The Journal of Antonio Montoya

by Rick Collignon

  FEBRUARY 25:

  In the afternoon, I walked to the house of my cousin, which sits no more than one hundred yards to the west of the village office. Rosa Montoya greeted me at the door. She is a strong, small woman with braided hair that falls far down her back. She is a woman who speaks what is in her mind and has been this way since a child. We sat in the kitchen, which is a dark room this time of the year with only one small window above the sink. I asked Rosa about the health of her son. She told me he was no better, and then she began to weep. She wept without making a sound and did not bow her head. I told her I was certain her son would recover, that head injuries often linger for many days and that if it continued, with the roads open it would be of little difficulty to transport him to Las Sombras.

  Rosa apologized for acting foolishly and said that Lito was only one part of her problem. I told her that I would do whatever I could, and she then told me that for fourteen nights she had been dreaming the same dream, and in this dream she sees the cemetery of Guadalupe on fire. . . .

  Seven

  MARTHA HAD JUST FINISHED warming the last of forty-eight tortillas on her stove when the phone in her kitchen rang. The ring was especially shrill in the closed-in heat of the room, and Martha found herself hurrying to the phone as if it were important that it not make the same sound twice.

  “Hija,” the voice said when Martha answered, and suddenly she felt as if she should be sitting down. She leaned back against the wall and felt the dampness of her blouse against her skin.

  “Grandmother Rosa?” she said in a voice like a child’s.

  “You remember, hija,” Rosa said. “And after such a long time.”

  “Yes,” Martha said softly, and she stared down at her bare feet, which were dusted with flour from the tortillas. She moved her toes up and down.

  “I’m so proud of you I can’t tell,” Rosa said. “Flavio looks so good. And so happy. You have done well with him. I’m so proud, Martha.”

  Martha remembered her wedding day, when grandmother Rosa had approached her quietly and in all seriousness. She had held Martha’s hand tightly and told her that she was a Montoya now and also which foods Flavio was especially fond of.

  “You must come here, hija,” Rosa said. “The weather is too hot to be alone with yourself.”

  “I should come there?” Martha said, and again she could hear the sound of a small girl in her voice.

  “Yes. Come and help us cook.”

  “Is Flavio there?”

  “He’s in the field with his grandfather and little José,” Rosa said, and then she lowered her voice. “And there is a surprise for you. Loretta is here.”

  “Loretta?” Martha said and found she was smiling.

  José Sr. had gotten Loretta pregnant one night in late winter in the front seat of his brother’s truck.

  Earlier that same evening, Loretta had been walking on the shoulder of the road with her friend Giselle when José slowed his brother’s pickup alongside them and rolled down the passenger window. Loretta was dressed in her father’s coat, and although she was warm, it hung on her body and made her look like a child. Giselle had her coat slung back off both shoulders. She was wearing a pink sweater that showed the size of her breasts. She had sneakers on her feet, her ankles bare to the cold. Giselle was freezing, and when José pulled up alongside them, Giselle wondered if he had the heater on and if Loretta would be truly angry at her when she left with José. José took the truck out of gear and let it roll at the speed Loretta and Giselle were walking.

  “Hey,” he said and gave Giselle a smile. He had shaved just an hour earlier, and the skin on his face felt smooth and tight. “Giselle,” he said, “I’ll give you a ride.”

  Giselle, without a glance at him but with a smile, said, “Where, José?”

  “Anywhere,” José said. It was then that Loretta walked around her friend and without a word climbed into the truck. José looked at Loretta as if something had flown into the cab of his brother’s pickup. José thought that he would take this girl home quickly and then race back for Giselle.

  On the drive to Loretta’s house, Loretta slipped off her father’s coat and shook her hair free. She sank back into the seat. “José,” she said, without looking at him, “when we were in school, it was you I always watched.”

  They parked out at the gorge above the river, in the midst of crusted snow and sagebrush and a black sky filled with too many stars. They drank a little whiskey that José had hidden under the seat, and Loretta sat close to her door and watched how José’s breath fogged the windows.

  Years later, Loretta would tell her sister-in-law, Martha Montoya, that she didn’t know what had possessed her that night. In what seemed like a long time but was actually a long moment, Loretta’s white panties were on the floor of the pickup, and her slacks along with her blouse and bra were lying where José had been sitting. She marveled at the speed of José’s hands and at the overwhelming sensation within her as if she were sucking this boy’s whole being into the small area between her legs. In a second, Loretta thought she had found the way to spend the rest of her life.

  When they were finished, Loretta was lying flat on the seat with her head on the armrest. She looked at José, who was still clothed except for his open zipper. She thought he looked embarrassed. She thought he looked foolish still in his clothes.

  “José,” she said, “I want to do this again,” and twenty minutes later little José sprang to life in her womb.

  Driving to Ramona’s house, Martha thought of this story that Loretta had told her long ago. She remembered the sound of Loretta’s voice and how it would rise in tone when she laughed and how she would speak as if out of breath.

