“What kind of people can live in a place like this?” he wondered aloud, and, as if in response, footsteps came from the silent darkness at the rear of the store: the shopkeeper coming to market her wares.
A small dark figure: black eyes sparkling in a dark face, black skirt, blacker hair. The absence of colors should have depressed him but strangely it did not. The darkness reinforced the idea of coolness—bright colors meant heat, and he had had enough of that.
Absently, still staring at the woman, the young man picked up a wooden figure from a nearby table. At that, the proprietress smiled quickly at him, her white teeth a slash of brightness, and quoted a figure that, even in Spanish, far exceeded the piece’s value.
“No,” he answered, and quickly set the piece down again. He was too hot, too tired, for a lengthy bargaining session in which he might understand only every third word. Besides, he hadn’t come to buy anything, except a few hours’ respite from the sun.
“I didn’t come to buy,” he said in halting Spanish and shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks as though to emphasize his words. “But I would like to rest. It is so hot and I am so tired. Have you a room I could sleep in—a siesta—for just a few American dollars, of course,” he added hastily, not wanting her to realize how desperately he needed to lie down and close his eyes against the sunlight.
She smiled again, and then nodded eagerly, as though the greatest desire in her poor, arid life was to provide strangers with a place to sleep away the hot afternoon hours.
“Siesta,” she echoed, and, with a sweep of her hand, indicated an open doorway hung with a long striped blanket. “You sleep,” the English words sounding somehow unfamiliar when she spoke them.
Thank God, the young man thought, relieved as much by her understanding of his language as by her willingness to let him stay. The place was, after all, a shop, not a hotel, and natives could be less than willing to offer hospitality to strangers.
Maybe it was because he looked exhausted. Or, more likely, she must have seen his car, recognized him as a wealthy Norte Americano, and was determined to extract what money she could from his fortuitous arrival.
He pulled out his leather wallet, removing five ones from the stack neatly tucked inside. The shopkeeper’s eyes gleamed, but she made no move to take the money, only standing patiently before him.
“Not enough?” he asked, a touch of irritation in his voice. What was the going rate for a cheap bed in a dirt-poor Mexican village? Undoubtedly, it depended entirely on the desperation of the visitor, and, with a mental shrug, he peeled two more dollar bills from the wad before extending it to the woman.
“For the room,” he said, when still she made no move to take the money. “Come, surely this must be enough for a room in your home for a couple hours,” but she only continued to smile in the dim light.
Angrily, he shoved his wallet back into his pocket, hoping she would understand that was all the money he was willing to offer. If she didn’t agree, then he would leave. But the thought of tackling the desert in the heat of the day was almost more than he could accept.
If only he had stayed in the city overnight, he thought for the twentieth time. Then, he would have been cool and refreshed before resuming his journey—and he would not have gotten lost in the darkness. He would never have come here, to this godforsaken town, and allowed a native to browbeat him into offering three times the room’s worth, just to escape the blazing sun and clinging dust that was Mexico.
“The room—come see it,” and she pulled at his arm, her strength surprising him given her age. Or was it only that he was exhausted, and lacked the energy to resist?
“But the money—” he started, and her eyes gleamed once more at the sight of the bills he held tightly in his hand.
“No pay now,” she answered. “Later, when it is time. All visitors—they pay later,” and she turned, her gnarled hand still holding his arm, and moved toward the rear of the store.
Visitors? he wondered, how many people came here? And why?
He followed her, through the doorway and around a corner to a small narrow room. He was so tired, so very tired, and suddenly he didn’t care what the room would cost. He would pay anything—anything at all!—just to lie down for a few hours in the cool darkness.
The room was dim, the closed shutters a shield against the blazing sunlight, and empty, save for a bed and low chest against the white stucco wall.
“Sleep,” she said, pointing to the bed. “Siesta.”
She turned down the starched white cotton sheet. “It has been many long months since we had a visitor here. But the sheets, they are clean,” and so cool, the young man thought longingly.
But the woman continued to talk, seemingly indifferent to his exhaustion. She moved around the room, straightening a cloth on the chest, and brushing a speck of dirt from the face of the small statue on a corner shelf.
“Our santo patrono, patron saint,” and he dutifully looked at the painted plaster statue, poorly made and primitive in design, even for this backwater town. “Today, we celebrate in his honor,” and she opened the shutters, letting in the full force of the sun’s heat, and pointed out the window.
The young man squinted in the sudden blinding brightness. It was several seconds before he could make out the figures on a distant hillside—what appeared to be several boys leading a young calf down the stony path.
“For the feast,” and he understood that the calf was being brought in for slaughter. “It is tradition to kill a young calf to honor our saint,” and she named one who was unfamiliar to him. One of the lesser-known ones, he guessed, remembered only by poor villagers who were not entitled to call upon the more popular saints for aid.
“You have this celebration every year?” he asked, more out of politeness than a genuine desire to know. But her answer surprised him.
“No, only when the saint provides for us. Sometimes he does not take good care of his people,” and her eyes darkened with the memory. “Many grow sick, crops die, and there is no food to fill the empty bellies of our children.”
