Epifanio’s babies fell ill and died. Rosita’s daughter died, too.
Not everyone who lost children saw the weeping woman. Raphael never saw her. But everyone heard her, even over the children’s cries. Each night her wails haunted the camp, sawing through the dead trees along with the summer wind. The poor little ones feared La Llorona so much that they could not sleep at night for the terror of her. They shivered and wept and begged for God’s mercy. But God did not help them. He did not heal the sickness that stole their appetites but somehow left them as fat and bloated and bald as giant babies. And He did nothing to stop La Llorona.
The lawyers said that the sickness came from the water, but Raphael did not believe them. He knew that La Llorona was making the children sick so that they could not escape when she came for them.
She came for Raphael’s children over the space of a month. Poor little Paulo was the last to go. His final days were spent in agony. He cried and cried, promising his father that he was a good little boy and that La Llorona would not take him. Raphael wiped his son’s tears and said that he would stay with Paulo always.
Paulo was the youngest. Raphael sent him to school whenever the family was going to be at one colonias for a long time. When Paulo fell ill, Raphael brought him books to read, and Paulo taught his father how to read them, too. They slept together, holding each other close in the tiny bed.
Night after night, Raphael listened to his son weeping.
He listened to the wind weeping.
He listened to La Llorona’s cries as she walked the dirt streets of C-Town. Each night she came closer, her sobs louder in the tiny room. One night Raphael felt her breath on his face, her tears on his cheeks, and then he heard Paulo take his last breath.
Raphael awoke to the sound of a plane overhead. It came in low and shook the shanty. He ran outside, naked, and watched it fly over the dead grove.
It flew on, releasing no spray, silver wings gleaming in the morning sunlight. The roar of its engines became a hum, then the sound of an insect, then faded away to silence.
Raphael dressed, grabbed his machete and the letter he had written the night before, and headed for the chapel, where there was a mailbox.
He walked through the empty streets, listening to the silence. Everyone but Raphael was gone now. Many left when the sickness started. More left after Epifanio and Rosita encountered La Llorona. The rest abandoned their homes after the lawyers came.
One of the lawyers had talked to Raphael. He was a polite man, but he had bad ideas in his head, and Raphael had refused to sign the papers that so many of his neighbors had signed.
“Mr. Baca,” the lawyer said, “I know money cannot replace the loss of your children, and I know that appearing in a courtroom can be a frightening thing. But unless we fight them, the people that did this to you will do the same thing to other people, as well.”
Raphael didn’t know how to explain it to the man. C-Town had been a good colonias before La Llorona came. The fruit was delicious and the water was plentiful, and his family had made the most of both resources. They had worked in C-Town every season for the past ten years, and they had never fallen ill before.
C-Town was not the real name of the place, of course. That was the name the lawyers used — Cancer Town, the place that killed little children by poisoning their blood.
Raphael tried to explain that La Llorona was taking the children, but the lawyer could not understand. He was too intent on explaining things to Raphael. He said that the corporation that owned the land was attempting to declare bankruptcy to avoid his lawsuit. He said that there would be no more work in C-Town, and that Raphael should not stay, because C-Town was a very dangerous place to live, even for adults.
Raphael agreed. C-Town was dangerous because La Llorona was there. But he would not leave. He had nowhere else to go.
One day, long after Raphael’s neighbors had moved on, a man came from the corporation that owned the land. The man told Raphael that he would have to move. Raphael tried to tell him about La Llorona, but the man was just like the lawyer and wouldn’t listen.
Raphael asked if the man knew of anyone who would listen to his story. The man thought about it for a long time. Finally, he gave Raphael the address of the Department of Agriculture. Raphael thanked him very sincerely. The man must have been pleased with that, because his smile became very broad, indeed.
Raphael wrote many letters to the Department of Agriculture. He never received an answer. He thought that it must be his fault. He was a good reader, but he had trouble writing. His printing was not nearly as neat as that of his teacher, Paulo, and sometimes he did not know the right words to use.
