Shame the Stars

by McCall,Guadalupe Garcia

  Enraged, I rushed at him with all the ferocity of a bull. I plowed into him so hard we fell into the street, kicking up a cloud of dust as we hit the ground. I rolled over and got on top of him, pounding his face again and again. Davis and the rest of the lawmen stood over us. They hooted and hollered, yelling, “Come on, Slater!”

  “Get up!”

  “Hit that bean-eater!”

  “Hit him!”

  But I was not about to let that happen. As I punched away at Slater’s bloody face, no one tried to stop me. They wouldn’t have been able to anyway. The locomotive inside me was running full steam ahead. It wasn’t until I heard Papá’s distinct, long-winded whistle that I halted. Holding Slater down on the ground under me, I saw Munro and Papá running down the boardwalk in our direction.

  “Boy, what do you think you’re doing?” Munro asked, pulling me off Slater.

  Papá turned me toward him. He tested the scrapes on my face gently with his fingertips and sighed deeply. Manuel reached down, picked up my hat, dusted it off by slapping it against his leg, and handed it back to me. Frustrated, I pushed my hair back and shoved my hat down on my head. On the ground, Slater moaned and coughed, rolling over on his side to spit out blood. Then he put his fingers in his mouth and pulled out a jagged tooth.

  “Jesus! What a mess!” Munro said, shaking his head in disgust.

  “He had it coming!” I exclaimed.

  Slater was a pathetic sight, writhing on the ground, acting as helpless as a slimy worm on a fishing hook.

  “I didn’t do nothing, Capt’n,” Slater proclaimed, spitting up some more blood for effect. “He just come out of nowhere.”

  “I had to do something!” I said. “He’s been spreading rumors! Lies! About Dulceña! I couldn’t let him get away with that. He can’t talk like that. Not about her. Not about my Dulceña.”

  Slater stood up, grabbing at his side as he continued. “I didn’t do nothing. I was just talking to my friends when he come up on the porch and took a swing at me for no reason at all. You can ask these guys if you don’t believe me.”

  Munro didn’t have to ask, because Davis jumped in and corroborated Slater’s story. “Don’t know what he’s crying about. Slater and us, we was just minding our own business and then here comes Joaquín bustin’ things up, gettin’ all mad for nothin’.”

  “That’s not what happened,” Mateo said, stepping forward to speak to the Ranger directly. “Slater’s been saying some vile things, making Señorita Dulceña sound like a loose woman, when we all know she’s anything but.”

  “I’m not lying,” Slater said, pressing his palm against his left nostril, trying to stop the bleeding. “You’re just jealous ’cause your negrita’s no better. Or didn’t you know your little chocolate doll likes the white boys too?”

  “Shut your mouth, you ignorant pig!” Mateo said, spitting at Slater’s feet. “Conchita would never get near a filthy tlacuache like you!”

  Slater stepped back. “Shut your own mouth, messy-skin!”

  “You call him that one more time and I’ll tear your tongue out!” I pointed a finger in Slater’s face.

  “Now hold on!” Munro stepped between me and Slater again, holding out his hands like an official in a boxing ring. “Nobody’s going to do anything. This stops now!” Then, turning to my father, he said, “I don’t want to tell you what to do, Ace. But your boys are out of control. Might be they’ve been influenced by rebels, same as Gerardo Gutierrez. I’d straighten them out before they gets themselves in too deep.”

  “That’s bull! Gerardo is not a rebel,” I said. “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d done your job!” I said, mustering up the courage to tell Munro what I really thought about his refereeing.

  “Joaquín!” The terse tone of Papá’s voice told me he’d had enough. A good son doesn’t talk back to his father in front of another man, and I was trying my best to be a good son. So I clenched my teeth to keep myself from saying anything else until we were alone, until we could sit down and hash this thing out. If it was me, I’d tell Munro exactly what he could do with his opinion.

  “What’s going on here, Ace?” Munro took his hat off and wiped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief before tucking it inside his shirt pocket. “What kind of potrillos are you raising in your corral? I suggest you take your son home before he gets himself arrested.”