“But sometimes,” and the mournful look was gone, the eyes sparkling like black diamonds, “the saint is good and sends us money—much money—and we can buy what we need.”
Boy, the churches back home ought to hear about this one, the young man thought. He had heard of saints working miracles with health, but one who brings cold hard cash—well, that was a saint he could light a few candles to himself!
He grinned at the old woman and asked jestingly, “This money—does the saint bring it in checks or cash?”
But he saw instantly that he had offended the woman, for she turned cold eyes upon him and muttered something under her breath. Even though the words were in Spanish, he understood enough to comprehend the need for an apology.
“I meant no disrespect,” he said hastily, mentally tacking another five bucks onto the rent for the room. He had better watch what he said. You never know with foreigners. “Perhaps you would let me come to the feast tonight,” he added, relying on the charm that had never yet failed to win him his way with clients or women. “That is, if you don’t mind a foreigner at your table.”
Her sudden spurt of laughter, over nearly as quickly as it started, disconcerted him. Then, she gazed at him gravely before replying.
“Yes, I come for you when it is time. You will be our honored guest.”
She latched closed the shutters then left the room, and it wasn’t until the young man stretched out on the bed—dirty shoes carelessly soiling the white sheets, bulky wallet thrown on the low chest—that he considered her words.
Strange kind of feast day, he thought, coming only at the whim of a saint.
He turned his sweaty face against the lace-trimmed pillow, his thoughts wandering through his tired mind. When people are this poor, I suppose they must take their joy where they can find it, he decided. And it’s decent of her to allow me to come tonight.
He smothered a yawn and sh
ut his eyes, glad she had pulled the shutters closed even if it did make the room slightly stuffy.
Poor people always seemed more generous than the rich, was his final drowsy thought. Perhaps that is why they are poor—and on that reflection, he fell asleep.
Hours later he awoke, unsure of the time but knowing he had slept well and deeply. The air in the room was hot and stale. When he opened the shutters, he saw the setting sun, the blood-red glow of the sky balanced by the slightly cooler evening air.
Looking at his watch, he realized it was late, far later than he had thought. The old woman must have decided to let him sleep until the feast was underway, and for the first time since he heard of the celebration, he wondered at the source of the money allegedly brought by the saint.
Surely, the woman’s meager rental charge would be hardly enough for a party. Could there have been a legacy from a villager who had traveled far from this miserable town to make his fortune?
It couldn’t be a sudden surge in the tourist trade, he thought half-amused, remembering the layer of dust covering the items in the store. It looked to have been undisturbed for quite a while. So where did the money come from?
Awake now and rested, his mind turned the problem over. The old woman—she wasn’t even eager to take his money. “Later,” she had said, and suddenly he remembered his wallet, which he had carelessly tossed onto the chest near the door. He had been so tired that he could have slept through an army invading his room, let alone one small silent woman who had seen his wallet and how many dollars were tucked inside.
Rapidly, he crossed the room and picked up his wallet, opening it to find that not one bill was missing.
His face flushed with shame, and he was conscious of having done the old woman a disservice. She had given him a bed in her home, had invited him to the village celebration—what kind of cynical man had he become to believe she would have stolen his money? These were simple folk with a code of honor long forgotten in the north.
The noise from outside drew him back to the window, and shading his eyes, he saw, next to the shop, a small open space crowded with villagers. Rough tables and benches had been set up, and the aroma of roasting beef—the “fatted calf”—drifted tantalizingly his way.
“Poor calf,” he said aloud. “You’re the guest of honor at the party, and you can’t even enjoy the feast.”
“Guest of honor”—where had he heard that phrase just recently?
He was still puzzling over the question, absentmindedly turning his wallet over and over in his hands, when he heard a knock at the door.
“Come in,” he called, and suddenly remembered what the shopkeeper had said earlier. “Honored guest,” she had called him, and this saint—this strange patron saint of the village—brings money, real money, the kind of money that even now was in his wallet, growing heavier by the second.
“Come in,” he called again, his voice trembling, and he clenched the expensive leather wallet filled with American currency—enough to keep a small town well-fed for several months—with fingers suddenly grown cold.
Reason enough for a celebration, he thought crazily.
The old woman stood in the doorway, her dark hair and clothes indistinguishable in the shadows. She moved farther into the room, and the last fading rays of the sun reflected in her eyes and glittered on the long blade of the carving knife she held in her hand.
“Come, honored guest,” she said softly, and he could almost swear there was a touch of pity in her voice.
She would speak that way, he thought inconsequentially, to the poor calf as she drew him closer for the slaughter.
“Come,” she said again. “It is time.”
Watching for Billy
The sound woke her from her usual afternoon sleep. One of the curses of old age was the need to nap at odd hours of the day, coupled with the inability to stay asleep during the dark hours of the night. And since Roger died, it was even worse. Agnes found herself nodding off at mid-morning while the game shows played on the television screen, during the afternoon courtroom dramas, after the soup-and-sandwich dinner that almost always constituted her evening meal. Why not? There was no one to talk to and nothing else to do.
