After the fever broke I was in bed for many days. The doctor told my mother I had had pneumonia and that I was to get as much rest as possible. As I regained my strength I learned what had happened. My father had found the body of Narciso, frozen stiff under the juniper tree. My father went to the sheriff and accused Tenorio, but he had only the word of a small, sick boy to back his accusation. The coroner’s jury that gathered under the juniper tree found the cause of death to be accidental or self- inflicted, then they hurried away from the cold to the warmth of their homes. Because Narciso was the town drunk, nobody cared much. My father protested, but there was little he could do, and so Narciso was buried and the town said he had died during one of his drunks.
He was a big and wild man; he drank and cursed like most men do, but he was a good man. He died trying to help an old friend. He had the magic of growth in his hands and he passed it into the earth. Now his house was deserted and his garden withered away, and few people remembered anything good about Narciso.
While I was still in bed, recovering, Andrew stopped by to talk to me. I guess he figured that if he had listened to Narciso that he would still be alive, because the first thing he said was, “I’m sorry about Narciso—”
“Yes,” I nodded. I did not tell him that I had seen him at Rosie’s house. I had not told anyone, and I never would.
“I’m sorry you saw the murder—” he stammered.
“Why?” I asked. I did not feel comfortable talking to him. I looked at Ultima, who had not left my side since that dreadful night, and I guess she understood because she stood up from where she sat crocheting. Andrew understood that it was a signal to leave.
“I don’t know,” he said, “you’re only a kid—I’m just sorry.” “He must rest,” Ultima said kindly.
“Yes,” Andrew agreed, “I just wanted to see how he was. How do you feel, Tony?” He was nervous.
“Fine.” I answered.
“Good, good,” he muttered. “Well, I’ll let you rest. I wish there was something I could do—I’m sorry, that’s all.” He turned and left. After that he brought me candy and fruit from the store, but he gave it to my mother to deliver to me, he never came into the room. He would only wave from the door as he went off to work in the mornings.
Later I asked Ultima, “Did I talk about Andrew when I was in the fever?”
“Your blood is tied to the blood of your brothers,” she answered, “and you spoke your dreams and love for them, but you did not reveal Andrew’s secret—”
I was glad Ultima understood, and I was glad I had not talked about what I had seen at Rosie’s. Like other unpleasant things, I began to blot it from my memory.
So Christmas came and went. We had a small tree and we got clothes for presents, but the most important thing was going to visit the Nativity scene at the church and going to la misa de gallo, midnight mass. I did not go, of course, but when everyone returned I was up and waiting for them and we ate posole. For dessert we ate bizcochitos and hot coffee flavored with sugar and cinnamon. When I could get up I sat with Ultima in her room while she did her embroidery work. She told me stories about the old people of Las Pasturas. She told me about Narciso when he was a young man, a fine vaquero, and very respected. He had married a lovely young girl but before they could raise a family she had died. The diphtheria epidemic that had destroyed so many things in Las Pasturas had claimed her. After that Narciso turned to drink and lost everything, but he remained forever grateful to Ultima who worked so hard to try to save his young wife. The old people, Ultima said, always helped each other; through good or bad they stuck together, and the friendships that were formed in that desolate llano were bonds for life.
Part of the time I had to spend with my mother, reciting my catechism. I already knew most of my prayers by memory. So I would sit with her in the kitchen while she cooked or ironed and she would ask me to recite such and such a prayer and I would. That made her very happy.
“In the spring I will make arrangements for you to start catechism with the padre at the church, and then on Easter Sunday you will make your first holy communion. Just think, Antonio, for the first time you will hold God in your mouth, in your body, in your soul—you will speak to Him, and He will answer—” she said to me. And she smiled, and there were tears in her eyes.
“Then I will have the knowledge of God?” I asked.
“Yes,” she sighed. “I hope you will use your knowledge to carry out God’s will. You are a very bright boy, you understand so much, you can be a great leader, a priest—I do not want you to waste your life in dreams, like your father. You must make something of yourself, you must serve the people.
The people need good leaders, and the greatest leader is a priest—” “Yes,” I agreed.
“And then in the summer,” she continued, “you will go and stay with your uncles at El Puerto. You will learn their ways, old secret ways in farming, they will teach you. It will be good for you to be out in the sun, working. You have been sick, and you have seen things I would not have wanted you to see, you are just a boy—but that is in the past. Now you have your communion and the summer to look forward to—”
“Yes,” I agreed.
“Now read the prayers to me in English.” She liked to hear me read the catechism in English, although she could not understand all I read, and I myself could not yet read with complete comprehension. Many of the old people did not accept the new language and refused to let their children speak it, but my mother believed that if I was to be successful as a priest I should know both languages, and so she encouraged me in both.