  “Or killed!” Slater popped off one more time from behind Munro.

  “You keep your trap shut! You’re in enough trouble already!” Munro pushed Slater away from him in disgust and turned back to Papá. “Let’s get these boys away from each other, Ace. You deal with yours and I’ll deal with mine.”

  Papá’s voice was low and gruff, his words quiet as lit dynamite. “Fine. Make sure you take care of it this time.”

  “Oh, I’ll take care of it, all right,” Munro growled at my father. “Don’t you worry about that. These boys. The business with Gerardo. It’s all going to get sorted out! I just hope you’re as prepared for what’s coming as you think you are.”

  “Is that supposed to intimidate me?” my father asked, lifting his chin. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  Munro’s lips pulled back against his cheeks slowly, like they were being drawn against their will, revealing an unsightly row of long, yellowing teeth. He looked like a calaca, a desiccated skull, smiling eerily. “We’ll see what Gerardo has to say about that,” he said, then he tipped his hat and walked off. “Come on, boys. Let’s go talk to Nolan.”

  Manuel said the lumber wouldn’t be ready for pick-up until Monday morning, so Papá and I got in the wagon and sped down the dirt road toward Las Moras. Manuel and the twins kept a respectful distance behind us, giving me and Papá room to speak about the incident in front of Nina’s shop. But my father wasn’t in a mood to speak. The fast pace he was keeping said it all. He was furious.

  We drove like that for at least twenty minutes, both of us fuming in silence. “I’m sorry, Papá,” I said after my blood had stopped boiling enough to let me think straight again. “I didn’t mean to cause any more trouble. I know you’ve got enough to worry about with this mess with Gerardo, but you have to understand! I couldn’t let Slater just get away with dragging Dulceña’s reputation through the mud like that.”

  Papá shook his head and slowed down a bit before he finally spoke to me. “I just wish you weren’t such a hothead, Joaquín.”

  “What was I supposed to do?” I asked. “Curl up and hide in my shell like a cochinilla? I’m not a cowardly bug, Papá. I can’t do that! That’s not how you brought us up. You’ve always said a man stands up for what’s right. And protecting Dulceña’s good name was the right thing to do, even if you’re still mad at Don Rodrigo. I guess you know by now, she’s my sweetheart, and I have to protect her. It’s my fault she’s in this mess. I shouldn’t have agreed to meet her. Not there. Not at night. So now it’s up to me to make sure nothing else comes of this.”

  “I understand what you’re saying, Joaquín,” Papá said. “I didn’t expect you to roll over and play dead. You did what you had to do. You stood up for Dulceña, defended her honor. That’s what a gentleman would do. Anytime. However, there comes a time when a man has to decide how he wants to be regarded by society. You need to learn to think before you act, Son. You can’t solve every problem with a fistfight.”

  “I guess we disagree on that,” I said.

  My father kept his narrowed eyes on the road, his lips tight, before he finally said, “Yes we do.”

  Secret Message from Dulceña, Sunday, August 22, 1915

  J —

  You will never lose me! Estamos enlazados — our hearts are tethered.

  Forever Yours,

  — D

  Chapter 7

  Because of all the nonsense with Slater, I wasn’t able to send Dulceña my letter while I was in town, but I managed
to give it to Mateo, who handed it over to Conchita during service on Sunday morning. I couldn’t very well be the one giving Conchita a note in church, but Mateo managed it with ease. It was a good thing, because I got an immediate response.

  That very afternoon, I found a tiny note tucked within the folds of my napkin at dinnertime. I wasn’t expecting it to be there, not so soon after having sent her mine, so it fell to the floor when I pulled my napkin open. I wasn’t quick enough to snap the small, pink envelope onto my lap without calling attention to it. Time stood still as it fluttered down silently before landing on my boot, but I managed to kick it off and slide it under the table with my foot before anyone noticed.

  Doña Luz stood between me and Mamá, who was sitting to my left, and neither of them saw me reach down and pick it up with my napkin. I left it sitting on my thigh for a while, being careful to wipe my hands gently, without taking the lacy material off my lap, until I was able to tuck the note discreetly into my pants’ pocket.

