Shame the Stars

by McCall,Guadalupe Garcia

  “Where are they?” I asked my mother. “Have you seen her?”

  “No,” Mamá said, rubbing my back and then reaching up to push a lock of my hair behind my ear. “We just got here a few minutes ago.”

  Beyond the boardwalk, past Fourth Street, where the Villas lived, Rangers sauntered up and down Main Street in small, conspiring groups. Rage, like a fuse, suddenly lit up inside me. Several of them stood around, casually leaning against the posts outside Nina’s shop and Donna’s Kitchen, laughing as they visited with each other without a care in the world, and I wanted to shoot every one of them for the horror and destruction they continued to bring on us.

  Of course, taking them on, even saying anything to them at that moment, would have been dangerous, and I had better things to do than get myself in trouble. I had to make sure Dulceña was safe. I had an image of her in my mind, a miserable image. She would be devastated. I had to be there for her, to hold her, comfort her.

  “Come on, Son. It’s time to go home,” my father said. He turned away, leaning on my grandfather’s cane for support. “You should ride with us. Manuel will take your horse home.”

  At his words, Manuel came over and extended his hand to me. I handed over the reins to Manuel, but I didn’t get in the car as my father expected. “Not yet,” I said. “I have to see her. I can’t go home until I see her.”

  After a long pause wherein my mother used the toe of her shoe to toss pebbles aside, my father cleared his throat and handed me the keys to the Packard. “Then let’s go.”

  When I drove us up to the Villas’ house, Don Rodrigo was locking the front gate with a wide padlock while Dulceña and her mother stood watching me from inside the tall iron fence. I drove right up to the gate and jumped out of the car to get to him, but Don Rodrigo was already waving me away as I began to ask him what was going on.

  “It’s better if we don’t talk,” he said, gripping the keys so tightly the knuckles on his left hand stretched and paled.

  “But I don’t understand.” Childish, embarrassing tears pricked my eyes as I stole furtive, nervous glances at Dulceña being led quietly into her parents’ house by her mother.

  “I’m sorry, Joaquín,” Don Rodrigo said as he started to walk away. “But I have to protect my family. Please, go home. It’s what’s best for all of us.”

  Then, to my astonishment, Don Rodrigo turned around, walked into his house, and shut the door behind him, leaving me paralyzed. I was still standing there a few minutes later, staring at that closed door, when a hand landed on my right shoulder.

  I jumped away, wiping at my tearstained eyes. My father put his arm around my shoulder, pulling me away from Dulceña’s gate. Worry came over his eyes as he said, “I’m sorry, Son.”

  I hung my head. Suddenly I couldn’t hold my emotions in anymore. I didn’t make a sound, but my body shook, and I did the only thing I could do to make the pain go away. I wiped my angry tears away and tore away from my father.

  “Son!” my father called out as I walked over to the right side of the gate and started to climb the Villas’ iron fence. “Joaquín! Por favor — don’t do this!”

  I jumped over and ran around to the back of the house to climb up the jacaranda tree. It was the fastest I’d ever climbed a tree. I didn’t care if my shirt got torn or if my hands got cut in the thorns. I jumped onto Dulceña’s balcony and tapped on the glass frantically.

  Dulceña opened the balcony door and threw her arms around me. She hugged me tight, sobbing earnestly and kissing my face like she was never going to see me again.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “No! I’m not. Everything’s ruined, Joaquín. Everything we ever dreamed, everything we ever talked about. Our future, it’s all gone,” she cried. She clung to my arm and pressed her forehead into my shoulder.

  “It’s not ruined,” I said. “Your father can rebuild the shop. You’ll see.”

  Dulceña lifted her head and pointed at the corner of her room. I saw her bags sitting open, halfway packed with toiletries. Her shoes were neatly stacked on top of her clothes in a medium-sized chest. “What’s going on?” I asked. “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know,” Dulceña whispered. “Somewhere up north, I think. Mamá says she has family in Seattle. Oh, Joaquín. This is the worst day of my life! I don’t want to go! I don’t even know those people!”

  “Get your hands off my daughter!” Don Rodrigo said, removing his key from the keyhole and opening the door all the way to let Doña Serafina through.

  “This is not appropriate!” Doña Serafina said, pulling at Dulceña’s arm and stepping between us. “You have to go. Right now!”

  “You don’t have to do this,” I said, talking directly to Don Rodrigo. “You don’t have to go.”

  “That’s not for you to say, son. Leave, please. I don’t want to use force.” Don Rodrigo put the key in his pocket and opened the door widely for me. “Now, son.”

  “You can’t leave town, Don Rodrigo.” I walked over to stand in front of the door. “You can’t let them win. If you stay, if you rebuild, you would be sending a message. They can’t keep the news from running. Stories like the ones in El Sureño are being printed all over the state. He can’t stop that. He can’t send his posse to burn down every print shop out there. What are they going to do? Pick up torches and run along the border, all the way to California? Because that’s what it’s going to take to suppress our voice.”