  Martha turned her small car off the highway near the village office. Beside her on the front seat were the forty-eight tortillas, three dozen pork tamales, and a large box of biscochitos. The interior of Martha’s car was stifling from sitting in the sun, and it smelled like her kitchen.

  As Martha pulled in carefully between Ramona’s and Flavio’s vehicles, she saw Ramona sitting beneath the large cottonwood in the front yard. Ramona’s eyes were closed, and her head was bent back slightly as if she were sunning herself. Beyond Ramona, Martha could see the front of the house. She didn’t know what she had expected, but it looked as old and empty as it ever had. It occurred to her that what she was doing was crazy, and she was thinking that she should quietly back up her car and drive home when she saw Ramona’s eyes open. Martha climbed out of the car and closed the door gently.

  “Good morning, Martha,” Ramona said.

  Martha took a few steps toward her sister-in-law and then stopped. She could feel the heat from the sun lying heavily upon her. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Ramona,” she said.

  Ramona smiled. “You’re not disturbing me, Martha. I’m glad you came.”

  Martha looked at the book lying closed on Ramona’s lap and thought it was something that had been under the earth for a long time. Even from where she was standing, she could smell the odor of dirt. “Grandmother Rosa called me,” she said.

  “Yes,” Ramona said. “I think she is calling everyone.”

  “Then it’s true.”

  “Oh, sí. It’s true. It’s so true that I think maybe it is us who have been wrong all this time.”

  “And Loretta?”

  “También.”

  For a moment Martha said nothing. Finally she waved her arm behind her. “I have tortillas in the car. And tamales.”

  Ramona nodded, and at that moment the front door of the house swung open. “Martha,” Loretta sang out. Martha’s eyes widened. Her mouth fell open, and her face twisted.

  Loretta ran past Ramona and embraced Martha. When they separated, Ramona could see that Martha’s face was wet and shining.

  “I thought . . .” Martha said.

  “I know,” Loretta said.

  “But . . .”

  “It doesn’t matter, Martha. It’s like waking in the morning af
ter a dream.”

  “But Loretta. . . .” Suddenly Martha’s eyes met Ramona’s. They looked at each other for no more than a few seconds, and in that glimpse both saw nothing but the other. Then Loretta took Martha’s hands and pulled her arms gently.

  “Come,” she said. “We’re making a feast.”

  Martha looked at Loretta. “Flavio is here?”

  “Yes, Martha, he’s in the field with José and Grandfather. Come.”

  Martha glanced behind her at her car. “I’ve brought tortillas,” she said.

  The two women walked together to the car and unloaded the food Martha had brought. They walked past Ramona, their arms full, and when they reached the house, Ramona heard the creaking of the hinges and then the sound of her grandmother’s voice. “Mi hija,” she said.

  . . . We did not speak for some time. In the next room, I could hear Lito stir in his sleep. He spoke aloud and said, “Mama, am I still here?” Rosa answered with only her breath, and she said, “Yes, mi hijo, you are still here with us.” And then Lito too fell silent. Rosa stared at me, and although her eyes were still damp, she smiled.

  She said that she did not mean to trouble me with her problems, but Epolito had been concerned for some days, and as our families had been close, she had agreed to speak with me. I told her I would do all I could but that I knew little of such things. I did know that for more than thirty days this winter, fires had burned in the cemetery in order to dig graves and that it was possible it was from this that her dreams came. Rosa nodded but did not stop smiling and told me, as if I were a child, that no one dreams the same dream for fourteen nights.

  She said that in this dream the fires were different, as though the cemetery were burning inside the earth, and the flames grew from each grave like blossoms, and the smoke lay black and thick above the ground.

  I did not know what to say other than that I thought the dream would pass in time, and if she were further disturbed, she should speak with Father Joseph. At this, Rosa stopped smiling and sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. She told me that she had attended mass last Sunday and noticed that I had not. She had heard the priest say that the keeping of santos in their homes was idolatry and something neither God nor the church would allow any longer.

  I told Rosa it seemed as though we had strayed from the subject of her dreams and that if there were differences between Father Joseph and myself, this did not mean he could not be of assistance to her. At this, Rosa reached across the table and touched my hand. She asked me if I knew what she was requesting, and after a moment, I told her that I did and that in the morning before light I would return to her house.

  Outside my door when I returned home was a santo I had never seen before. It is a small figure of Our Lady of Guadalupe and so old that the paint on her face has peeled and there is a split in the wood that runs from the top of her neck through her torso. In the darkness outside my house, I stumbled over her and broke a finger on her left hand.

  FEBRUARY 26:

  This morning before dawn I walked to my cousin’s house. The air was warm, and in it was the scent of a new season. The windows were dark, but as I approached, the door opened and I was met by Rosa. She nodded and did not speak, and I entered and stood the santo I had carried, which bears the likeness of my sister, before her. I asked her if in the night she had dreamed, and without looking at me she said yes, softly, and she took my hand and brought it to her lips.