  Immediately after dinner, I ran up to my room and read the meager message. It was a sweet note, and it felt good — our connectedness. But I had so many questions, so many concerns. Was she suffering any criticism from the vile rumors Slater had been spreading in town? How was she feeling? Had her lip started to heal? Did she miss me? The note just wasn’t enough. I needed to see her.

  I went downstairs to check on my parents. Tomás, who hadn’t left after dinner, had joined them in the library. I walked in and sat down with the rest of my family, waiting an eternity for them to finish their business, watching their every move with a sharp bird’s eye, como halcón. It seemed like Papá took more time than usual with the ranch bookkeeping that evening. I sighed often and scribbled poems into my journal, while Mamá read newspaper stories and Tomás worked on a sermon.

  Just when I thought Mamá was almost done, an article in the Maverick, a small paper out of Eagle Pass, caught her attention, and she read it aloud. “Listen to this, Tomás, ‘Most assuredly, it is La Estrella who will go down in history as the true spirit of the rebellion. Her willingness to go outside the law, against her neighbors, risking her life to help feed and clothe our tejano brothers in arms, is the reason we are still fighting the evil lawmen of South Texas who would do anything to subjugate our people as they struggle to protect their families and keep their ancestral lands from being stolen from under their feet. Our courageous women are our secret weapons, and it is because of them that we will win this fight.’”

  “That’s daring!” Tomás put his Bible on the coffee table to his left. “You don’t usually read that kind of story in English. Only papers written in Spanish carry those kinds of editorials. Did A. V. Negrados write that?”

  “Sí. I’m going to clip it,” Mamá said, putting the paper aside and reaching for her scissors. From what I had seen lately, although A. V. Negrados was a new voice in South Texas, she was quickly becoming one of Mamá’s favorite reporters. She was always clipping her stories and putting them into her scrapbook. “This article proves just how courageous tejanos are becoming. That’s something the Rangers will never understand.”

  “Or accept,” Tomás said. “You should be careful with that notebook of yours, Mamá. It’s not necessarily the kind of thing you want Munro to find if he gets a wild hair and decides to raid Las Moras.”

  “Tomás is right,” Papá said. “We’re in no position to keep things like that in the house anymore, mi amor, especially now that Munro and I aren’t seeing eye to eye. The way he’s handling this business with Gerardo . . . Well, it just shows me what he’s really made of. We can’t trust him. I would prefer if you got rid of that scrapbook of yours. God only knows what he would make of that.”

  Mamá gave Papá a look that said she wasn’t about to have that discussion with him. Her scrapbook was one of her most prized possessions. She clipped every news article regarding La Estrella like the woman was some sort of religious icon for her. I never thought much about it, except that Papá was right. Under the circumstances, and the irrational behavior Munro had been exhibiting, the scrapbook might become evidence of insurgence in his eyes.

  “The Texas Rangers think they can dictate how we act and think. But they won’t defeat us.” Mamá put the newspaper aside distastefully, like the mere mention of Munro raiding Las Moras had soiled it for her. “Those who rush stumble and fall. Even their brutality will never break our spirits. We are tejanos mejicanos. We are familia. We will always stick together. Our spirits, our hearts, that is something they can never take away from us.”

  “Well said.” Tomás smiled and went back to work on the sermon he’d been drafting on the couch.

  Even after my brother left, I stayed up writing in the library, waiting for everyone to go to bed. It was almost eleven when I was finally able to leave the house without being questioned. I wondered if Dulceña would even be awake by the time I made it into Monteseco.

  It took me almost an hour on horseback to get to Dulceña’s house. I left my palomino tied to a mesquite just outside of town, behind the lumber mill, and walked over to her neighborhood on Fourth Street. After jumping over their side fence, I stood in her backyard throwing dry, hardened chinaberries at her window. When she finally emerged, I climbed the jacaranda tree up to her balcony as quietly as possible, careful not to wake up anyone else in her house.

