“Tell me,” she said. “Tell me about my grandfather.”
One
The day Rufino Trujillo was to die of a bad heart, he was standing before the window in his kitchen, drinking his morning cup of coffee.
He was still wearing his long underwear. They were stained around the crotch and hung loose and baggy on his scrawny frame. His head was bare, and his hair was flattened down from sleep. On his feet was a thick pair of woolen socks, and both heels stuck out through gaping holes. They were the only gift he had ever received from his wife, Reycita, who had long ago abandoned him and the village of Guadalupe.
Outside, a soft haze of heat and dust from yesterday’s wind hung above the valley. It hadn’t rained in weeks, and the lack of moisture had dried up Rufino’s yard, leaving the ground hard and cracked and bare. It had been so dry that the leaves on the cottonwoods behind his shed were yellowed and brittle. Even so early in the morning, he could feel a warm draft brushing against the backs of his hands.
Rufino took a small sip of coffee and then rubbed the palm of his hand on the pane of glass. He bent his head stiffly and gazed across the yard at his shed. The door was half open, the bottom edge of it stuck in old mud. A flap of roofing paper hung loose off one eave.
“It’s all your fault my life is like this,” Rufino muttered. He drank a little more coffee, thinking that everyone he had ever cared about had left him. The only one who hadn’t was a nigger he didn’t even know, let alone like. Rufino’s face was so close to the window now that the panes of glass had begun to fog. He rubbed it clean with his elbow and peered out at the shed again. A surge of anger went through him.
“I don’t even remember your name no more,” he spat out. But in truth, even after fifty years, Rufino could see each letter of the black man’s name, Madewell Brown, burnt into the top of his canvas bag. He straightened up slowly and felt a dull ache start up in the middle of his back.
“Eee,” he said. “If it isn’t one thing.” And then he let out a low, harsh moan as his heart seized in his chest. A gasp forced its way from his mouth, and his cup fell from his hand. He bent over quickly, his fingers digging into his thighs, his head lowered. He squeezed his eyes shut and willed the pain away until, finally, the cramp in his chest eased and his heart began to beat unevenly. Rufino stood up carefully and took a few steps to find his balance.
“Dios mío,” he said, his voice only air. “That was a bad one.” His heart had been playing tricks for some time now, but recently the sharp pains at the onset of each attack had become more severe. A sliver of pain passed through his arm and he took a few more steps to chase it away.
Rufino had always managed to keep distant from the thought of his own death. And now he wondered how at his age the idea of it could surprise him. He pulled a chair out from the table and sat down heavily. His heart was beating slower now, but his arms and legs felt weak, as though he had spent the morning walking through deep snow. He leaned back in his chair and slid his legs out straight. Across the room, his two Ladies of Guadalupe were hanging on the wall, one on each side of the stove.
“Eee,” he said, his voice shaking. “You two should be ashamed of yourselves to let this happen.”
They had once been covers to calendars that Rufino had picked up at the Guadalupe lumberyard. He had torn off the little pages of the months and then nailed the pictures of the Ladies on his kitchen wall. He had done this so long ago that they were covered with grease and their edges were curled and rimmed with dirt.
At one time Rufino had thought that they might help him with his troubles. But living with two women who never had one good thing to offer hadn’t made anything any better. It was as if they, too, had decided to ignore as much of Rufino’s life as possible. The only reason he hadn’t thrown them away was that, with his luck, their absence might make things even worse.
Rufino let out a slow, jagged breath of air. Again he looked out at his shed that sat in the shadows beneath the cottonwoods. The open door made it seem as if someone had just walked inside. He thought that if he were to die at this moment, the black man would be left in there all alone. The idea of such a thing made Rufino feel sad. The back of his throat grew tight and his eyes began to burn. A trickle of blood ran from one nostril. He wiped at it absently with the sleeve of his underwear.
“We deserved better than this,” he said softly.
He stared out the window for a little while longer. Then he reached forward and pulled the telephone over to the edge of the table. He picked up the receiver and squinted at the numbers he’d written on the wall years before. When he could see them clearly, he dialed the number to his son’s house.
