by John Horst
Arvel stood as best man. They’d invited everyone from the expedition to Mexico and all who supported them in the rescue.
The pretty buxom redhead was the life of the party. She danced with all the eligible young men, white, Mexican and Indian alike. She grabbed Chica by the hand as she passed, gave it a squeeze and whispered something into her ear. Chica looked on at the pretty sandy haired boy with blue eyes standing next to her. Things would be different between him and his mother from now on. Chica looked the woman in the eye. “It is time to live, Bonita, remember, it is time to live.”
Hennessy was there and would not leave Arvel’s side. He’d mellowed over the years and became one of Arvel’s most devoted friends. All the nuns of the convent were there and Chica was able to present them with a hefty check to help in their ministry to the poor. She would never forget their kindness and the old mother superior’s courage throughout the ordeal.
Dick Welles was there with his family and he proudly introduced everyone to his grandson and beautiful daughter-in-law. Little did he know that Michael and his family had been guests at the Mule Ranch for many years. No one had the heart to tell him.
Billy Livingston was in attendance, with his adopted family, and little Bob played on Uncle Bob’s knee. Dan George offered the toast, as Arvel still felt too tongue-tied to speak clearly enough. He raised his glass and spoke in his clear, articulate voice; “To Pilar and Robert, may they continue to bring joy and happiness to each other and continue to bring joy and happiness to all of the good folks of this great land.”
The hands all provided the entertainment and everyone danced and sang along to the popular tunes while Will Panks and Raphael put on a fireworks display, Will’s new family close at hand.
They celebrated late into the evening and through the night. Arvel saw Chica wander off alone, outside of the glow of the strung electric lights. She was gazing off into the moonlit desert; he sauntered up behind her and put his arms around her waist, breathing in the lovely scent of her raven hair. Her cheeks were wet and she pushed herself back, into his chest, pulled his arms around her and squeezed them tightly. She suddenly turned and looked into his eyes. “Is all okay, my Arvel, Is all okay.”
Epilogue
Joaquin went to the Bayonne post office to claim the boxes addressed to him. The clerk was a sullen little man who complained that the packages stunk of animal hides and were leaking rock salt all over his storeroom. Joaquin signed for the packages and got them home. He read with interest the scrawl, half English and half Spanish, recognizing at once it was from Chica.
The letter read:
Dear Joaquin,
Here are two head for your Russian man. Do not open these boxes in front of any children or weak man or weak woman. They will make them fall over, I think, ha ha. These heads belong with the other hijo de puta I made for you many year ago. The one head, it don’t matter which one, is Sombrero Del Oro, the worst bandit of Mexico and brother to the first head. The other is his servant. Please to send these to the travel show, and you may have all the money it make. I do not want the money, I just want to make the man look like stupid fools. Make sure many gringos see them.
PS-Rebecca got stolen by Sombrero Del Oro, but she is good now, and you know, once you open the box what happened to the bandit. Dead, dead, dead, ha ha.
Love, Maria
Read a little of
The Mule Tamer III
Marta’s Quest
© 2012 John C. Horst
I Stonefields 1911
“Ah, I theenk I have eat almost clean, señorita!”
“Stop, stop!” The debutante’s screams echoed off the curved sides of the porcelain bowl as the children stood, agog, mesmerized, not certain what to do.
“Someone should find Rebecca.”
The young Mexican woman pulled the debutante out and moved her to the next. “I theenk these a one is a little dirtier, señorita, I will get eat nice an’ clean for you!”
The young woman squirmed, unable to free herself from the Mexicana’s grip. She was furious and frightened and humiliated.
“Stop it. Stop it, let me go!” Her long pretty hair swished about the toilet bowl, thankfully headmistress had a good housekeeping staff or the experience could have likely been much worse.
Marta looked up, saw Rebecca arrive, breathlessly, an underclassman holding her hand, pulling her anxiously along. She smiled at her sister weakly.
“Ah, seester, you are jus’ een time, la nina rica wan’s us fregonas to make everything nice an’ clean.”
Rebecca Walsh knew not to command her sister to stop. It would only encourage her to continue. “Marta, why are you talking this way?”
“Ay chingao, we are Mexicana trash, seester, we musta’ obey the reach girl.”
She finally turned the girl upright, onto her feet. She looked the red-faced child in the eye as the toilet water ran down her face. She gave her rosy cheeks a squeeze, then patted her face.
Marta lost her cruel smile. “Next time, think twice before you open your mouth, dear.”
The debutante ran off, humiliated.
Marta wiped her hands as she looked into a mirror and straightened a displaced lock of hair. The little girls surrounded her, scared, and awed and mesmerized by the wild upperclassman. One spoke up.
“Gosh, Marta, you’re in for it now.”
Marta smiled. “Sweetheart, I have only one term to go. What is Madame going to do to me now?” She looked at Rebecca’s reflection through the mirror. “I suppose we’ll be seeing Abuelita sooner than later, Rebecca.”