  “Listen to him, Father!” Dulceña said, pulling away from her mother and coming to engulf her father in her arms. “It’s nothing you haven’t said before. The truth must be printed. Evil must be exposed. We can’t run away from this. We have to stay and see this through.”

  “Okay, Joaquín,” Don Rodrigo said, pointing toward the hall. “You’ve said your piece. It’s time to go home, son.”

  I hugged Dulceña one last time and started out the door. Then, turning around, I said, “Whether Munro likes it or not, the world is ready to hear our stories. Munro can’t stop progress. It’s not his call.”

  Chapter 18

  I was out patrolling the gate the next night when Tomás showed up at Las Moras. He rode up on his horse at about two a.m. like the devil was chasing him. “What is it?” I asked as I closed the gate behind him.

  “Please tell me you had nothing to do with this,” he said, breathing heavily. “Tell me no one left Las Moras tonight.”

  “No one’s left,” I assured him. “Why?”

  Tomás took a deep breath and crossed himself. The dark skies above us grumbled. “Thank you, Jesus.”

  “What is it?” Carlos asked, jumping off his horse and stepping up to us. “What’s going on?”

  My brother waved in the direction of town. “The Ranger station was attacked,” he began. “It happened so fast, nobody really saw anything. But two Rangers are dead. I just finished giving them last rites. Someone threw a stick of dynamite into the building through a back window. Five others were injured. They’re being taken to Austin, to the hospital up there. It’s a mess, Joaquín. Munro’s out for blood, pulling in all kinds of sospechosos, trying to figure out who did this.”

  “Well it’s nobody from here,” I said. “Nobody’s been out the gate tonight, right, Carlos?”

  “No, none of my men were involved,” Carlos said. “That’s not what we’re here for. That sounds like something the Sediciosos would do.”

  Tomás nodded, relief softening the lines of his tired face. “Good,” he said. “Let’s go up to the house. I need to tell Papá what’s going on.”

  When my father heard about the explosion, he cursed under his breath and shook his head regretfully. “We have to double up on security,” he said. “Munro will be on high alert. We can’t take any chances in case he decides to raid Las Moras.”

  “This is a nightmare,” Mamá said. “Things are getting more
and more out of hand.”

  Papá put his hand on Carlos’s shoulder. “Who’s taking care of the gate?” he asked.

  “Pollo and Chavito are on the two towers,” Carlos said.

  “We need more men out there,” my father insisted. “Please go. Take care of that. Go with him, Manuel. Pull every campesino out of bed and tell them what’s going on. I want everyone on security detail. I don’t want any man, woman, or child to be caught off guard.”

  As Mamá and I walked Tomás to the door, she turned to him and said, “Those Rangers didn’t deserve to die, but Munro had to see this coming. He and his vigilantes have pushed the people too far.”

  “There’s no denying that,” my brother said. “I just hope he doesn’t retaliate by going after any more women and children at Calaveras. They don’t need any more bloodshed.”

  “I don’t know why Munro can’t see that this is his own doing!” I said. “He has to know, deep down inside, he has to have taken notice. This madness, this tragedy, is of his own design.”

  “Munro’s not the type to blame himself for anything,” my brother said, taking my mother’s hand and stroking it. “He can’t backpedal now. He’s gone too far for that. If I know him, he’s going to see this through even if it kills him.”

  “I should get back to town.” Tomás put his hat on his head and opened the door.

  “I wish you would wait to go back in the morning.” My mother took my brother by the arm. “You need to rest. You can leave after breakfast. Please. I won’t be able to go to sleep if you leave tonight.”

  Tomás leaned down and kissed her forehead. “I have to go,” he said. “I can’t wait to leave in the morning. I might be needed tonight. I’ll be all right. I have a cot at the rectory.”

  My father came down the hall toward us. He took his automobile keys out of his pocket and shook them. “You want to take the vehicle?” he asked. “It’s easier than riding that old horse back. I’ll get Manuel to put him up for the night. He can take him to you in the morning.”

  “I wish you would listen to me,” Mamá said, hugging my brother and resting her forehead on his chest. “I hate knowing you’re out there in that parish all alone at night without your familia to keep you company.”

  “Maybe I should take him,” I said. “I’m a better driver, and I can stay and keep him company. That way I can bring Manuel back in the morning when he delivers the horse.”

  Mamá lifted her head. Her eyes shone brightly, and she bit the side of her lip nervously.

  “What do you think?” Tomás asked, holding Mamá’s arms.

  My father tossed me the keys. “I think it’s a fine idea,” he said.

  I caught the keys in midair and weighed them in the palm of my hand, grinning. I loved driving the Packard, although I hardly ever got to. There’s just not a lot of opportunity for such things when your life revolves around ranching. “Let’s go!” I said. I pulled my hat off the nail on the wall and pushed it down onto my head. “The road waits for no man.”

  Papá grumbled under his breath. Mamá hugged and kissed me and my brother at the door.

  We walked with my father — slowly, to his pace — to the small barn he had built when he first bought the car. “I know I don’t say it enough,” he said. “But I love you boys. Be careful out there. With everything that’s going on, it’s best not to stop until you get to the parish. You never know who’s lurking in the chaparral.”