Cipriano was about to wake up Genoveva when the telephone in the kitchen began to ring. At first he thought it was Tranquilino calling to tell him that he’d be late for work, that one of his daughters was sick or his wife wanted to have a talk or that some other small disaster had happened. Then Cipriano heard the harsh sound of his father’s voice.
“Hijo,” Rufino said, “it’s me, Rufino.” And in the pause that followed, Cipriano could picture the old man sitting alone in his kitchen. He’d still be wearing his long underwear, his forearms thin and white as bone.
“Hijo,” Rufino went on, “I don’t feel so good. Maybe if you’re not too busy, you could make a little visit. There are some things I want to tell you.” Then, without waiting for Cipriano to speak, the old man hung up the phone gently.
From the bedroom came the sound of Genoveva stirring. “Cipriano?” she called out. “What time is it?” He heard the noise of blankets being tossed. And then, her voice loud, “I don’t believe it. Why didn’t you wake me?”
A moment later, she came from the bedroom and stood staring at him from across the room. Her jeans were still unbuttoned and hung loose on her hips. Her hair was tangled and thrown back from her face.
“What did Tranquilino want?” she asked.
“It wasn’t Tranquilino,” Cipriano said.
“So who else would call you so early?”
“Rufino.”
Genoveva grunted softly. Tucking in her shirt, she walked quickly into the kitchen. “You should have woke me up. You know I have to get Martin.” Martin was her seven-year-old son. He had spent the night with his grandmother and was, at that moment, waiting for his mother to take him to his cousin’s house.
Genoveva grabbed her purse and car keys off the counter. Then she stood still and looked at Cipriano. “What did he want?” she asked.
Cipriano shrugged. “He says he’s not feeling so good. He said he wants to talk to me.”
“Your father’s been sick all his life,” she said. “Why does he want to talk about it now?”
“I don’t know,” he said. The last person Cipriano wanted to talk about so early in the morning was his father.
Genoveva shook her head and crossed the room. She rose up on her toes and put her lips against the side of Cipriano’s mouth. “Go see him,” she said. “If only for a little while.”
“I will,” he told her. She smiled and ran her hand down the side of his face.
“Go see him before you go to work. Then you won’t think about him all day.” She dropped down from her toes and took a step back. “Promise me,” she said.
“I will,” Cipriano said again. For a few seconds neither of them spoke. Then Genoveva hissed out a breath of air.
“I better go,” she said. “I am so late.” She walked past him, pulled open the door and went down the steps. When she reached her car, she looked back. “I’ll see you later?”
“Yes,” Cipriano said. “I told Martin we’d go fishing.”
She smiled, gave him a quick wave and climbed in her car. She drove down the hill too fast and at the bottom hung a right onto the highway. But long before she was out of sight, Cipriano had moved his eyes away and was looking out at the day.
From where he stood, he could see nearly all of the village. He could see the roof of the church just to the north, and a half mile be
low that was the lumberyard and Felix’s Café and Tito’s bar. He could see how the highway cut through the middle of the valley and then wound its way up into the foothills. On the far side of the village, the mountains were shrouded in a haze of heat and dust, and at their base, still in shadows, thick lines of cottonwoods ran along the creeks and the ditches.
In those trees, he thought, close to where the ditch breaks away from the creek, is my father’s house.
Cipriano pulled his truck off the gravel road and took the rutted drive that led to Rufino’s house. He parked next to his father’s pickup and sat looking at the house.
It had been a few months since he’d last stopped by and, as far as he could tell, not much had changed. The place looked as rundown as ever. Part of the roof had blown off years ago and had been patched with tar and sheets of rusted metal. The heavy plaster on the walls was badly cracked and had pulled away from the door and window frames. And now, with the lack of rain, Rufino’s yard was hard-packed dirt with a few spindly weeds. Just looking at the place made Cipriano tired.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a movement at the kitchen window. When he turned his head, he saw his father peering out at him through the glass.