Rebecca suppressed a grin. Before she could answer, a fourteen year old looked her in the eye then back at Marta. “That new girl was very cross. Marta tried to make her stop but she wouldn’t. She saw Marta and said it was nice that we had live-in maids and Marta tried to get her to stop and she kept on, making bad comments about Marta’s color. Then Marta turned her upside down and used her head to scrub the toilets.”
Rebecca patted the girl softly on the shoulder, she looked at the girls all around them. “You all go on back to your rooms. You make sure you were somewhere else when this all occurred, okay?” They nodded obediently and ran off. Rebecca always made things right and she’d keep the girls, all of them, out of it.
She looked at Marta’s face in the mirror and smiled broadly, turned her head from side to side. “You are incorrigible, girl. Simply incorrigible.”
The two old ladies sat in the headmistress’s office one either side of the big oak desk. They loved each other, friends for more than sixty years. Abuelita sat, back straight, her big egret feather hat draped over one eye giving her the appearance of a beautiful old lady buccaneer. She finally spoke up.
“How much, dear?”
Madame Boutin sat back and tapped the desk blotter with a pen. She regarded Alice Walsh and chose her words carefully. Alice was her best friend in the world and was the reason Stonefields existed at all, as the old school mistress had a title and education, but nothing more than the clothes on her back when she arrived in America all those many years ago. Alice gave her the big break, even got her to change the spelling of her name from Button, to Boutin. She remembers that recommendation as if it happened only yesterday, sounds like you’ll be training seamstresses, dear. Can’t have it, you must sound more exotic than all that. And Alice, of course, was right. Alice Walsh was, it seemed, always right, and as good and loyal a patron as anyone starting, and then running a boarding school for refined young ladies, could ever find.
“The gymnasium needs a new roof.” Alice Walsh smiled and calculated the cost in her mind. Her Marta was an expensive child.
“What of the new girl? Will there be trouble?”
Madame Boutin blew air through pursed lips. “Bah, the family hasn’t a pot to piss in. They only put her in here because they had to flee the debt collectors in Europe. She’s gone, and good riddance, would not have likely gotten a penny from them anyway.”
“And I am puttin
g a roof on the gymnasium why? Sounds like Marta should be receiving a reward of some kind for saving you a lot of trouble.”
She did not receive an answer as they were interrupted by the secretary who placed a box on the desk between them and then just as quickly left the room. Madame Boutin began to remove the items one by one as Abuelita sat, leaning forward to see what she was up to.
The headmistress first placed several packets of cigarettes between them. Alice Walsh picked one up, removed two cigarettes and handed one to her friend. They smoked.
Madame Boutin took out the remaining items, to include a pack of playing cards, a book of naughty limericks, ticket stubs to the Gaiety theatre, and a folded envelope with a picture of a rooster on the label.
“Coq de la promenade.” Abuelita read the cover with great purpose. “She has condoms? What sort of school are you running, dear?”
Madame Boutin smiled coyly. “Not condoms, darling. Just one.” She breathed her answer with her smoke. “What kind of granddaughter are you raising, dear?”
They finished two more of Marta’s cigarettes and sat silently for a while.
“Alice, what’s going to happen to Rebecca?”
Alice didn’t look up. She knew what her friend meant. She nodded her head gravely. “There’s nothing to be done. Rebecca and Marta are as one. They might just as well be Siamese twins.”
“You know Marta can’t do these things when they go to Smith next year. You know that. They won’t put up with Marta up there and she’ll hold Rebecca back.”
“What do you propose, dear?”
“Nothing. Nothing, just a rhetorical question, dear. There’s nothing to be done is there?”
“Would you do it if there was? Would you want to change her?” She smiled at the old school mistress.
“I would change nothing about that girl, Alice, you know I’d change not a thing. I just worry over Rebecca.” She shifted the items on the desk, threw the condom and book of limericks in the trash. She looked on at Alice. “What do you want me to do about this fellow from the mining company?”
Alice Walsh blew a plume of smoke the size of her hat. “What does Marta say?”
“She doesn’t want any help. She’s been corresponding with Mr. George. She says what he says goes, but they want to meet with her, the mining representative, nonetheless, and she’s consented to do it.”
“Well, why not see if you can sit in with them? She might allow it. I know she won’t let me, or my lawyer.” Alice leaned forward in her seat. “She’ll be nineteen this year, by our best guess and she’s smarter than any lawyer I’ve ever known. Let her deal as she sees fit. You know she’s been running the ranch in Mexico, in absentia, for the last three years, I think she can handle a mining company.”
The last child’s hair was platted, and the two young ladies sent their little charges off to bed. A straggler loitered, needing help with her Latin. Marta was a good teacher, surrogate mother, confidante. They kissed each one in turn. The youngest looked back at Marta. “Did you really clean the toilets with the girl’s head, Marta?”
“I did, darling. But that does not mean you should do such a thing. Violence is never the answer. I should be ashamed of myself for what I did. I should be very sorry.” She kissed the girl on the forehead and sent her on to bed. “Did you clean your teeth?” She called after her and nodded.
They were in bed now, alone. “Was Abuelita very upset, Rebecca?”
“No.”
“I worry about her. She will be ninety-one this year. Am I aging her?”
“No.”
“You’re quiet tonight.”
