PEG BOY

by Berube, R. G.

  They clasped in embrace as Fidel enjoyed the closeness; listening to Santiago’s heart beating and feeling his beep breathing as sleep overcame them. Then the room shuddered and rocked as though shaken by a giant hand. They heard the screams of other guests in nearby rooms. They heard the sound of crushing stone in the distance. In an instant they were standing in the middle of the room at full realization of what was happening. Fidel reached for the clothing and partially dressed as he threw clothing to Santiago.

  “Hurry, take your things and follow!”

  Fidel grabbed the boy’s arm and dragged him along the long and narrow corridor that led to stairs and an outside courtyard. They forced themselves past many who were trying to reach safety. Outside, they heard women calling to children and the wailing of children for their mothers. It seemed everyone was looking for someone. Dust billowed everywhere as a part of the inn collapsed, the stone wall webbed with cracks. The entire courtyard was exposed to the street and so they climbed across rubble to the safety of the nearby square.

  “Here,” Fidel called. “Come this way!”

  Santiago followed as he threaded his way among the rubble and climbed over large boulders of shattered storefronts. Bodies were lying beneath fallen debris, some still moving and pleading for help. Santiago hesitated but Fidel pulled him along. They ran southward, following others who were also heading for the safety of the plaza and marketplace. They saw many with glazed eyes, stunned by the catastrophe, seemingly unable to decide what needed to be done.

  Running side by side, they felt a second surge; a great wave that heaved them to the ground. The road before them undulated like a giant ribbon in the wind and everything upon it was tossed like miniature playthings. Cobblestones were wrenched from the roadbed, becoming deadly projectiles. The dust became increasingly thick and made breathing more laborious as roofs collapsed, sending rubble into the streets making it dangerous and difficult to pass. Santiago and Fidel watched as the steeple of the church across the plaza teetered and the bell within it announced its descent, crashing through the church’s roof. Tiles were flung everywhere and the remaining walls of the building fell on those running past, crushing many to death.

  Somewhere beyond the square a fire raged and the sky was brightly lit as it was so often during holiday celebrations when fireworks filled it with spectacle. Flames shot high in the sky and they felt the heat even from where they stood. Other dwellings nearby were igniting, and soon flames spread throughout the district. The sounds of devastation caused many to panic and some ran into flaming buildings attempting to save what little they owned. Others roamed the streets looking for lost loved-ones. Santiago’s heart shuddered as he heard the screams and somewhere ahead the ground opened again and fire shot out. Everything was burning or falling into flames to be burned. Nothing was as it had been only moments before. The evening had begun with such promise – filled with tenderness and solitude. It seemed impossible for it to have turned into violence and death.

  Among the surging throng the boys went unnoticed. All seemed to have the same feeling that collecting into groups would provide more protection and security. There was pain and fear everywhere. Those who were not injured helped others. A separate place was designated for the collection of the dead. Any who seemed capable were assigned to emergency stations to give assistance to those most needy.

  Priests were moving among the dead and near-dead, administering the last rites. In the first-aid stations all who could, helped collect the children who were lost or alone. They were soothed and led in song to distract their minds. In the turmoil Fidel and Santiago felt lost, for they knew no one.

  “What will we do now, Fidel? Do you think it was this bad in the hills?”

  It was the first time the thought had occurred to him. Was Santa Cecilia still standing? Were his parents safe?

  “We must try finding some way of getting home,” he said. Santiago felt the tension mounting as the destructive power of the catastrophe penetrated his stunned brain.

  The earth seemed quieted but one could never tell when the next after-shock would occur. They seemed to follow in decreasing magnitude.

  “Fidel, we’ve got to get back to the inn and find the mule and cart.”

  “Yes, we must get back home as soon as possible. My mother will be sick with worry. I pray to God that they were spared this destruction!”

  “Perhaps not,” Santiago answered impulsively as he recited his Hail Mary in hopes the prayer would fly to heaven and appease the wrath of God.

  “We’ll never find out by sitting here. Come, let us go to the inn and see if there is anything left of the place.”

  Everyone but the innkeeper had left. Señor Diaz had stayed behind to protect the property of his guests and was doing so effectively by discouraging anyone from entering with his presence and a loaded weapon cradled in his arms. When he saw the boys, he rose and threw his arms around each in greeting, thanking God for their safety. He told them to go try rescuing as many of their belongings as they could find. He said he thought the mule and cart was unharmed. They made their way to the stable and although the roof had collapsed, it had not done damage because of its straw composition. The stone walls still stood. None of the animals seemed harmed. Some of the furniture had been marred by falling rafters. The boys were happy to see they still had transportation and would not need to walk back to Santa Cecilia.

  Santiago spoke to the innkeeper and received permission to leave his charge of furniture and other items with him. They would settle as soon as he could return with his father. Don Emilio’s customers would not be in the position of buying his wares any time soon after this tragedy. After the cleaning-up took place, available funds would be spent on repair and reconstruction. Señor Diaz said he would put the items in storage as a favor to Don Emilio and that the boys should not worry about them.