  “What are you doing here, you crazy guy?” Dulceña pulled at my hair, like I was a mischievous child. Then she put her hand on the nape of my neck and pulled me in close for a tender kiss.

  I kissed her softly — although her lip wasn’t swollen anymore, I could tell it wasn’t completely healed.

  “I needed to make sure you were okay,” I said. “That you were on the mend. Your note didn’t say much, and I wanted — no, I needed to see it for myself.”

  Dulceña smiled, that soft little smile that belonged only to me, the one that said, I love it that you love me. “Well, I am,” she whispered, putting both arms around my neck and kissing me again. “You are too much, Joaquín! Coming here, at this time of night!”

  “Thank you, I love you too,” I said, keeping one hand on the cold iron bar of the balcony between us and another one on her waist.

  Dulceña’s face suddenly changed, a dark little frown crossed over her brow, and she toyed with the collar of my shirt before she finally said, “Listen. I know you love me, but you really should be more careful.”

  “Well, I am standing ten feet off the ground holding on to this railing with only one hand,” I said, grinning. “Wanna let me in?”

  “You know you can’t come in,” Dulceña whispered, playfully hitting my chest with her fist. “My parents would kill me if they knew I was out here with you right now. Sweetheart, you have to stop doing crazy things.”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “I’m talking about what happened in town this morning,” Dulceña said. “Outside Nina’s shop.”

  A white-hot ball of anger swirled in the pit of my stomach at the thought of Slater still walking around town with a badge on his chest, as if he knew anything about integrity. I was angry at Slater, angry at Munro, angry at the rebels . . . but more than anything, angry at the Rangers and settlers for forcing tejano rebels to fight for rights that were already theirs. It was their fault we were in this mess. They had created the whole situation. Why couldn’t they leave my family and our friends alone? We had no part in this. But none of that was Dulceña’s fault, so I stuffed the whole mess back down and swallowed my rage. “Oh, that,” I whispered.

  “What were you thinking?” Dulceña asked, her brows knitted close together over her big brown eyes again.

  “I was thinking that I’ll rip that badge off his chest and carve his eyes out with it if he ever so much as glances in your direction again,” I grumbled.

  To my surprise, Dulceña lowered her eyes and was suddenly very quiet. Concerned, I swung my leg
over the railing and jumped over onto the balcony to take her into my arms. She nestled into me, wrapping her arms around my waist and putting her head under my chin.

  I kissed her forehead. “I’ve upset you,” I said, remorse suddenly gnawing at me. “I’m sorry if my words hurt you. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

  “I’m not hurt,” she whispered, sniffling delicately. “I’m angry! I’m angry that they hurt me. I’m angry that they hurt you. But more than anything, I’m angry that nothing is being done to them. They’re both walking around town while I have to stay inside until my face heals so no one will ask questions about what happened. The thought of having people talk about me is too much for my mother to handle. But she’s right, I am a señorita, and older women with young daughters especially are bound to talk. They would use me as an example, someone to point to so they could tell them what not to do, which makes it all even more unfair. Slater is the criminal, but because of convention, because of etiquette, because of societal norms I had no part in creating or supporting, I’m the one serving time!”

  “It’s okay, let it out. You have every reason to be angry.” I wiped a tear off her cheek with my thumb.

  “I keep reliving that night over and over again in my head,” she said. “There was a moment there, when Slater wrapped his arms around my throat, before you arrived — I was powerless. I am ashamed to admit it, but at that moment, when he first hit me, I wanted to kill him. I’ve never wanted to kill anyone before in my life, but just then, I did.”

  “You have nothing to be ashamed of,” I said. “You didn’t do anything wrong. And you’re not a victim. You were the one who took the guns and stopped them from finishing me off, remember?”

  “I’m ashamed of having to keep this a secret!” Dulceña leaned back from my embrace, grasping my shirt in her fist. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. By the tightness around her jaw, she was trying hard to be brave. She shouldn’t have to be hiding, much less feeling ashamed. She should never have been put in this position. “Aiding in the conspiracy to keep things quiet for the sake of my honor makes me sick to my stomach. I hate being part of all this.”