“Hello, Rufino,” Cipriano said softly. “Cómo está, viejo?” He let out a long breath, swung open the truck door and went to see what it was his father wanted.
Rufino met his son at the door. “I didn’t expect to see you so soon,” he said, touching Cipriano’s arm. “Come in, hijo. Come in for a little while.” The old man went over to a narrow bed that was pushed up against one wall and sat down. He folded his hands in his lap. My son is here, he thought. My son has come to see me.
The ceiling light was off, and coming in from so much sun, Cipriano thought that the room was dark and shadowed. He left the door open and went over to the table, pulled out a chair and sat down. “I can’t stay long,” he said. “I just came to see how you’re feeling.”
Rufino waved a hand. “I’m fine, hijo,” he said. “Some-times I get these little pains, but they don’t mean nothing.”
Cipriano stared at the old man. Over the phone, he had caught the sound of something weak and frail in his father’s voice. But now, as his eyes adjusted to the light, he could see that Rufino looked no different than the last time he’d seen him. He was a small, wiry man who had never seemed happy in his life. A man who had chosen to grow old by himself.
Cipriano had been raised a mile away by his Tia Lupita. He could still remember the few times his aunt had brought him over to visit his father. Each time, before he got out of the car, she would smile and hug him.
“Don’t worry, Cipriano,” she would say to calm his un-ease. “It’s just for a little while. And when we get back home, hijo, we’ll make some sopapillas together. And warm milk with honey.” Then she would drive away slowly, leaving Cipriano alone with a father who wished to have little to do with him.
Cipriano stretched out his legs and glanced around the room. Dirty dishes and empty cans were stacked by the sink, and the stovetop was caked with grease and dirt that had dripped from the ceiling. There seemed to be more water stains on the wall than before, and a fine layer of grit was on the linoleum floor. Even with the door open, the place smelled stale and filthy. The old man was sitting on the edge of the bed, his long underwear pulled up high above his ankles.
“Why are you still sleeping in your kitchen?” Cipriano asked.
Rufino shifted his feet on the floor and laid his hands flat on the surface of the bed. “It doesn’t matter where I sleep,” he said. “Besides, I like sleeping in my kitchen.”
Six months before, Rufino had suddenly lost the ability to fall asleep. He would lie awake for hours staring up at the ceiling, often not dozing off until almost dawn. To make things worse, he began to hear noises that he had never heard before. He told himself that it was only the planks creaking beneath the linoleum or the heavy vigas above his bed shifting, but each sound would startle him so badly that he began to think of his bedroom as a place where anything might happen and none of it would be good.
Finally he moved his bed into the kitchen, where the only noise was of wood burning in the stove, where he was near the two Ladies and his canned milk and the small crucifix he had hidden as a boy deep inside a crack in the plastered wall, and where he could gaze out the window at the night sky. But he had told none of this to Cipriano. He had, instead, complained to his son that in the dead of winter his bedroom was too cold, that at his age he didn’t need the bother of so many rooms.
“Rufino,” Cipriano said, “are you all right?” His father’s lips were moving, as if he were talking to himself. His eyes were damp and bloodshot, and there was a smear of blood on one side of his face that Cipriano hadn’t noticed before. A vague feeling of unease went through him. Suddenly he wanted to be out of this house, away from this old man.
“Yes,” Rufino said. “I’m fine. I’m just a little tired.”
“Then I better get out of here,” Cipriano said, drawing up his feet. “I’ve got Tranquilino waiting for me.”
“You go,” Rufino told him, raising a hand. “Don’t worry about me.” As his son stood, Rufino noticed the flecks of gray in his hair and the fine lines that had begun to branch from the corners of his eyes. He wondered where all the years had gone for him to have a son this old.
“I’m glad,” Rufino mumbled, “that you came to see me.”
“It was nothing,” Cipriano said. The old man was sitting hunched over now, his collarbones jutting sharply up out of his long underwear. Sunlight filtered through the window and lay across his lap. “Hey,” Cipriano said, “what was it you wanted to tell me?”