“I’m tired, Marta. Let’s go to sleep.”
“They took my things, you know.”
“You’ll get more cigarettes. You always do.”
“But my books, and cards.”
“Those limericks weren’t even funny. And you’ll get more cards easily enough.”
“They took the overcoat.”
Rebecca was drifting. “You have no need for it. You aren’t going to do it.”
“Well, I might. I might just do it and then where will I be? Do they want me to get a disease, or get knocked up?”
She’d lost her. Marta knew by her breathing that her sister was asleep. She wished she had a cigarette, but soon too fell asleep.
“Young lady.” The man stood up, smiled weakly but did not extend his hand. He did not shake hands with women or children and especially not with dark ones.
Marta sat at headmistress Boutin’s desk. She graciously refused the old woman’s presence at the meeting. A young man sat next to the representative. He was a bit older than Marta, likely mid-twenties. He had a nice face, pale, like her father, with lovely blue eyes. He smiled at the pretty young woman.
Being a normal young man, he liked pretty women and was pleased to be in her presence. He stood up a little straighter than his companion and extended his hand, stretching across the width of the desk to accommodate her. “Robert Curtin, ma’am.” When he took hers, he bowed at the waist.
Marta sat and looked over the papers in front of her. She did not speak. She’d been reading a lot lately, books on negotiation, written by an aggressive new-money rich man to help the up and coming young working class. She studied the author’s writing, knew it well and used this meeting to practice what she’d learned, even going so far as to arrange the curtains behind Madame’s desk so that Marta was backlit with glaring sunlight. She also fixed the chairs, and now she sat six inches higher than the two men on the other side of the desk. They both squinted, were disoriented, uncomfortable, unable to make out the expression on Marta’s face. Her actions produced the desired effect. The older man squirmed, then coughed, then cleared his throat. Marta looked up at him, through his eyes, into his brain. She still said nothing.
“Young lady.”
“You may address me as Miss del Toro,” she didn’t look up as she spoke. “Unless you want to continue in this ridiculous manner, in which case, I’ll refer to you as old man.”
“Ah, Miss del Toro, of course. Beg your pardon. We are here on Mr. George’s request.”
“Yes, I know. Dan and I have been in communication about your proposal. I don’t understand, though. He knows what I want. Why are you not dealing with him?”
“With due respect ma’am. That Indian is a bit dis…”
Marta cut him off. “That Indian?” She cast her eyes onto the young man who presently looked mortified at his aged companion. He did not expect this from his colleague.
Marta looked back at and through the old man. “I am sorry, but why would you say such a thing? I don’t call you that Caucasoid, do I?” She did not wait for his response. “I am sorry, Mister, what’s your name again?”
“Tolkenhorn.”
“An unusual name. Not really a very common name is it?” She looked at Curtin, could now tell, in the twinkling of an eye, in a fraction of a second, that Curtin was not an ass, and knew well that his companion definitely was. She looked back at the lawyer. “I’m guessing some sort of a bastardization of an eastern European name. You’re not a bohunk are you?”
The young man smirked, suppressed a laugh, nearly fell out of his chair, as his arm slipped off the armrest, he then recovered. She was magnificent. The older man was outraged, but dared not speak of it. His face reddened and he looked at his hands. She did not let him reply.
“I’ve been over these documents. Frankly, Mr. Talking Horn, I believe you should fire the law clerk who proofed them. Disgraceful.”
“Young lad, uh…Miss Del Toro, I drafted the documents and proofed them myself.”
Marta looked on at the young man. “Well, at least you didn’t do it.” Curtin blushed.
She changed her focus to the lawyer. “Mr. Talking Horn, there is no such word as irregardless, you’ll need to strike that. You’ve also written, let me see, one two three, four, five, six times the wrong use of the word council, I’m guessing you meant counsel.” She looked further an
d stopped herself, like an impatient schoolmarm. “No, no, here”, she pushed it toward him, “I’ve circled all the errors, to include the use of wave instead of waive, you can take it back and rewrite it.” She sat back in her chair and looked the men in the eye. “Are you self-taught or a morbidly ignorant product of our public school system?” She wondered suddenly if she’d gone too far and tried to change the mood.
“Either of you gentlemen smoke? I could stand a cigarette right now.”
The young man jumped to his feet, handing her one from his case. He quickly lit it for her. She smoked while considering the two men. She looked on again at Curtin replacing his cigarette box and wiggled her finger, commanding that he surrender it to her. He complied and she emptied it of most of the cigarettes. She returned it to him.
“I’m still not clear on why you two are here. You’re based in California and could have resolved all of this with Mr. George in Arizona, yet you’ve traveled the continent to speak to a nineteen-year-old dark Mexican. What do you want?”
“Miss Del Toro, it is a matter of land use versus outright purchase. We want to purchase your land, not just use it but Mr. George would not hear of it. It’s quite unstable down there now, no telling what will happen, anarchists, socialists, anything could happen. Why not just sell us the land outright? We are prepared to give you one hundred thousand dollars for the land.”
“One hundred times its value.” She looked seriously at the men.
“Yes, madam, and enough for you to live comfortably for many years. On your own, with your own funds.”