“And,” said one man, laughing, “the great americanos were gone no more than a couple of days when Ojos Puros, here, and his wild indios came and ripped down the gates,” he said. He slapped Ojos Puros on the back. “Don Manuel went crazy, trying to protect the enfencement.”
“Yes, that’s true,” laughed Ojos Puros. “We needed something to build fencing for our goats and, when we took down the gates, the mayor came out of his office with his pistol to run us off, but it misfired,” he said, laughing all the more. He was drunk, too. “I think that’s what killed him. He’s been in his house ever since.”
Lupe watched her father take a deep breath. “You know, I never liked that little proper man,” he said. “But I’ll tell you, when he first came here, the americanos accused him of stealing from the payroll and they hung him by his thumbs, but he never gave in. Then they found out that it was the big German bookkeeper who’d been stealing from them all those years. I gained respect for that little man. He might be a pretentious little cabrón, but he’s got big tanates.”
Taking another deep breath, Don Victor turned and looked at Don Tiburcio with new eyes. “So, well, you must also be a very brave man, Don Tiburcio,” he said, “because, I’ll tell you, I was so scared coming up through the barrancas with all those bandits, that my asshole was hanging out two fists!”
Saying this, Don Victor burst out laughing again and everyone joined him. They just couldn’t help it. He was so outrageous.
Opening the box, Sophia saw that it was another assortment of fine chocolates. She passed them around for everyone to take one. The people did, treasuring each chocolate as if it was a jewel from heaven.
“Oh, Papa!” shouted Carlota, nibbling her candy, “you should see the chocolates we’ve been getting since Don Tiburcio became engaged to Sophia!”
“That’s enough,” said Doña Guadalupe sharply.
But Carlota wasn’t to be silenced. “Mama told Don Tiburcio that Sophia was too small to marry him, so he’s been bringing her boxes of candy to fatten her up for over a year now.”
Don Victor roared with laughter, mouth open, showing all his broken teeth. “Shame on you, querida!” he said to his wife. “Why, this is the very same trick that this old woman used on me when we got married! She said she was too skinny so I’d have to bring her chocolates so she could put on weight before we married.”
Doña Guadalupe turned red and everyone roared with laughter until the ramada echoed with happy sounds.
That night, Lupe went to bed on a straw mat with her sisters and brother under the ramada while her father and mother slept inside the lean-to.
It was a full moon and Lupe must have been sound asleep, for the next thing she knew, she awoke with a start. She could hear coyotes howling in the distance and something turning and thrashing nearby. At first, she thought it was her deer fighting off some dogs, but then she heard the springs of her mother’s bed making sounds like two cats fighting.
The two cats screeched and cried out in pain, going faster and faster. Then Lupe heard her parents breathing like two burros going up a steep hillside.
Their little dog barked outside and Lupe glanced up to the sky. She saw two little white clouds passing, hand-in-hand, like silent lovers over the mighty peaks. Tears came to her eyes and she grew frightened. She thought of her Colonel and how he’d also made violent noises when he’d slept with Socorro.
She could now hear her parents moaning, groaning like two great trees bending in the wind. She turned and her eyes met Sophia’s, and Sophia opened her arms. Quickly, Lupe went to her sister and they hugged each other close, holding there in the darkness. Lupe thought of all the animals that she’d seen mate and of her pet deer when he’d tried to get at their milk goat with his long, red shiny thing.
Her parents were now running up a steep hill like charging wild pigs, and the two cats screamed in a quickening fight. Suddenly, her father cried out and her mother started to giggle.
Lupe trembled, holding Sophia close. She looked out between the vines of the bougainvillea and she saw that the two little white clouds had moved past the cathedral rocks and were now slipping by the full moon, so bright and round and wondrous.
In the morning, coming under the ramada after doing her chores, Lupe found Sophia and María singing happily together as they made breakfast. Lupe wondered if they hadn’t heard all those terrible sounds the night before.