  FEBRUARY 27:

  This morning, Benito Medina came to my office. He and his family live two miles north of this village, where the land becomes flat and treeless and remains so for a hundred miles beyond. His nose and eyes were wet from the wind, and in his beard below his mouth were small pieces of ice. He had walked this distance to town to inform me that he had been cheated by his cousin, Horacio Medina. He told me that a week ago he had bought a horse from Horacio for forty dollars and that he planned to use this horse in taking his sheep to pasture in the spring. Horacio had assured Benito of the good health of this animal, and it wasn’t until Benito returned home that he discovered the horse to be blind in both eyes. When he returned to Horacio’s home to complain, Horacio had refused to reimburse him, stating that an agreement had been made and that it was no matter if the horse was blind, as there was nothing of importance for it to see where Benito lived. I told Benito I would speak with Horacio in the afternoon.

  Late in the day, I walked to the home of Horacio Medina, and we spoke outside his house. He is a strong, stocky man with teeth that are too large for his mouth and the father of six daughters who all resemble him and who are not seen outside their house other than at mass each Sunday. I told Horacio that Benito had asked me to intervene in the recent sale of a horse. At this, Horacio turned away and, looking at the mountains, told me that this was a business that had nothing to do with me, and he did not choose to waste his time discussing it.

  I have stopped my work on the new Lady, as I can see nothing in the wood.

  Ramona stopped reading, and the words “I can see nothing in the wood” washed over and through her in a wave of grief that was almost a caress. Behind her, from inside the house, she could hear the soft murmur of voices, and on the street before her she could see heat rising from the pavement. She felt tired and thought that it would be nice to lean back in her chair and close her eyes. She also thought that with her eyes closed she would see her next painting, and in this painting would be the cemetery of Guadalupe. She would paint flowers and pure white crosses and the sun in the weeds, and in the cemetery would be a thin white flame. At this thought, Ramona actually closed her eyes, and she watched the flames spread and burn the high grass and the weeds along the fence until the fire had cleansed the ground, until only the crosses and the flowers remained, as if they would be there forever. In her mind she could see this painting move and breathe on the canvas. She thought that she might do a number of these paintings and that together they would be the story of a place and that each one would be painted on a large canvas and that she would only allow these paintings to leave the village of Guadalupe after they had been viewed here. Although, Ramona thought, not at her home, as there were already too many people wandering about.

  Behind her, the door to the house opened and closed softly. Ramona heard the sound of footsteps and then Loretta’s voice.

  “Are you sleeping, Ramona?”

  “No, Loretta,” Ramona said. “I was dreaming.” Loretta was kneeling beside her chair. Her skin was smooth and flushed from being in the kitchen, and there was a brush of chile powder on her cheek.

  “I’ve brought you coffee, Ramona, and some biscochitos.”

  Ramona pushed herself up straight in the chair and took the cup and small plate from Loretta. “I’ve done nothing but eat the last two days,” she said. “Thank you.”

  “It’s nothing,” Loretta said as she leaned back to sit on the grass. She wrapped her arms around her knees. “Eee, it’s hot. Even in the shade. I don’t remember this much heat in August. I think in the kitchen it must be one hundred degrees.”

  Ramona ate a biscochito, which was still cold from Martha’s freezer. “I’ll come and help,” she said. “I’ve sat out here long enough.”

  “There is nothing to do. You are better out here. Grandmother Rosa and Martha are working like little machines, and all I do is keep the pans clean. If you were to come in, you would just sweat in the heat and make the room warmer.”

  Ramona’s neighbor to the south, Fabian Martínez, drove slowly past the house in his truck, which had two flat tires. Ramona could see how tightly he was gripping the steering wheel and how he jerked his chin up and down in greeting without looking away from the road.

  “Loretta,” Ramona said, “I think we should talk about José.”

  “My son.”

  “Yes,” Ramona said. “Your son.”

  “You want to tell me that he shouldn’t live here with you.”

  “No,” she said. “I want to tell you that I don�
�t know how to raise a child. I think that this may not be for the best.”

  Loretta leaned toward her sister-in-law and placed her hand on Ramona’s arm. “From inside the kitchen I can see him in the field with his grandfather and his Tío Flavio, and I can see how happy he is here.”

  Ramona turned and looked at Loretta. “It has only been one day, Loretta.”

  “One day, one year,” Loretta said and shrugged her shoulders. “You think there is something to know about raising a child? You feed them. You yell at them when they do wrong, and you make sure they take a bath.”

  “You make it sound like having a dog.”

  “You think there is a big difference? With girls, maybe. But boys. . . .”

  “This is not what I meant, Loretta,” Ramona said.

  “I know what you meant,” Loretta said. “I would not have asked you to do this if it was wrong. I am his mother, Ramona, and if I cannot be with him, I wish for him to be here. With you.”

  From behind the house, Ramona heard Flavio’s voice and then the sound of José’s feet running. She looked back at Loretta. “Your son is coming,” she said.

  Loretta turned her head away. “See how the heat rises from the road,” she said. “You can see the air. Ramona, I know it shouldn’t be, but I wish to hold my son again.”

  From the corner of her eye, Ramona saw José round the corner of the house. “Tía,” he said, and then he fell quiet.