Again Rufino felt a dull ache start up in the middle of his back. His heart began to beat a little faster. He turned his head and looked out the window. Across the yard the branches of the cottonwoods were draped over the roof of his shed.
I should have burned that place down, he thought. Maybe then I could have had some peace. He let out a low grunt. “You don’t care about this,” he said to Cipriano in a hard rush of anger. “Go home to your Genoveva. Or Lupita. Lupita with her sweet ways.”
At the harshness in his father’s voice, Cipriano pulled his head back as if slapped. He had seen the old man like this before and every time it came as a surprise. One moment they would be talking and the next, for no reason it seemed, a meanness would fill Rufino’s eyes.
“What are you talking about, Rufino?” Cipriano said. Saliva was knotted at the corners of the old man’s mouth and his eyes moved about the room like he was looking for someone.
“I’ll tell you what I’m talking about,” Rufino said. “I’m talking about the pendejo nigger and you don’t even know that.” And then, as though a storm had passed, the old man fell quiet. His heart began to slow and there was the taste of blood in the back of his throat. He took in a deep breath.
“Go to work, Cipriano,” he said. “I don’t need to talk about this.”
“Talk about what, old man?”
Rufino raised his eyes and looked at his son. Although he could only vaguely remember his wife, he could see that Cipriano held himself like Reycita had—the way he stood over by the door, gazing back at him no matter how uneasy he felt. He wondered how, after all these years, he could still carry both Reycita and the black man. It was as if they had never left, he thought, as if they had given him some kind of a curse. He sat up a little straighter on the bed.
“Sit down, Cipriano,” Rufino said, nodding. “Sit down, hijo. I will tell you what happened to me once.”
Perdido mesa rose out of the valley a few miles west of the village. It was a rocky, dry stretch of land, scarred deep with arroyos. The few trees that grew there were twisted and gnarled, their branches thick and knotted. Even the sagebrush was stunted and windblown, and the grass was thin and as pale as dust. It was an empty place fit only for coyotes and rabbits, a place few people ever went.
“I want you to keep a
way from that mesa,” Rufino’s father had once told him. He was a big man with large, rough hands and a stooped back. He hauled wood out of the mountains and kept a few head of cows. Although he loved his family, he believed that if he was hard on them, nothing would ever go wrong in their lives.
“There are snakes nesting in the rocks,” he went on to his son. “And the Indians buried their dead along the top of the ridge. The only one foolish enough to go there is Pablo Quintana, and I don’t have to tell you about him. It’s not a place for boys. It’s too far away and if something were to happen, no one would ever know.” He laid a heavy hand on his son’s shoulder and shook him.
“You listen to me, Rufino,” he said, “and we won’t have no trouble. When you hunt your rabbits, hunt them somewhere else.”
“I will, Papa,” Rufino said. “I won’t ever go to that mesa.”
“It was all Nemecio’s fault,” Rufino now said to his own son.
“Nemecio?” Cipriano said. He was sitting at the kitchen table, leaning forward, his forearms on his knees. “Qué Nemecio?”
“Nemecio,” Rufino said impatiently. “Nemecio Archuleta. You know him. He picks up the garbage on the road.”
“Oh, sí,” Cipriano said, leaning back. “Now I know who you mean.” Nemecio Archuleta was a drunk. When not at Tito’s bar, he could be seen walking the edge of the highway looking for beer cans and whatever else he could find. He lived alone in a trashed-out trailer not far from Rufino’s house. As far as Cipriano knew, the only harm Nemecio ever did was to himself.
“Well, maybe you know how he is now,” Rufino went on, “but back then he wasn’t like that. Back then he was always in a hurry and if he got something in his head, he wouldn’t let it go.” A sudden chill ran through the old man. He pulled the blanket from the bed and laid it over his legs. He folded his hands back in his lap. He could see how swollen his knuckles were and that his skin was dry and gray and old.
“After all this time,” he said, without looking up, “I can still remember.”
Madewell Brown Page 3