairs into cool dusk and breathed deeply to clear away the smoke and the taste of illegal tequila smuggled over the border. Money goes to money was probably true, but only after you had your first stake. The memory of how he'd acquired his wouldn't leave him. It was there like a dull ache in the back of his head, made worse by the memory of the letter he'd mailed. "I need a couple of aspirin," he muttered. Then he realized what he really craved.
He thought of driving out to see Rosa. She was convenient and on the way home, but she wasn't what he wanted now. He got his car and drove to Dona Zia's.
"Merry Christmas, Don Tommy." The woman greeted his warmly, as befit an infrequent, but respected customer.
Tommy hated being addressed by the Spanish
title, but he let it pass. "Is Claudia free?" he asked.
Dona Zia laughed. "She is not free, but for you she is available."
Tommy grinned and took out his wallet. At Dona Zia's everyone, without exception, paid before they went upstairs. He handed over twenty dollars, then put another twenty on top of it. "A little present for you."
"Thank you, Don Tommy. You are very generous. Wait a moment. I will send someone to tell her you are coming."
After a few minutes she nodded to him. He climbed the stairs and walked past many doors to the one numbered six. Ordinarily muffled grunts and groans of pleasure escaped the confinement of the bedrooms and seeped into the narrow corridor. Today the hall was quiet; neither had he seen anyone in the downstairs salon. The piano was silent and the bar empty. On Christmas Eve the ladies of joy were left alone, while their clients sampled the delights of family life.
Westerman pushed open the door. Claudia was waiting for him. She was the only girl in the house not of Mexican ancestry. Her accent was pure East-Coast. Tommy didn't know if it was real or a careful affectation and he didn't care. She was small and had long black hair and dark eyes and an expression of perpetual innocence. She was, in fact, very like the Amy he'd known in Cross River. He'd spotted the resemblance the first time he'd gone to Dona Zia's; now it was only for Claudia that he returned.
"Merry Christmas, Tommy," she said in her soft girlish voice. "I'm wearing the outfit you like."
"You're a good girl, memsahib," he said.
Claudia didn't know why he called her that, or what it meant. She didn't let it trouble her, anymore than she was troubled by his insistence that when he came to her she wear the pale blue negligee and nightgown which he'd bought for her. Some of the men who visited her had far crazier ideas. She waited while he undressed, then poured them each a glass of chilled champagne. That was part of the ritual too.
Finally he touched her, and his touch was pleasant. He fondled and petted her as if they were teenagers on a back porch swing. Obligingly Claudia giggled and sighed. After a few minutes she let her fingers flutter between his legs and she felt that he was rock hard and ready. She kissed him once more, her lips primly closed the way he wanted them, and got up and removed the things she wore. Then she crawled under the covers, pulling the blanket up to her neck, and waited.
Tommy lay down beside her and trailed his hands over her skin. It was nice and soft. It didn't have quite the incredible silkiness he remembered, but that couldn't be helped. When he rolled on top of her she sighed softly. Tommy fumbled for a moment, then pushed himself inside her. She didn't help, because he'd told her never to do that.
He had learned control over the years. That part wasn't like the night in the hotel in Niagara Falls. Now he used his skill to tempt her into betrayal. His thrusts were slow and ever deeper. She was small and tight, and shudders of pleasure passed through his body. Claudia did not respond. She lay absolutely motionless and compliant beneath him, the way he hoped it would be. When he grasped her shoulders and pumped his seed into her in rapid staccato bursts, she still didn't move. '''You're a good girl, memsahib," he whispered after it was over.
He gave Claudia fifty dollars out of the poker winnings and wished her a merry Christmas before he left.
Outside it was dark except that small fires burned everywhere and turned the night into a glittering fantasy. It was a Santa Fe tradition. On Christmas Eve people made little pyramids of brushwood in front of their houses to "light the way of the Christ Child."
The fragrant scent of pinon filled the air, and sputtering flames reached toward the vast star-filled sky. Tommy walked toward his car. He passed an open church door and saw an altar banked with poinsettias and a manger scene arranged nearby. For a moment he stood looking. Behind the altar a light burned steadily beside the tabernacle. It appeared to him as something he was seeing across a wide chasm in the earth, an abyss he could not cross. He remembered all the midnight masses of years gone by, and he thought of the opulence of St. Ignatius, and of the simple little church in Cross River where the names of Jessie and Roland Norman were carved on the wall. Then he turned and walked away.