“Hurry!” said Sophia excitedly. “Help Carlota set the table. We’re making a special surprise breakfast for Mama and Papa.”
Lupe put the milk on the counter and went to help her sister finish setting the table, but she felt very confused. She couldn’t figure out why her sisters were so happy.
When they had everything ready, they called their parents to the table, and Lupe got the full smell of her parents as they entered the ramada. Suddenly she knew that yes, indeed, she had heard all those terrible sounds last night. She remembered how her Colonel and Socorro had smelled like this and been so happy, too, after they’d had a night of violent sounds. She said nothing and just watched her sisters and her parents.
“Why, look what we’ve got here!” said Don Victor, seeing the table set with flowers and food for him and his wife. “It’s better than our honeymoon, querida!”
“What honeymoon?” said their mother, laughing. “You mean that awful trip we had coming up here to La Lluvia, trudging up trails?”
“Exactly, and those wonderful nights we spent under the stars,” he said, kissing her.
“All right, stop it you two, and sit down,” said Sophia, “before your huevos rancheros get cold.”
“You know,” said Doña Guadalupe, sitting down to eat, “in all these years I’ve never once had the pleasure of sitting under my ramada at this hour. Just look at that view; it’s beautiful—a painting by the hand of God. No wonder Manos and Flaco always enjoyed sitting here.”
“Whatever became of those two?” asked Don Victor, eating in large, hungry bites.
“They stayed on with a few other men for a couple of months after the americanos closed the mine down,” said Doña Guadalupe. “But, well, Señor Jones had the new section dynamited before he left, so Manos and Flaco weren’t able to get at it.”
“It figures,” said Don Victor. “Señor Jones has it figured out to come back after the Revolution. These tricky gringos, I swear, they got it all planned out for us for the next two hundred years!”
Doña Guadalupe and Don Victor ate and talked and the children waited on them hand and foot. Lupe came to realize that she’d never seen her mother sit down to eat through an entire meal before. No, she was always getting up to wait on everyone else.
Then, when their parents were done eating and their father rolled a cigarette, Doña Guadalupe called them together.
“Mil gracias,” said their mother, “that was a wonderful breakfast, and your father and I appreciated it very much. But, well, now I want all of you children to listen very carefully—and you, too, Socorro—because last night, Victor and I had a very important talk.” She smoothed out her dress on her lap. “Tell them, querido.”
“Well,” said Don Victor, “your mother and I have decided that we have two choices. And only two. One, we wait out the war here in this canyon, hoping that the bandits don’t kill us, or two, we go to the United States and wait out the war there.”
They were all shocked.
“Across the border?” asked María. “But when would we go?”
“As soon as possible,” said their father.
Victoriano and Socorro looked at each other.
“But I’m getting married,” said Sophia.
“Yes, we know,” said their mother, “and we’ve considered that, too. But you tell me, how many more times do you think Don Tiburcio can go down the mountain to bring us our supplies and return unharmed, mi hijita?”
Sophia wrung her hands. “Yes,” she said, “I’ve thought of that, too. But I know that he’d never leave without his mother
. And she’s not in good health.”
“That’s why we have to talk,” said their mother, “and figure out our situation.”
“Will we ever return?” asked María, no doubt thinking of Esabel and that she didn’t want to leave him.
“With the help of God, yes,” said their mother. “This is our home, after all. And when the war is over, I’m sure that someone will re-open the mine, and we can make our living here again.”
“But I don’t want to return!” said Carlota excitedly. “I want to see cities and big dances and have new shoes and dresses and never come back!”
Everyone looked at her and laughed.
“That’s fine,” said their mother. “I hope you can get your dresses and shoes, Carlota. But remember why we’re leaving—not for pleasure, but so we can survive.”
The ramada became quiet; each person thinking of what this big move meant to them. Lupe thought of her deer and her Colonel’s grave and all the life that she knew here in this canyon.
“So when do you think we might leave?” asked Sophia.