“Ah, such intelligence,” she beamed when I finished stuttering through the Hail Mary in English, “a true man of learning!” And she kissed my head and gave me some empanaditas she had saved from Christmas day.
One thing that helped to break the monotony of being locked in by the storm was the arrival of León and Eugene. They had not come for Christmas and my mother was sad and worried. The only news she had about them was from people who happened to run into them at Las Vegas. León and Eugene never bothered writing.
It was early one morning when we were seated at breakfast that my mother heard a car and looked out the frosty window. “¡Jesús, María, y José!” she exclaimed, “¡el policía!”
We ran and crowded at the window and watched the state police car coming up the goat path. The car came slowly because of the deep snow. When it came to a stop León and Eugene stepped out.
“¡Mis hijos!” my mother cried. She threw open the door and they came in, grinning shyly as she gathered them in her arms.
“Hi, jefa,” they smiled.
“León, Eugenio,” my father embraced them. “Jefe,” they nodded and took his hand.
“Ave María Purísima,” my mother cried and made the sign of the cross. “Hey, León, Gene,” Andrew shook hands with them while Deborah and
Theresa shouted greetings and tugged at them. We all surrounded them with our embraces.
“But why did the state police bring you?” my mother asked anxiously. “Was it Vigil?” Andrew asked, and León nodded.
“Was there any trouble?” my father asked. He was at the window, waving at the departing state cop.
“No, no trouble—”
“Greet your Grande,” my mother smiled, “and don’t call her a jefa—” We all laughed.
“¿Cómo está, Grande?” they said politely and hugged Ultima.
“Bien, bien, gracias a Dios,” Ultima smiled, and knowing they would be hungry she turned to the stove to make them breakfast.
“But you haven’t told us why the state cop brought you,” Andrew repeated.
“Tell them, Gene,” León smiled.
“I knew you would return,” my father murmured, “I knew you would come back!” And he hugged them and led them to the table. He took out the bottle of whiskey while they removed their soiled, wrinkled jackets. They looked older than I remembered them.
“Tell us what?” my mother bustled around them.
“Feed them first, María,” Ultima said wisely, she was already setting down plates. León and Gene ate everything set before them like starved animals.
“Heard about Narciso—” León said through a mouthful, “too bad—” “How’s Tony?” Gene asked.
“Fine,” my mother answered for me, “but you still haven’t told us why Vigil brought you. Deborah, take Theresa upstairs and play—” Deborah and Theresa only moved to a corner of the kitchen and stayed to listen.
“Tell ’em, Gene,” León said.
“Hell, you tell ’em!” Gene snarled, “It’s your fault this happened!
You’re the one who wanted to come home—” He drank the shot of whiskey my father had poured for him and went off by the stove to brood.
“¡Eugenio! Do not speak that way in front of Grande!” My mother was stern now. Not even the joy of having her sons back could break this rule of respect for the elders.
“What happened?” Andrew pleaded. “I apologize to Grande,” Gene pouted.
“Gene, it’s nobody’s fault,” León said in his slow way, “and what’s done is done—”
“But what?” my father implored. “We wrecked the car—”
“You had a car!” Andrew exclaimed approvingly. “Had is right!” Gene cut in.
“Yeah, we saved our money, bought a really nice Chevy—last night, on the spur of the moment we decided to take off—”
“You decided!” Gene corrected him.
“Wrecked it, where?” “How?” “Shhhhh! Let him go on!”
“Just this side of Antón Chico,” León said unperturbed, “we hit a slick spot, solid ice, and we went down the ditch—”
“But the road was closed last night,” my father said, “that stretch of road has been closed every night for a week—”
“But would he listen to that!” Gene exploded.
“I wanted to come home,” León said patiently, he understood his brother’s mood.
“¡Ay mi hijito!” My mother went to him and hugged him and León just sat there, smiling, his blue eyes watering. “As long as you are safe, who cares about a car. He wanted to come home to see his mother!” she beamed.
“But the car’s not too badly damaged?” Andrew asked. “Burned!” Gene shouted.
“Burned?” Andrew gasped. There was silence.
“We waited a long time in the cold,” León was barely audible, “there was no traffic. We burned the blankets, then the seats, the gas, the tires— sometime this morning we fell asleep, huddled against the car, and all of a sudden everything was on fire, burning.”
“That’s when Vigil found you,” my father said.
León nodded. “At least we hadn’t frozen to death—”
“Thank God you are home safe,” my mother said. She crossed her forehead. “I must give thanks to the Virgin—” She went to the sala to pray before her altar.
“We shouldn’t have come,” Eugene groaned.