25
IN MARCH 1922 THE DROUGHT ABATED. THE RAIN WAS not as heavy as they needed, or of sufficient duration, but it was something. Rick arrived at the ranch at eight in the morning of what promised to be the first dry day in a week.
"What are you doing here at this hour?" Amy asked him in astonishment. "You must have left Santa Fe before sunrise. What about your patients?"
"I left at five," he told her. "I couldn't sleep. I put a sign on the door saying I was taking the day off. I'm entitled to a holiday."
She grinned. "I'm glad you're here. What shall we do?"
"Go back to Chaco Canyon," he said unhesitatingly. "Five years ago we promised ourselves a return trip. It's time we took it. Just the two of us." He looked at her, trying to gauge her reaction. Sometimes Amy went out of her way to avoid being alone with him. This time Rick had reached a decision during a long sleepless night. He had no intention of bringing the children on this outing.
Amy made no protest. She wore a maroon silk dressing gown tied tightly at the waist. When she moved it betrayed enticing glimpses of skin. "Give me ten minutes to dress," she said.
"I wish you'd undress instead," Rick answered softly.
Amy acted as if she hadn't heard. "I won't be long," she said. "Go say hello to the kids. They're in the kitchen with Maria."
She returned, wearing a denim skirt and chambray blouse which made her look like a fetching feminine cowboy. Rick was on the patio with Kate and little Tom. They were laughing together under the scented shade of the gum tree. It had bloomed in the rain three days earlier. Just that morning Amy watched the sunrise set its flowers afire. Now a young maid was sweeping away the fallen blossoms.
"It lasts such a short time," Amy said wistfully. "When the war ended I wrote to my father's old lawyer in Africa. I wanted some seeds of a flame tree. He never answered."
"Too bad, pobrecita," Rick said gently. "Perhaps the old lawyer has also died. It happens to people as well as flowers." He scooped up a handful of the faded petals that littered the patio and let them sift through his fingers. Tom Junior giggled and tried to catch them in his pudgy three-year-old hands.
The morning was cool, freshened by rain and bright with promise. They were easy with each other, and had no need to talk. The familiar scenery rolled by the open top of Rick's new car. It was another Pierce-Arrow. This one was called a runabout and had room for only two passengers.
They used Amy's flivver when the children were with them. The Runabout, however, had all the latest features. It boasted hydraulic brakes, and a convertible roof that could be folded away as it was now. Its lines were rakish, symbolic of the times, and they were emphasized by the spare wheel set jauntily atop the rear fender. The car was painted sunny yellow. "It's your best color," Rick had said when he bought it. Today Amy wore a yellow blouse. It was astonishing how much pleasure she took in finding little ways to please him.
At Pueblo Bonito a few men were working on part of the wall. Restoration had been slow since the war, but steady. "I'm so glad they're doing something," Amy said. "I'd almost forgotten how magnificent it is."
They wandered deep into the valley, far from the laborers. The silence was broken only by the occasional call of a bird, or the soft papery sound of a scurrying lizard. Amy sensed a change in Rick's mood. Earlier he'd been relaxed. Now his quiet was laced with tension. She darted a sideways glance at his profile. His rugged good looks hadn't changed in the years she'd known him. But today his jaw was so set that he looked as if he were clenching his teeth. "If something's wrong, you'd better tell me," she said finally. There was a knot of fear in her stomach.
Rick stopped walking. "It's the end, Amy," he said quietly. "Or the beginning. That's up to you. I only know I can't go on like this."
She couldn't answer. Her cheeks grew hot with more than the heat of the sun.
>
"I love you," he continued. "I never thought it possible I could love a woman so much. But I won't be used. Not even by you."
"I never meant to use you. Surely you know that."
"I know that you take, but you don't give," he said. His voice sounded strangled. "You've never even told me what you feel. What am I? A convenient escort? A salve for your pride?"
"Oh, God ..." She moaned as if he'd struck her. "You don't know me. You only think you do. You don't know what I've done."
"Then tell me!" He turned and gripped her shoulders. He was shaking her and her straw hat fell off and her short dark hair bounced around her face. "Tell me, damn it! What terrible secret are you hiding? Why do you insist on staying with a man who treats you like dirt?"
"I can't talk about it." She forced the words out through chattering teeth.
Always before he had drawn back when he saw how he was upsetting her. This time he wouldn't. "No! You've used that excuse for the last time. Either you tell me everything, the whole story, or I walk away now."