Brad said that she wouldn’t be bored if she moved into one of those retirement homes. But she didn’t want to leave her home and go live among strangers—even if sometimes the loneliness was more than she could bear.
“I’ve lived here more than 60 years and I’m not leaving now,” she had told her son. “There’s nothing you can say that will change my mind.”
“Fine,” he answered, an unmistakable note of irritation in his voice. “But if you won’t move, then you need to at least have an alarm installed. There have been too many break-ins in your neighborhood lately.”
Agnes agreed reluctantly. She supposed her son meant well, although she wondered if it wasn’t more for his own peace of mind than her safety. But it wasn’t worth arguing about. After all, he was right about the old neighborhood. Over the years, it had slowly deteriorated as long-time friends and neighbors died or moved to the suburbs, and their once pristine middle-class houses chopped up into tiny cheap apartments that drew the worst elements, like maggots to rotting meat.
So she let Brad have his way and she was dutifully attentive when the technician explained how the alarm worked and what each noise and light represented.
During the long summer days, she didn’t bother to activate it until bedtime, trusting in the safety of daylight to keep thieves and robbers from her door. But as winter drew near and the days grew shorter, she found herself turning the alarm on at the first sign of dusk, feeling for the first time a little unsure, a little vulnerable, in the house where she had lived for six decades.
She struggled to her feet, straightening her housedress (the same one she had worn yesterday, and the day before yesterday, but after all, there wasn’t anyone to see her) and hurried to the back door to stop the buzzing sound of the alarm. She squinted at the touchpad where a steady red light indicated that there was something amiss, and, after fumbling to put on her bifocals, she was able to make out the source of the trouble. The basement—according to the indicator, the cellar door was open.
“When the alarm sounds, don’t investigate. Call the police,” the technician had warned her, but Agnes had no intention of disrupting the neighborhood with flashing lights and wailing sirens. She had probably failed to shut the door tight enough when she had taken the garbage out and the November wind had blown it back open. Agnes tapped in the code to stop the buzzer—four zeroes, simple enough to remember—and then went to see what the problem was.
When she flipped on the light switch, she saw that the door was indeed ajar, just enough to set off the alarm. But what she hadn’t expected was the line of wet footprints that led down the steps into the darkness—or the rustling sounds that ceased the moment the light came on. Someone was down there—someone was in her house!
Her heart started pounding in the quick way it did when she was frightened or upset, the familiar angina clutching at her chest in response to the increased tempo. She turned to—what? Call for help? There was no one to hear her—when a figure detached itself from the shadows to stand at the foot of the stairs.
“Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you.”
The voice was that of a young boy—barely in his teens, she judged. As he moved more into the light, she saw his tousled brown hair and dirty face, and those thin shoulders that were barely covered by the torn dark blue jacket he wore—a jacket far too lightweight to protect him from the wind.
“I was cold and hungry and then I saw that the door was open. I thought maybe I could get something to eat and maybe sleep for a little before I had to go back out there” and he gestured to the outside, where a steady icy rain had started to fall.
That sound, as much as the plaintive tone in his voice, decided her. She knew she ought to call the authorities or, at the very least, demand that he leave. Every day, it seemed, she r
ead about elderly people being attacked in their own homes by intruders. Wasn’t that the reason—or one of the reasons, anyway—why Brad wanted her to sell the house and move into a nursing home?
But she was a mother and believed that she could still tell a good child from a bad. Besides, she was all alone, dinnertime was fast approaching and what harm could it do to make a meal for two before sending him on his way with a full stomach? And maybe give him one of Roger’s jackets, one of the few that she hadn’t given away after his funeral.
“What’s your name?”
“Billy” he answered, moving onto the bottom step—to come up to her? To leave? She didn’t know.
“Hello, Billy. My name is Agnes. Why don’t you come upstairs,” she said, and the boy moved with alacrity—almost, she was to think later, as though he wasn’t surprised at her decision, as though he had known all along that she would take him in and feed him and clothe him.
Agnes made spaghetti, apologizing in embarrassment for the lack of meatballs. “I don’t cook much these days,” she said, ladling jarred store-brand sauce over the angel hair pasta that Roger had loved. “When my husband was alive, I cooked wonderful meals and he ate them all, not even leaving enough for leftovers. But since he died, well, there isn’t much point in cooking for one, is there?”
The boy wiped the sauce from his plate with a slice of white bread, and then drank all his milk, before looking directly at her.
“No family?” he asked.
“My son Brad lives too far to visit except during holidays and there isn’t anyone else. Roger and I only had the one child, you see, and then Brad never married so there aren’t even any grandchildren,” and unexpectedly, the tears came. It had been a long time since she cried.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered, wiping her eyes and blowing her nose before gathering up the plates from dinner. “It’s just that sometimes, I get lonesome. But here, enough about me. Where do you live? Where are your parents?”
Traveling Left of Center and Other Stories Page 4