Doña Guadalupe turned to her husband.
“It wouldn’t be too soon,” he said, “because, as I told your mother, the worst thing we could do is leave here with just the clothes on our backs. We need gold—lots of gold—so we can buy our passage north and, when we get to the border, we can buy contracts to do work on the American side.
“You must realize, mis hijitos, that for the past seven years people have been fleeing to the border every day by the thousands, and so you can’t just get across the border anymore. The situation is grave. No matter how bad it’s been up here, it’s a thousand times worse down below.”
“And,” said their mother, “your father doesn’t say this lightly. I’ve explained everything to him.” She stopped, tears coming to her eyes. “I told him about La Liebre and how they . . . they were going to hang Victoriano, but . . . but” She shook her head, unable to go on until their father reached out, taking her hand.
“I just don’t have it anymore,” she said, trembling. “A large part of me, here in my heart, died the day I saw Victoriano with that rope around his neck.”
She gasped, trying to catch her breath. There wasn’t a dry eye in the ramada. They all remembered that awful day their brother had been branded and almost hung.
“I’m finished,” said their mother. “I have no more power.”
She squeezed her husband’s hand.
“But, Mama,” said Carlota, “what does this mean . . . that you’re going to die?”
“No, of course not, mi hijita,” said their mother. “With your father’s help, I’ll mend. But I cannot continue to be the rock of nuestra casa. Your father must take the reins and lead us to los Estados Unidos.”
Saying this, the great lady turned to their father, tears streaming down her face. He soothed her hand gently, tenderly, quietly.
And it was true; for the first time in her life, Lupe could see that their great, powerful mother wasn’t a rock anymore. She looked small, tired, fragile, all used up and very old.
Lupe’s whole body shivered.
Sophia’s wedding was pushed back for several days while all the people of the canyon went to work, preparing to make this wedding the biggest celebration that they’d had in years. The mine had closed, the village and American enfencement lay in ruins, the people were ragged and hungry, but this was no reason for them to lose their spirit. No, they’d make a big celebration in the wonderful tradition of their mountains.
On the morning of the wedding, Lupe awoke to what seemed like a dream. The sky was still full of stars, and she could hear music outside of their ramada through the vines of the bougainvillea.
Lupe drew close to Sophia, and they laid together on their straw mats, enjoying the cool morning breeze and the soft, gentle music.
Don Tiburcio was keeping faithful to tradition. He’d brought musicians to serenade his wife-to-be so she’d know that no matter how desperate times became, there would always be song in the heart of their new home.
María and Carlota awoke and they listened, too. Don Tiburcio sang “Las Mañanitas” and then went off into the early morning mist as quietly as he’d come. Lupe had tears running down her face. Oh, she was so happy for her sister, and yet another part of her just knew that they were also saying goodbye to their canyon—adiós to their whole way of life.
The sun was three fists off the jagged horizon when Victoriano and Esabel were in the plaza helping Don Tiburcio wash his two little white mules. Down below by the creek, Lupe and Carlota and Doña Manza’s daughters were picking baskets of wildflowers so they could decorate the bridles and saddles of the white mules and the little altar where the ceremony would be held.
It was noon when Lupe and the girls finished the decorations. The spotted little mules had flowers braided into their mane and bridles and long red ribbons into their tails. The two little animals loved the attention they were getting, and they stamped their feet, feeling proud.
All around the plaza were small groups of people. They’d been waiting for over an hour for Don Manuel to come out of his home to perform the ceremony.
The closest priest was more than three days away by mule, so Don Manuel—even though he was no longer considered the town’s mayor—was still called upon to perform the services of birth, death and weddings.
Lupe and her girlfriends were across the plaza where the women had gathered by the stone wall at the foot of Doña Manza’s house. They’d put a blanket up and Sophia was behind it so the groom wouldn’t see her. Don Tiburcio was with the men across the plaza.