León and Eugene spent the rest of the morning in Andrew’s room. I could hear them laughing. They were talking about the great times they had in Vegas. In the afternoon they dressed and went to town, to play pool they said. My father drank the rest of the day so that by suppertime he was quite drunk. But he did not rant and rave; he was quiet and brooding, and we knew that was the worst kind of drunk. He had been happy to see his boys, but the happiness had been short-lived. He too had heard them planning new adventures together, and he knew that come spring when his yearning to move west filled him that there would be no one to go with him.
In the morning my father’s disquietude was proven. We were eating a late breakfast when my father came in from feeding the animals. He stamped his feet and went to the stove to drink a cup of coffee. He stared at my brothers while he drank, and his gaze made them uneasy.
“It is colder than hell outside,” he said.
“Gabriel! The children—” my mother reprimanded him. “And take off your jacket, it is wet—” The melting snow was dropping on the hot stove. The little water droplets did a crazy, sizzling dance on the hot iron then disappeared.
“I have to go out again,” my father answered without taking his eyes off my brothers, “the wind has cut the tie-wire of the windmill. If I don’t tie it down the wind will tear down the crazy thing before noon—”
“Ay, if it’s not one thing, it’s another,” my mother moaned. I went to the window and through a small, round hole in the frosted windowpane I could see the whirling blades of the windmill. The cold wind spun them so fast that the whole housing shook and seemed ready to come crashing down. If
the windmill broke it would mean many days without water because the cistern was already dry of summer water, and melting snow would be a hard job. Melting snow meant frozen hands and feet, and the worst part was that it seemed a ton of melted snow only produced a quart of water.
“How was town last night, boys?” my father asked.
They glanced up at him nervously, and Andrew said, “Quiet. The men at the Eight Ball asked for you, send their regards—they were glad to see León and Gene though.”
“Ay,” my father nodded and sipped his coffee, “glad to see the wandering Márez brothers, huh.” His voice was bitter. I guess he knew they would be leaving again, and he couldn’t accept it.
“We’ve been working, father,” Gene said.
“Uh-huh,” my father nodded. “I was just thinking, we used to work together. Hey,” he smiled, “it wasn’t so long ago we built this house, huh. Well you boys did most of it, and I’m proud of it. I would get off work on the highway in the afternoon, and far down the goat path, near the juniper where Narciso died, I could hear the hammering, and no matter how tired I was I would hurry, come and help you. It was a wonderful time, huh, a man working, planning with his sons—”
“Yeah,” Andrew said, “sure.” “Yeah,” León agreed and nodded.
“Gabriel—” my mother’s voice pleaded.
“Ah,” he smiled, “just remembering old times, no harm in that is there. And remember the summer I took you to work with me on the highway? I wanted you by my side, I was proud of you—” he laughed and slapped his thigh. “You were so small those air hammers just tossed the three of you around like rag dolls—” Tears streamed from his eyes.
“Yeah, those were great times,” León said vigorously. His blue, melancholy eyes lit up. Even Gene nodded his head in agreement.
“We remember, father,” Andrew smiled. Then they were quiet for a long time as they looked at each other, the sons seeing the father suddenly old, and the father knowing his sons were men and going away.
“Well,” he cleared his throat and blew his nose, “I guess those days are gone forever, in the past—” He laid down his cup. “I’ll go fix that windmill now,” he said.
“But the wind, Gabriel,” my mother said with some anxiety.
“It has to be done,” he shrugged. The wind was blowing hard and the ladder up to the platform that held the housing would be thick with ice. He looked for the last time at his sons, but they avoided his gaze. Then he went out.
“He should have waited for the wind to die down,” Andrew said uneasily.
“Or until it froze over and stopped itself,” León added lamely.
“Or until the damned thing broke off,” Gene whispered, “there’s no sense in risking your neck for a hick-town windmill—”
I went to the window and watched my father work his way up the treacherous ladder. It was slow and dangerous work. He worked his way onto the small platform and avoiding the cranking, spinning blades he grabbed the loose wire. Carefully he pulled it down, tied the loose ends and put the brake on the turning blades. When he came back into the kitchen his hands and face were frozen white and he was dripping with the sweat of exhaustion, but there was a look of satisfaction on his face.
Next day León and Eugene left. This time they took Andrew with them.
He quit his job at Allen’s Market and dropped his plans for finishing high school and went to Santa Fe with them. My father was not there when they left; the roads were opening up and all the highway crews were working.
My mother cried when she kissed her sons goodbye, but she was resigned. I waved goodbye to them with some misgivings. I wondered if I would ever really know my brothers, or would they remain but phantoms of my dreams. And I wondered if the death of Narciso had anything to do with Andrew’s decision to go.