Still, he thought that his latest letter was the best yet. In it, he told the Department people not to listen to any lawyers. He promised that he would tell them all about La Llorona and the dead children if they would only come to C-Town.
The afternoon was cloudy, the sky the color of a wet stone.
Raphael cut across the grove, hurrying to mail his letter before a summer shower hit. It was very still among the trees. Raphael’s boots crunched over dead twigs. His steps came faster and faster, and he found that his throat had gone very dry.
“Thirsty, Raphael? My fruit is so gooood. Sweet and juicy, Raphael. Come and taaaste… ”
The bruja seemed to be standing next to him. Raphael’s gaze darted through the grove. He saw nothing, but heard everything. A ripping sound, flesh being tended from bone. A scream. And then another sound, a moan of pleasure as La Llorona sucked at the horrid fruit.
Raphael ran. The sky was darker now. Above him, dead branches creaked against a rising wind. One broke loose and crashed to the ground in front of him. He tripped and fell, his hands skidding over wood that was pitted and hollow with the efforts of many insects.
The weeping sounds washed over him as he lay there. Not just the cries of La Llorona. A dozen tiny sobs rang in his ears, each choking with pain and fear. Raphael rolled away, eyes closed.
He felt something grabbing him, holding him still.
The branches. The grove was coming alive…
He opened his eyes. The fruit loomed above him, suspended from a dead branch by a net of shadows. Its pink lips moved around white teeth.
“Raphael… it said. “Raphael Baca…”
Raphael lashed out with his machete, severing the fruit. It dropped and rolled against a tree trunk, and a great shard of bark came loose and fell on it. Raphael ran to the shanty, hands over his ears, but he could not escape the ghostly weeping or the anguished cries that poured from his own lips.
Morning brought the sun, and silence.
Raphael went outside, into the light.
A truck was parked in front of the shanty.
There were words on the door of the truck. Big gold letters. DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE. But there was no one inside the truck, and no one on the streets of C-Town.
Raphael walked to the edge of the grove. Nothing moved there. No fruit hung from the naked branches. No sounds drifted on the warming breeze. Not the weeping of La Llorona. Not the cries of the dead children.
Raphael knelt down. He prayed that the person from the Department of Agriculture had not entered La Llorona’s grove.
He waited for someone to appear, thinking how best to explain things.
He waited a long time.
When no one came, he got his machete and went into the grove, searching for another orange.
THE BARS ON SATAN’S JAILHOUSE
Don’t marry your daughter to a Gold Mountain Boy,
He will not be in bed one full year out of ten
Spiders spin webs on top of her bed
While dust covers fully one side.
— Anonymous
By the ghost of the fifth moon, five coyotes raced toward a wagon. Huge paws ripped divots in barren soil, sleek pelts shone in the amber glow of the coming morning, feral hearts pumped the blood of the beast while hungry eyes studied an Asian woman who held an
iron fan and a black driver who steadied the horses.
The black man felt hunger in the pit of his own empty stomach as he watched the beasts advance. But he made no move after tugging the reins, for he had seen something else.
Another coyote, waiting on a low ridge to the north.
A coyote that held a rifle.
The pack continued its charge. Still, the black man didn’t move. Neither did his young companion, who by now had noticed the predators. Gunshots broke the silence, like nothing more than a sharp series of barks. The lead coyote crashed to the ground midleap, tumbled squealing against a pole planted at the side of the dirt road not ten feet from the wagon, and did not get up.
The horses screamed, and the driver jerked the reins and quieted them. Another bark from the rifle and a second beast was literally slapped muzzle to roadbed as if by the hand of God. With that the remaining coyotes veered away from the wagon, away from the coyote with the rifle, darting toward the south.
But not fast enough. A final bullet found the slowest predator — nipping tailbone and shaving asshole, separating the beast from its tail — and the anguished howl that rattled across the wounded predator’s teeth was enough to goose the sun over the mountains that lay to the east. At least, that was how it seemed to the black man who held the reins. Cause, and effect.