Lupe’s sister María was dressed in her new pink dress. She looked so beautiful— tied in so small at her waist and yet showing off her wide shoulders and muscular arms. Lupe had never realized how beautiful María was. She’d always assumed that to be beautiful, a woman had to be small and delicate, like Sophia and Carlota.
Coming around the side of the blanket, Lupe saw Sophia sitting on a stool and their mother was braiding white orchids into her long, dark hair. Lupe was overwhelmed by Sophia’s beauty. She had their father’s fine, good looks and their mother’s small body.
As Lupe listened to the talk of the women, Angelina, the midwife, arrived with a group of Tarahumara Indians. The men wore loose, white pants and their faces were painted white with small reddish suns. The women were dressed in colorful blouses and skirts, their faces and hands painted white with half-moons of pink and yellow around their eyes and mouths.
“Well, well,” said the old midwife, coming up close with two of the women, “I see that Sophia looks like an angel right now. But how will she be tonight when the coyotes howl and she has to lie in a pool of blood, proving her virginity!”
Doña Guadalupe was barely able to control her anger. “Angelina,” she said, “you’ve been drinking. Now stop it! I’ll have none of this superstitious Indian talk!”
The midwife only laughed. “But this isn’t superstitious Indian talk, Doña Guadalupe,” she said. “This happens to come with your own priests when they brought the Virgin Mary up to our mountains. And, I was only coming as a friend to offer you my services in showing your daughter how to bleed if she needed to.”
The rage, the anger, with which Doña Guadalupe turned on the woman took Lupe by surprise. “Go,” she yelled, fluffing up like a mad mother hen, “before I lose all patience!”
But Angelina only laughed again, showing her missing teeth. The midwife hadn’t been taking care of herself since her husband, El Borracho, had been killed.
“Oh, Mama,” said Sophia kindly, “it’s all right, she’s only trying to help. But don’t worry, Angelina, I’ll bleed just fine.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said the midwife. Then she turned to María. “And you, María,” she said, “will you bleed just as fine on your wedding night, querida?”
María almost dropped—she was so stunned.
“I’ve been watching you with Esabel,” said the old midwife,
enjoying María’s shock. “And he’s no boy, believe me. That one’s so ripe that he can impregnate an innocent girl by just rubbing her dress!”
María’s eyes filled with horror. “Mama,” she said, “is that true?”
Doña Guadalupe didn’t answer her daughter. First she looked across the plaza and saw Esabel, who was standing alongside Victoriano. She saw his darkly handsome face, his full mouth of glistening white teeth and his head of coal black bangs dancing about his eyes. She could see why her daughter was taken by him. He was one of the most handsome young men that she’d ever seen.
“No,” said Doña Guadalupe, turning to María, “it’s not true, mi hijita. But believe me, more than that, and you will be.”
María glanced up at the heavens, mumbling a quick prayer.
The sun was starting down and the wedding couldn’t be delayed any longer. Excusing himself, Don Tiburcio left the men and went across the plaza to Don Manuel’s house, knocking on his door. No one else in all the plaza would have dared to do this. The proper little man hadn’t just been their mayor, but also their most important citizen, other than the Americans.
Finally, the door opened and out came Don Manuel’s wife, Josefina. She was dressed in green and had a big red flower in her hair.
“Yes?” she said.
“Well,” said Don Tiburcio, pulling his watch from his vest, “is your husband ready? We’ve been waiting over two hours, Señora.”
She glanced around at everyone in the plaza. “He’ll be right out,” she said, closing the door.
Don Tiburcio put his watch back, not knowing what to do. He was just going to walk away when the door opened again and out came Don Manuel, supported by Lydia and Rose-Mary on each side.
As he came into the sunlight, everyone was shocked. Their ex-mayor was nothing but a shriveled-up little man with huge, sunken red eyes.
His two daughters towered above him, dressed in beautiful, many-layered dresses and their hair done up with ribbons and flowers as they helped him across the plaza to the small altar where the ceremony was to take place.
Rain of Gold Page 24