  * * *

  The town was quiet, the streets barren of citizens, but the silhouettes of Munro’s lawmen could be seen throwing shadows in the dark. Some stood on corners, their rifles in hand, while others walked up and down on rooftops, looking down onto every street. There was an atmosphere of danger and threat in the night air. Mal aire, my mind whispered as I walked from the street into the parish courtyard and followed my brother down the alley to the back.

  I couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief when I finally entered the softly lit haven of my brother’s room.

  “What time do you want to get up?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said, plopping down onto the extra cot my brother kept for me for occasions such as this, when I needed to stay in town for the night. Tomás picked up the small metal clock that sat on his mantle and started cranking it.

  I was about to take off my boots and set them aside when there was a quiet rap on the door. Tomás stopped cranking the clock and looked at me. “Did you hear that?” he asked.

  “Yeah. Someone’s at the door. You expecting anyone?”

  “No, of course not,” Tomás said, putting the clock back on the mantle.

  I went over to the window to pull the curtains slightly to the right and nearly jumped when I saw the silhouette of a person move quickly past the window. Whoever it was tapped at the door, quietly, but urgently enough to get my heart racing.

  “¡Cucui!” I said, when I saw my brother standing frozen in place by his cot. “Relax, Hermano. It’s not La Calaca.”

  “Stop it!” he said, crossing himself against the thought of having La Calaca, the skeletal embodiment of death, at his door. “You shouldn’t joke like that.”

  “Oh, you shouldn’t be afraid of the Santa Muerte,” I said. “Mamá says she is not evil. La Santísima protects us against violence and assaults. She is merciful and offers us safe passage to the afterlife.”

  “Remind me to have a long talk with Mamá about this,” Tomás said, coming over to peek out the window. “Can you see who it is?”

  “No,” I said.

  I was about to call out to the visitor outside when Tomás turned the doorknob and opened the door slightly. “Conchita,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Conchita?” I pulled the door the rest of the way open to see her clutching the frayed edges of her black shawl as she peeked in and looked at me.

  “Forgive me, Padrecito,” she said, throwing her shawl over her shoulder and crossing herself. “But I have an urgent message for your brother.”

  Tomás stepped aside. “A message?” he asked as he ushered her inside.

  “Sí, una carta,” Conchita whispered. “From Dulceña.”

  Quickly, Conchita searched between the folds of her white shirt and her dark skirt and took out a small pink envelope. She offered it to me. I took it and tore into it, making short work of pulling the note out and unfolding it.

  The pink paper trembled delicately in my hand. I read halfway through Dulceña’s letter before looking up to meet my brother’s gaze. “She’s very upset,” I said.

  “About what?” Tomás asked.

  After reading the rest of the letter, I took a moment to process it before I finally let my brother know what was going on. “Apparently my words made an impact on Don Rodrigo,” I said, tapping the letter against the palm of my hand, thinking. “He’s decided not to leave town.”

  “That’s good news,” Tomás said.

  “No. It’s not,” I said. “Her parents are staying, but they’re still sending Dulceña away. They’re putting her on a train tomorrow morning.”

  “Alone?” Tomás raised his eyebrows. “That can’t be right. Surely you have that wrong.”

  “Here.” I handed my brother the note. “I have to do something. She doesn’t want to go.”

  Tomás read the letter, then snapping his head up, he asked, “You asked her to run away with you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “A few days ago. She didn’t want to do it then, but apparently, she’s changed her mind.”

  “You can’t do that, Hermanito,” Tomás said. “You would be doing her a great disservice. Think of her reputation. Think of her future here in Monteseco, or anywhere else for that matter.”

  I took the note back from my brother, folded it, and tucked it back into the envelope. “I can’t — I won’t — let them send her away,” I said. “If she wanted to
go, I might be able to live with this. But you read the letter. She’s desperate. She needs me. I have to go to her.”

  Excerpt from Joaquín’s journal, Tuesday, September 7, 1915

  BLESS ME BROTHER

  Bless me, brother,

  for I have sinned.

  Como Adán, I crawled out

  of the primordial pond

  and kept secrets — told lies —

  carefully cloaked deceptions

  delivered in the dark.

  I remember the morning

  a crimson cloud crept

  across the sky

  and overwhelmed the sun,

  how it opened its mouth,

  howled at the wind,

  and poured Hell upon us.

  I stood on the edge

  of the creek, testing

  the slippery mud

  with the toe of my boot

  before falling into darkness.

  Roaring, gurgling muck

  clogged my lungs.

  You ran down the ravine,

  reached in, and pulled me out

  of Arroyo Morado.

  I shivered and shook,

  a sliver of a boy,

  scared, ashamed,

  but safe within your arms.

  I was twelve to your twenty,

  and you were about

  to leave Las Moras

  to become a Father,

  a healer of hearts.

  You asked me then,

  as you ask me now

  “How could you risk

  such a fall?

  How could you plunge

  into those murky waters

  without regard for your life?”

  I stand before you

  now as I stood then,