  The return journey was made safer by the fact that they were not carrying anything of value that could be stolen. Highwaymen were notoriously abundant after such events, preying on refugees who traveled with all their belongings to mountain relatives. The Lima road ran along a high bluff that went to Callao. It was now crowded with the homeless. Many had begun to erect tents along the roadside so that little clusters of tent-villages lined the highway. Campfires could be seen everywhere. By the time Santiago and Fidel were out of the city’s limits the sun had begun to end its morning light above the mountain’s ridges and the Andes were silhouetted against a pale blue sky. It would take them the better part of seven hours to reach Santa Cecilia, the tiny village on the slopes above Lima.

  The boys stopped twice when invited to eat and drink, and shared the few provisions they had salvaged with their hosts. They learned that Callao had suffered greatly from a tidal wave and that much of its waterfront had been swept away. Word began to spread from many places that devastation of equal force had been felt. Fidel urged that they delay no longer but to strike out non-stop until they reached their village. Each tried to remain calm but the worst thoughts crossed their minds.

  It took longer to return because the road was uphill and the mule tired easily. They walked alongside it whenever they saw it begin to lather. Santiago, normally talkative and outgoing, was now silent and pensive. Fidel wanted to reassure him but he knew that talking about what might have happened would only serve to enhance the fears. Yet he had to say something!

  “Come, Santiago, don’t let yourself believe the worse has happened until we have seen for ourselves. There is no need to let our imaginations run away and become upset about something that might not be as bad as we think. Maybe they did not get much of the shock up there!”

  The surrounding countryside proved this not to be the case as they began to see that the shock had been as severe in the hills as it had been in the lowlands. Fences were torn apart, having been moved several feet. Gaping holes in the ground had swallowed tress so that only the tops were visible. Cattle, sheep, and a variety of animals roamed loose. Chickens and pigs c
hased each other so that the countryside resounded with the braying, clucking, squealing and a multitude of other noises. They passed many people and shunned them as they were shunned. Everyone had cause for suspicion of all who were unfamiliar. It was for this reason that they would come no closer than a few yards when they were hailed by a man after they had passed him. When he called Fidel’s name and identified himself as the merchant who came to his mother’s shop to purchase her weaving, the boys stopped. The merchant was returning from Santa Cecilia. They sat beneath a tree as the merchant told them of what he had seen.

  “I do not want to give you bad news,” he hedged, “but things do not look good up there. Many people were killed. The priest opened the church to be used as a morgue.”

  Fear filled the faces of the two boys and the merchant felt responsible to tell them as much of the truth as he could.

  “As far as I know your mother was not one of them,” he told Fidel. Looking at Santiago, who he did not recognize immediately, the man nodded.

  “You are the Cali boy? I know nothing about your family but I did not hear anything bad, either. So perhaps everything is well.”

  There was no comfort in the thought as a feeling in the pit of Santiago’s stomach made him weary and urged him to get home as quickly as possible.

  “Fidel, we should not stay here too long. Let us be off! Thank you for the water and the information Señor. Our parents will worry if we do not return soon!”

  Fidel nodded and shook the man’s hand.

  Anxieties increased as they approached Santa Cecilia. The damage was intensive. Here too, the church steeple had been toppled. Fields they passed were furrowed deeply where the earth had rent itself. At several places they had to detour around crevasses too wide to cross. Santiago decided to go with Fidel to his house, as it was the first to be reached. Carlota Timuco was not home. After searching the town they found her assisting the injured with several other women, under the direction of Padre Lipolito. Once she was sure Fidel was safe and that he was satisfied about her own safety, Carlota urged her son to go along with Santiago. She knew how close the two boys were and of the nature of their relationship!

  Carlota had long known of her son’s inclination. She adjusted to it by the deep love of him and the teachings of her church. The Church instructed that it was not the place to judge others, but to accept people for who they were. All were God’s children! The Church preached love as the all-guiding force that led to heaven. Carlota was one of the few Christians who practiced the teaching. If love was what her son felt for the Cali boy, then it had to be good. She knew what the priest would have said about the matter and understood the double standard that existed with crusaders of the Church.

  When Santiago asked about his family, Carlota could not respond truthfully. She had heard the news and did not want to be the one to tell him, but knew it had to come from Don Emilio. Carlota was able to take her son aside and warm him so that he would be prepared for the shock Santiago would experience.

  “Do not leave him, Fidel. Stay with him tonight and for as long as he needs you. Comfort him. He will need your love and friendship more than ever!”

  Fidel was silent during the walk to Santiago’s home. He wanted to lighten the air but did not know what to say.

  “What did your mother tell you?”

  Santiago asked the question as though he knew something had transpired between them. He turned to Fidel and looked deeply in his eyes.

  “I must know! I think I do already..., but please tell me.”

  Fidel knew he had to tell the truth, for Santiago already suspected the worse and perhaps believed that both his parents were dead.

  “Santi, mama told me she heard that your mother was killed when she was unable to get out of the house in time. She was trapped beneath the rubble and your father was himself caught in the eruption, here in the village. She died before he could return to save her. I'm sorry... I know how much you loved her.”

