The Day the Rebels Came to Town (4 page)

He went outside, where Linda was waiting for him.

“Wait,” she said. “Wait here.”

She turned and hurried off. A few minutes later, a peasant chewing a length of straw came by in a cart pulled by a burro.

“Antonio sent me,” the peasant said. “This is his cart. The funeral is out of town, at the old mission church. The mayor liked to go there to watch sunsets. He’ll be happy there.”

Carlos slowly climbed on board. Just as he turned to see whether Linda might be coming with them, the driver clicked his tongue against his teeth. The burro pulled away, the wagon bouncing on the bumpy street.

At the central plaza, they took a lane running south into the desert. The ground grew stony, and the cart started rocking from side to side. Carlos grabbed the seat on either side of him, but the peasant swayed from side to side, giving in to the motion. The cart went up a little hill, toward an old, crumbling church.

They stopped. The sun was straight above, burning white-hot. A blanket of dust hung in the air, too lazy to float back to earth. The townspeople had gathered around a freshly dug grave. Carlos got out of the cart and thanked the driver. He limped toward the crowd and saw that the casket
had already been lowered into the ground. He spotted Antonio, Fernando, and Madame Felix. They, in turn, nodded toward him. A few women were crying. Otherwise, no one made a sound.

After a few minutes, Carlos heard footsteps. He turned and saw Father Alvarez walking toward them all. His robes swung as he walked, and his bald head gleamed in the sunlight. He had a prayer book in one hand.

He stopped at the edge of the grave.

“We are here today to say goodbye to one of our most cherished sons,” Father Alvarez said. “A man who did his job with love in his heart and pride in his step. A man who loved children, though he never had any of his own. A man who helped those in need, a man who went to church every Sunday. A man who would do anything to protect this town of his, who was simple and brave and just. A man we were proud to call our mayor.”

As he spoke, Carlos thought of how the old man had stood up to the rebels. He asked himself if a man could be brave without being at least a little bit stupid. Maybe, he realized, this was the nature of courage. It wasn’t just one
thing, but a mixture of many things. Maybe courage was a thing both good
and
bad.

When the service was over, the cart driver met Carlos outside the churchyard. Just as they were about to pull away, Antonio came up.

“Carlos,” he said. “Father Alvarez and I are going to the tavern. Do you want to come?”

“Of course,” he said.

“Then meet us there.”

The driver clicked his tongue against his teeth. His burro lifted his tail and farted, as if to say, “It’s hot out. I want to rest in the shade.” Then he slowly started for home. After a few minutes, Carlos turned to the cart driver.

“Do you know Linda?” he asked.

“Linda? There are many Lindas in this town. It is a well-used name, yes?”

“The one looking after me.”

“Oh yes.
That
Linda. The Indian girl. Yes, I think I do.”

Carlos paused. “Take me to her house.”

“What do you mean?”

“Take me to her house,” Carlos repeated.

“But why?”

“I want to see where she lives.”

“I don’t think you’ll like it,” said the driver.

“Why not?”

“I just don’t think you will.”

“I don’t care.”

The driver shrugged his shoulders and said, “Okay.”

They went along a rocky trail until it reached a T. Instead of turning toward town, the driver turned right. Carlos knew where they were headed. Just east of town was a camp. He had heard it spoken of many times. They rode for a few more minutes, and then came over a ridge. Carlos saw a cluster of shacks built from scraps of wood and tin.

As they neared, Carlos wrinkled his nose. The driver saw this and said, “Some of their kind need a good bath, if you ask me.”

Carlos ignored the comment, though the camp did smell of smoke and horse sweat and milk left too long in the sun. All around were low fires, fed by dried animal dung. Little children played in the dusty lanes, wearing nothing but dirty shorts. Skinny, flea-bitten dogs followed along, hoping for scraps.

The cart stopped in front of a tilting tin-roofed shack. Peering inside, Carlos could see women in long skirts. A man slept in a hammock.

“This is it,” said the driver. “She lives with an aunt who came from the South a long while ago, I believe.”

“All right,” said Carlos, his body feeling heavy.

“Do you want...”

“No. Let’s just go.”

The driver clicked his tongue, urging the burro forward. As they rode back to town, Carlos thought of all the ways in which God chose to treat his children. If there was a good reason for any of it, he would really like to know.

Carlos grunted his thanks when they reached the tavern. It had been a long afternoon, and his foot was throbbing. He also felt that he could use a drink.

He pushed open the tavern door, letting light wash over the room. The door closed behind him, and the room returned to a cool gloom. He spotted Antonio, Father Alvarez, and Fernando and sat with them.

Antonio lifted a shot glass. “To the mayor,” he said.

“To the mayor,” they all replied.

They drank and then slammed the bottoms of their glasses on the table top.

“So,” said Antonio. “What do you think happened to our old friend? Do you think rebels hiding in the desert shot at him?”

“He didn’t have any bullet wounds.”

“Maybe he fell trying to get away.”

“He
was
eighty-two,” said Father Alvarez. “Could be he had a heart attack.”

“Why was a bullet missing, then?”

“Maybe he took a shot at a deer and missed.”

“That would be my guess,” said Antonio. “You all know how clumsy Roberto could be.”

They all chuckled and drank another shot. As the liquor loosened their tongues, they started sharing memories of the old man with Carlos.

“Remember the time he fell off his own roof trying to install a rain spout?” asked Antonio.

“Or,” Fernando added, “how about the time he stepped outside this very tavern and spooked Madame’s horse? He got himself kicked in the chest!”

“How about the Sunday morning when he tripped in the church aisle?” said the priest. “Remember how he smacked his head against a pew? How the sound echoed off the walls of the church?”