But having no great love of philosophy of rumination, the man’s attention turned to the coyote with the rifle. The creature loped across the rutted road, collected the amputated tail, and advanced on the wagon, rifle held over its head in the universal signal of peace.
The creature’s muzzle did not move as it said, “They’ll spread the word, y’know. They’ll run back to their hellhole and howl and whimper, and they’ll tell every damn pup ’bout how one of their own shot hell out of ’em and kept ‘em from their dinner.”
Her back stiff, her brown eyes unblinking, the woman in the wagon slapped closed her fan, transforming it into an iron cudgel to which she held tight. Likewise, her companion held tight to the reins. He did not reach for the pistol secreted beneath his worn duster. His hands did not become fists.
He smiled.
The coyote chuckled, scratching its chin. Then it pushed its entire muzzle up and back, revealing a face the color of oatmeal and blue eyes that squinted against the dull morning light. Unmasked, the coyoteman trained an ear toward the south, even though the driver and the woman heard nothing. “Hear ’em howl?” the coyoteman asked. “They’re talkin’ about me. Tellin’ stories. I’m their devil. I’m their hell.”
The coyoteman showed a healthy set of teeth — not a smile, but an animal trying to smile. “Most folks think I’m crazy, sayin’ somethin’ like that,” he continued. “But I ain’t crazy. I got the devil in my blood. My own mama told me so. See, my daddy was a coyote. Like I said, like my mama said — it’s in my blood. Mr. Gerlach — that’s my boss — he reads all kinds of books. He knows about such things. He says what I am is what you call a liecanthrowup.”
“That’s a mouthful,” the black man said, and he didn’t so much as grin.
“That’s me, all right.” The coyoteman nodded, brushing his chin with his escaped brother’s amputated tail. “And believe you me, it ain’t easy bein’ part ky-ote. Hard to find work when your blood’s got the fever like mine. Folks think you’re peculiar, just ’cause you want to live in a hole in the ground and take your food raw, which is the way God served it up, ain’t it? But Mr. Gerlach, he saw a use for me right off. Coyotes ain’t thinnin’ the newborn calves from Mr. Gerlach’s herd like they once did, not with yours truly around. Pretty soon I’ll have the whole pack headin’ for greener… uh, I should say redder pastures.”
With the last comment, the coyoteman flipped the bloody tail at his audience as if it were an obscene exclamation point. He howled laughter, and it took a long time for him to stop, because he was waiting for the people in the wagon to join in the joke. But they managed to abstain. The black man was busy staring down the road, and his companion had slapped open her iron fan and was pumping it in the coyoteman’s direction.
The black man asked, “Where is Midas Gerlach’s ranch?”
The coyoteman raised the pelt that covered his thin belly and expertly pinched a flea into eternity. “You’re standin’ on it, pilgrim. You look around, and on a clear day you can see until tomorrow. And it’s Midas Gerlach owns every inch of what you’re seeing.”
“And where exactly does Mr. Gerlach hang his hat?”
“Five miles down this road. Can’t see his place from here, but it’s there. But a man like you don’t want to go down this road.” The coyoteman wrinkled his nose and sniffed the stranger’s boots, which bristled with wiry hairs and sharp white ridges that looked like pure misery — bones or teeth, the coyoteman couldn’t rightly decide which, and he didn’t really want to move close enough to make a thorough investigation. “I can smell you, pilgrim,” he said by way of conclusion. “And whatever scent I’m readin’, it ain’t rabbit.”
The black man didn’t reply. He stared at the road, at the dead coyote wrapped around the base of the nearby pole. Scant minutes ago the creature had been leading the hunt. But now…
The coyoteman said, “You’re lookin’ at the wrong end of that pole, friend.”
The stranger looked up and saw for the first time the thing the night had hidden, the thing that was more than plain in the morning light — a severed head leering down at him from the crown of the pole.
“Pinkerton men came through a week ago,” the coyoteman explained, pointing to another pole a quarter-mile or so distant. “Five of ’em. They didn’t smell like rabbits either. Not until Mr. Gerlach got done with ’em, that is. Skinned rabbits was what they smelled like at the end. And believe you me, they was ready for the stew-pot.” He giggled. “You ever hear a rabbit scream? Well, have yuh?”