  If he could have taken Santiago’s pain as his own he would have done so willingly. He loved Santiago so deeply that he could have given his life for him. The sadness he saw in his lover’s eyes brought him close to tears, but he also saw something he had never seen before. It took him some moments to recognize that the fire that blazed from those once-sweet eyes was of hate.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The blackness that descended upon him was one so weighted with anger that Santiago felt he was suffocating. Deep in his mind a voice urged calmness, as everything had cause and reason. Overwhelmed with the intensity of emotion he experienced for his father, he feared the devil had taken possession of his soul. He shook with rage and was frightened at his wish to have his father dead. Santiago could think of no other reason for Florienda Cali’s death! Don Emilio had been in the village, drinking. He had been unable to help her when she had needed him. Florienda would not have died if she had not been alone!

  Santiago’s hands were clenched so tightly that his fingers ached. He tried to hold back the tears and the need to scream, but the tears came. At the center of his being was an emptiness so vast that he felt sucked into it and the loneliness was only pacified by the presence of his lover. He visualized himself pummeling his father’s face until it lost all familiarity, wanting to hit him until all the rage in him was spent.

  Santiago had resented his father’s drinking, but not until this day had he felt so outraged about the matter, having refused to see the habit as a sign that a serious problem existed. The anger had been carefully concealed and insidiously nurtured and now it exploded from the darkness like an ugly beast looming so that he could not turn from it but allowed it to spring forth, and he fed it as it reached extraordinary proportions. It felt wonderful and terrible all at once. Adrenaline coursed through his body and he felt overpowered. Violence erupted and he heard a voice screaming in his ears and the voice was his own.

  “Father..., father..., you demon..., I hate you!”

  He screamed with such vehemence that Fidel was startled. The boy that sat beside him was not the one he knew.

  “You killed her with your cursed bottle...! I hate you!” Santiago began to cry and made no effort to hide his torment.

  Fidel said nothing. He took the reins from Santiago’s hands and drove the cart. With his other hand he held his beloved around the waist. Fidel knew Santiago would need to have time to sort his thoughts and knew too that Santiago was acting out of a legitimate reason for his anger. The village had begun to talk about Don Emilio’s drinking and that he often left his wife alone. The anger was not unfounded. Fidel had wondered when Santiago would start to resent the way his mother was being treated. Although there were no beatings, a behavior common among Spanish men, leaving Florienda to her own devices for long periods was considered neglect. Florienda Cali had once been active in the community’s affairs but her seclusion resulted in many of the villagers considering her an oddity.

  Fidel knew the subject was too sensitive to talk about and he allowed Santiago to come to him if he wished consoling and comforting. For some time they did not speak. Santiago’s silence was respected and he finally stopped crying.

  “Santi, you have me and all my love. Ask for whatever you need. I am here. Can I do anything?”

  “Yes,” Santiago whipped around on the seat and faced him. “You could help me make him pay for killing my mother.”

  “But you’ve always loved Don Emilio, and you’ve never had a disagreement with him. Why hate him so much now? The drinking was his way of escaping the pain of Emilio’s death and of her sadness.”

  “Yes, they both escaped! I lost my father to the bottle and my mother, to her silence.”

  Fidel held him tighter. “You are right, Santiago. She did not have his bottle. She had her own inner-world. You know how seldom she knew what day it was. Remember the times we would stop by her room to say hello and she would look at us carefully, trying to recall where she had seen the faces that appeared somewhat familiar? Santiago, she was un
happy. It was not because of your father. Don Emilio treated her well. It was after Emilio died that she decided to stop living.”

  As soon as Fidel heard himself say the words, he realized they were the wrong ones. Santiago’s face was ripped with pain and the tears that cane were not ones of anger but of sorrow and deep-felt hurt.

  “Yes, she stopped living. That was fine with her! Didn’t she know she had an other son? How little I mattered to her!”

  “You know that is not true, Santiago. Remember the love that would show in her eyes when she would recognize you?”

  “Not enough to stay with me!” Santiago bowed his head and his shoulders hung in despair. “But I loved her so much..., so much. Mamacita..., mamacita…, why did you leave us?”

  In the distance Fidel saw the familiar tile roof of the Cali house. Only part of it still stood. Half the structure had fallen into the courtyard. Don Emilio’s workshop, located at the rear of the house, had also been demolished. Two people were working in the rubble, carrying rocks and timbers to a small cart. One of them was Don Emilio and the other, a woman he had brought in to care for his wife. Both stopped what they were doing and looked up the road when they heard the approaching wagon. Don Emilio came to meet them. Santiago sat upright, his back rigid, his face set, hands clenched. Don Emilio noticed his son’s unfamiliar expression and was alarmed.

  “You’ve heard, then?” Assuming the boys had been told what had happened in the village.

  Santiago looked down at him, his eyes ablaze with hate. “I heard she was killed because she was left alone!”

  The words cut through DonEmelio like knives, wounding him deeply.