“Yes! Yes!” said Antonio, laughing. “And then he jumped back up, saying he’d just been looking for something that had dropped from his pocket.”

“And meanwhile,” said Father Alvarez, “blood was rushing from the cut in his forehead!”

“I tell you,” said Fernando, “it’s lucky that old man lasted as long as he did.”

They all laughed except Carlos. The others noticed, and there was a guilty silence. Though Carlos’s heart had lightened a little when he entered the tavern, the strong drink had brought back his dark mood. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way that Linda lived, way out in that filthy Indian camp.

Antonio broke the silence.

“So,” he said. “I guess we need a new mayor.”

Carlos’s foot was healing, and his ribs didn’t complain as long as he didn’t take a deep breath. Instead of crutches, he now used a cane that Ramon, the wood worker, had made for him. He got into the habit of walking slowly through the town most days, resting on a bench when he got tired.

One morning he awoke and decided to peel away the strips of cloth binding his wound. It was the first time he’d taken a close look at what was left of his foot. Each time the old woman named Azula had tended to him, he’d turned his head. He refused to see what he’d done to himself. This time, though, he just stared. The three smallest toes were gone, leaving tiny, bruised stumps.
About half of the second toe was gone as well, leaving only the big toe without any damage. The entire foot had turned various shades of green and yellow. Carlos lay back, feeling awful.

That afternoon, when Linda brought him his midday meal, he asked if she would like to eat with him.

She paused at the door. She was looking down. “I don’t think I can,” she said.

“Why not? It would save me from eating all by myself.”

She remained standing at the door, saying nothing. Her body swayed slightly, and the light caught her blouse. He noticed the outline of her small, compact body moving against the fabric.

“Linda,” Carlos said. “Please.”

She nodded, and filled two metal plates with a spicy rabbit stew. They sat at the table, steam rising into their faces. As they ate, Carlos found that the food began to lose its taste. The gentle way she held her spoon, the careful way she pushed her hair away from her face, distracted him. He was lost in the plumpness of her mouth.

“Linda,” he finally said. “May I ask you a question?”

She nodded.

“It’s just that... you’re from the South, yes? Like me?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Why are you living here?”

She stared at her food.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No... it’s... We were farmers. The rebels came.”

“I’m sorry.”

“They told us we had to give them corn or they would shoot us,” she told him.

“So you gave them corn.”

“Two weeks later, the army came, asking for corn as well.”

“Which you didn’t have,” Carlos said.

She sniffled. “Of course not. When they saw that our grain bins were empty, they said we must have given it all to the rebels. They said we must have been
helping
the rebels. I was fourteen, and like all the other girls, I was hiding on the outskirts of the village.”

Carlos didn’t need to hear the rest of the story. Linda was telling him about the day she’d lost her family.

Just then, someone knocked at the front door. Linda jumped up and answered. There stood Antonio and Father Alvarez, with Madame Felix standing in front of them. She wore a dress that looked like it had been shipped all the way from France. As always, she was smoking a narrow cigar in a long, black holder.

Antonio looked at Linda, at Carlos, and at the two bowls of stew on the table. He seemed confused, as if his mind couldn’t understand what his eyes were showing him.

Linda saw this. She rushed over to the table, dumped the food on her plate back into the pot, and took her plate into the kitchen. A moment later, she moved past Carlos’s guests, bowing her head a little before leaving.

“She is a nice girl,” said Madame Felix. “Too bad they aren’t all like that.”

“Yes,” said Father Alvarez. “A real gem. It’s a pity how her life turned out.”

Carlos looked around the room for places for them all to sit. He began to stand. “I’m sorry...”

“Please,” said Antonio. “Stay seated. You’ve got the bad foot.”

Carlos did so. Madame Felix took the other seat. Blue smoke drifted from the tip of her cigar.

“Can I get you something?” asked Carlos. “I think there might be some fruit juice out back.”

“No, no, thank you very much,” said Antonio.

Antonio and the priest exchanged glances.

“Well, we might as well tell you straight out,” said Alvarez. “The three of us talked things over till three o’clock this morning. We have given this much thought.”

Again, they paused. It was Antonio who spoke next.

“Carlos,” he said, “we would like you to be our new mayor.”

“Me?” The idea shocked Carlos.

“Yes. We have all talked about it.”

“But why would you want
me
to be your mayor?”

“You have a thoughtful, gentle manner,” Antonio answered. “That’s something this poor country of ours could use more of. As well...”

He glanced at the others, and cleared his throat. “A s well, you were given a problem that
could not be solved, and you found a way to solve it. Better yet, you did it without killing or being killed. You have qualities that few of us possess. You set an example not just for this town, but for the whole of Mexico. If everyone was like you, we’d get through this damn war with our souls clean.”

Carlos shook his head. “I shot myself in the foot. I am a coward. All I want to do is go home. Nothing more.”

“Carlos,” said Antonio. “You see ways around problems instead of through them.”

Carlos looked at his three visitors, still thinking they were not serious. “The only thing I want,” he said, “is to get better. And then I want to go home.”

The next day, when Linda brought him his midday meal, she smiled.

“What is it?” he asked.

She put down the small pot she’d brought him and lifted the lid. Carlos couldn’t believe it. The women of the village had cooked him chicken in a sauce made from chilies and bitter chocolate. It was a wonderful dish from his state in the South.
The women had also made him real corn tortillas, instead of the four tortillas that they ate in the North.

“Please,” he said. “Tell them I am grateful.”

Linda left before he had the chance to offer her some. He sat at his table, eating. The meal wasn’t half bad, although he could teach them a few tricks about making the rich sauces of his home state.