If he had known what the coming hours would bring, the stranger might have searched his memory for an answer to that question. But though he knew many things that other men did not, he did not know the future, so he tugged the reins.
The horses moved forward. The coyoteman walked beside the wagon, his hand raised against the rising sun. “You listen to me,” he said. “You pay attention! Mr. Gerlach, he treated them Pinkerton men just like I treat the coyotes.” The black man slapped the ribbons, the team broke into a trot, and so did the coyoteman. “Mr. Gerlach’s got a fever in his blood, even worse than mine. But his misery ain’t from a coyote… it’s from his family.” The wagon passed another pole crowned with a severed head — generous golden tresses in imitation of George Armstrong Custer, bullet hole three inches behind the left ear in imitation of Abraham Lincoln. “People tell stories just like coyotes, but these stories are true! The whole Gerlach family done been blood crazy for years… cousin marryin’ cousin… brother and… it just ain’t what’s meant to be.” The coyoteman was sprinting now, nearly breathless. “Why, you just look in the family plot and you’ll see… Mr. Gerlach’s granddaddy buried right next to his own daughter… and… ”
The driver hollered at the team, cracking the ribbons with real authority now. The horses raced forward, and the coyoteman tried to keep the pace. There were many things he wanted to say. He wanted to tell the driver about Midas Gerlach’s granddaddy, how Midas’ grandma had taken after him with a butcher knife. Cut off the old reprobate’s willie and tossed it right down the shit shaft one cold winter’s night, shortly after the old fool had threatened to bless his daughter with a baby brother for thirteen-year-old Midas. The coyoteman wanted to say all these things, just as he wanted to keep on running, but his lungs were working like a bellows with a couple of holes in it, and his legs were like those of a sickly kitten, and all he could say was, “Midas is… Midas is… he’s crazy with the blood… ”
The coyoteman stumbled to a stop and doubled over, dropping the rifle and the coyote-head helmet, hands locking over his knees as he gasped for breath. The coyote was hiding in his blood, and he couldn’t kee
p up with the wagon, which was gone with the shadows, with the last cool breath of morning.
The sun beat down and there was nowhere to hide. “You got to understand,” the man said, because he had to finish even if no one could hear him. “How it is… with Mr. Gerlach and folks around these parts. It’s like me and the coyotes… it’s like… ”
But he was bone-tired now, like he always was after a hunt. Ready for the cool hollow of his burrow. He mopped his forehead with the coyote tail. Then he shed his furry shirt, wrapped the coyote headpiece around it, and tucked the bundle under one arm. Rifle in hand, he trudged up the road.
And though he panted, he kept his tongue in his mouth.
Late afternoon. The unrelenting sun beat through the window, warming the young woman’s nakedness like the fires of heaven.
Her tits were truly the color of alabaster. That the Chinaman had promised, though Midas Gerlach hadn’t believed him until now. Midas had bought the woman through the mail — bargaining, waiting as each offer and counter offer traveled by stage and train from Fiddler to San Francisco or vice versa. He had committed the Chinaman’s descriptive poetry to heart, but he hadn’t dared believe it. He’d read plenty of yellowback novels and he knew that, numero uno, Chinamen were given to poetic excess and, numero dos, Chi-nee women were as yellow as the first corn of the season.
But it wasn’t like that with the woman who lay on Midas’ bed. If you judged by her, the Chinamans promises were as bankable as cash on the barrelhead. Lie’s tits were the color of alabaster, and they were round and perfect and as hard as any rock God had put on His green earth. Better still, Lie went on from there, her body pure poetry that Midas hadn’t found in any letter. Her nipples were as meaty as jerky, and she complained not at all as he took each in turn between his tobacco-stained teeth, stretching those tiny mounds of Chi-nee jerky into a ten-course meal, which was an image that had never crossed the poetic Chinaman’s mind.
The Man With the Barbed-Wire Fists Page 35