that at once fascinated and terrorized Cayetana. She used her own open mouth for an ashtray, smoke rising from her nostrils as if she were some strange beast in a fireside storyteller’s cuento, before she opened her mouth and tapped the hot ash from her cigarette onto her tongue. It hissed.
“Tía,” Cayetana said, taking in a deep breath and holding her back straight. “I have been called across the ranch to work.”
“Work? Now?”
Tía sucked in some smoke, then studied the end of her cigarette: apparently, there wasn’t yet enough delicious ash for her.
“Yes. There is a . . . a pregnant cow, you see. I have to go help.”
Tía administered her ashes:
Ssss!
“Liar,” she said.
“No, it’s true!”
“When will you be back?”
“By morning, I swear it.”
“Give me the girl.”
Tía took the bundle from Cayetana and accidentally dropped her cigarette. It was only an old hand-rolled, and it was only a stub, but the paper broke and the tobacco scattered at their feet.
“Goddamn it!” Tía shouted. “The baby knocked it out of my hand!”
“Sorry.”
“Look what you did, pendeja!”
“Sorry, sorry.”
“You’re not working. You’re going whoring.”
“I —”
“Who are you going to see now? Another Yori?”
Cayetana backed away one step.
“I —” she said.
“Lárgate,” her sister snapped, which was as rudely as the People could say
go away.
“I will,” Cayetana said.
On her way, she stopped and picked up her bundle of things she had hidden beyond the pigsty. She would be afraid on the road, but she had been on the road before. She blessed Huila, and she appealed to the spirits to watch over her as she walked. She said a prayer for her child. When she got to the fence, she followed it to the big gate and slipped out onto the road to Ocoroni.
She walked fast. She never looked back. All she could think of were cherries. El Patudo’s head. The dead. She was going to walk until she could think of nothing at all.
Seven
THE CHILDREN OF THE RANCHO were up before Huila, sitting in the cool dirt of their doorways, playing with marbles if they had them, small stones if they did not, chewing the crusty rind of an old tortilla, holding cunning little dolls twisted together from maize husks, unaware of God or the spirits; or they were killing doves with stones and slings and bringing the slaughtered birds to their mothers, who would pluck them and cook them. The doves’ breasts on the greasy plates looked like the noses of Indians cut off by marauding Rurales. The Urrea children and Doña Loreto were the last to rise.
It was a good, bright day—the breeze carried high peach clouds with blue bellies, and the smell of salt drifted to the People all the way from the invisible sea. Huila had seen wraiths crossing the far hills, lines of the dead walking home. Others might have seen the passing shade of clouds on the hills, but Huila was not fooled. Those shadows were dead Comanches and dead gringos and a few Mexicans leading their sad ghost horses. Some of those poor bastards were going to find the road that led to Hell. Oh, well—you should have been better children to your Father, and better fathers to your children. Cabrones! Ay Dios! Huila had quartered an orange and left it under her special tree. It never hurt, for example, to leave the Maker a snack. And not some rotten onion you were throwing out, either! It didn’t bother her that the coyote gobbled them as soon as she’d finished her prayers and walked away. Who was she to say that God did not use the coyote’s teeth to chew His gifts?
She rocked along like the pendulum of the main-house clock, her bad hip singing inside her. Her rebozo was pulled about her head, her great black hair spiked with lightning bolts of white was twirled in a tight bun—no man ever saw her hair hanging free. Huila knew, even at this old age, even skinny as she was, with her belly pooched loose and empty above her rocky hips, that if any
“Tía,” Cayetana said, taking in a deep breath and holding her back straight. “I have been called across the ranch to work.”
“Work? Now?”
Tía sucked in some smoke, then studied the end of her cigarette: apparently, there wasn’t yet enough delicious ash for her.
“Yes. There is a . . . a pregnant cow, you see. I have to go help.”
Tía administered her ashes:
Ssss!
“Liar,” she said.
“No, it’s true!”
“When will you be back?”
“By morning, I swear it.”
“Give me the girl.”
Tía took the bundle from Cayetana and accidentally dropped her cigarette. It was only an old hand-rolled, and it was only a stub, but the paper broke and the tobacco scattered at their feet.
“Goddamn it!” Tía shouted. “The baby knocked it out of my hand!”
“Sorry.”
“Look what you did, pendeja!”
“Sorry, sorry.”
“You’re not working. You’re going whoring.”
“I —”
“Who are you going to see now? Another Yori?”
Cayetana backed away one step.
“I —” she said.
“Lárgate,” her sister snapped, which was as rudely as the People could say
go away.
“I will,” Cayetana said.
On her way, she stopped and picked up her bundle of things she had hidden beyond the pigsty. She would be afraid on the road, but she had been on the road before. She blessed Huila, and she appealed to the spirits to watch over her as she walked. She said a prayer for her child. When she got to the fence, she followed it to the big gate and slipped out onto the road to Ocoroni.
She walked fast. She never looked back. All she could think of were cherries. El Patudo’s head. The dead. She was going to walk until she could think of nothing at all.
Seven
THE CHILDREN OF THE RANCHO were up before Huila, sitting in the cool dirt of their doorways, playing with marbles if they had them, small stones if they did not, chewing the crusty rind of an old tortilla, holding cunning little dolls twisted together from maize husks, unaware of God or the spirits; or they were killing doves with stones and slings and bringing the slaughtered birds to their mothers, who would pluck them and cook them. The doves’ breasts on the greasy plates looked like the noses of Indians cut off by marauding Rurales. The Urrea children and Doña Loreto were the last to rise.
It was a good, bright day—the breeze carried high peach clouds with blue bellies, and the smell of salt drifted to the People all the way from the invisible sea. Huila had seen wraiths crossing the far hills, lines of the dead walking home. Others might have seen the passing shade of clouds on the hills, but Huila was not fooled. Those shadows were dead Comanches and dead gringos and a few Mexicans leading their sad ghost horses. Some of those poor bastards were going to find the road that led to Hell. Oh, well—you should have been better children to your Father, and better fathers to your children. Cabrones! Ay Dios! Huila had quartered an orange and left it under her special tree. It never hurt, for example, to leave the Maker a snack. And not some rotten onion you were throwing out, either! It didn’t bother her that the coyote gobbled them as soon as she’d finished her prayers and walked away. Who was she to say that God did not use the coyote’s teeth to chew His gifts?
She rocked along like the pendulum of the main-house clock, her bad hip singing inside her. Her rebozo was pulled about her head, her great black hair spiked with lightning bolts of white was twirled in a tight bun—no man ever saw her hair hanging free. Huila knew, even at this old age, even skinny as she was, with her belly pooched loose and empty above her rocky hips, that if any
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