The Hummingbird's Daughter (45 page)

Forty-nine

NIGHT LAID ITSELF OVER THE PLAIN, and groups of bodies seemed to be dancing as the red-yellow glow of their fires leapt and wobbled. Cruz could not find Rubén or Saint Joseph. They were not at the various guitar-and-tequila parties on the outskirts of the camp. They were not at the evangelist’s tent where the mad Protestants called “Hallelujah!” They were not near the soldiers, or the taco carts, or the huddled muttering family groups. He looked for them for an hour or more, and when the dark finally clamped down over him, he made his way back to the camp of the twisted child, Conchita. She was asleep and snoring.

He bowed to her mother and said, “Doña, may I sleep here?”

“Claro que sí,” she said. “Make your home with us.”

By the time he had spread out his blanket, she had scooped him a plateful of beans and shredded beef. She put three tortillas on top of the food and pushed the plate to him. He dug for a coin to repay her, but she shook her head. In the glow of the coals of her fire ring, she looked young again. He ate his food with wedges of tortillas, and he looked at sleeping Conchita, and he felt he might almost cry, but it was only a feeling, and after a while it passed, and he stretched out and sighed.

Teresita couldn’t sleep. She rolled from side to side in her bed. She sighed. Sat up. Lay back down.

She got up, paced her room. Reached up to the crisp branches of herbs hanging head down from the rafters, crushed them in her fists, breathed in their sharp scents. She went to the corner and poured water into the basin. She plunged her face into the water. Scrubbed her cheeks. Tossed her head and sprayed water all over her room.

Cruz couldn’t sleep. He sat up, swept pebbles out from under his blanket, lay down again. Turned over and tried to sleep belly down. Jumped up, shook out the blanket, lay on it again.

He rose and eased himself into the bushes and made his water there. Stepped back into the small camp and stoked the dying fire. Conchita had kicked off her thin blanket in her sleep. He pulled it back over her.

He dug a five-peso coin out of his pocket and left it on a flat stone beside the fire, collected his things, and walked away.

Guards paced around the main house. Two men, each carrying a Winchester. Cruz watched them make their rounds. They crossed before the porch and walked to the far ends of the house, where they passed out of sight to pace around the back.

He laid down his rifle and rushed to the porch steps with a fistful of pebbles. He threw one at her shutter. Threw another. Pitched about twenty in a bunch.

A gruff voice said: “What are you doing?”

Cruz spun around. Segundo was pointing his rifle at him.

“I was pitching pebbles,” he said.

“Why?”

“We need to speak.”

“You might need to speak,” Segundo said. “She needs to sleep.”

“I am the Pope of Mexico.”

“I’m the King of France.”

Teresita’s shutters banged open above them.

“Quién es?” she called down.

“It’s me, Segundo. Some idiot was trying to wake you. Go back to bed.”

“What idiot?” she called back.

“Me. Cruz,” Cruz said.

“Oh, that idiot!” she said.

Cruz scowled.

“Hold him, Segundo!” she cried. “I’m coming down.”

Segundo jacked a round into the chamber. He smiled at Cruz.

“If I had my rifle,” Cruz said, “you would not be smiling.”

“But you don’t have it,” Segundo replied.

“I could fry you like a catfish,” Cruz said.

“I could poach your eggs.”

“I could shit in your boot.”

“I could whip you like a dog.”

Teresita came out the door.

“What did you say?” she asked.

“Nothing,” mumbled Cruz.

“Nothing,” Segundo muttered.

She crossed her arms.

“Boys,” she said.

“Shall I wake your father?” Segundo asked.

“I’ll handle it,” she said.

She pushed his rifle barrel away.

“I have custody of the prisoner,” she intoned.

Segundo stared at her. So did Cruz. Segundo shook his head. He knew better than to argue with one of these mule-headed Urreas. Especially this one.

“I’ll stay close,” he said.

“Yes,” she replied. “He might be dangerous.” She grinned.

“Next time,” Segundo said.

“Bring your friends.”

“Bring yours.”

“You’ll need them.”

“My mother could kick you in the ass.”

“Boys,” she repeated.

“Bring your mother,” Segundo said, “if you can get her out of the barn.”

“Now
boys!
”

The two men looked at each other. Segundo put a finger against his eye.
I’ll be watching.
He backed off to the far end of the porch, and Cruz recovered his rifle.

“I could shoot him,” Cruz said.

“Cruz Chávez,” she snapped, “you behave!”

“Sorry.”

He scuffed the floorboards of the veranda with his toe.

Crickets, cicadas, cows, coyotes, boot heels, snoring.

“Why are you bothering me at this late hour?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said.

“And you thought I should suffer because you are awake?”

“Sorry.”

She took his arm. He jumped.

“Come with me,” she said, “into the chapel.”

“Alone?” he blurted, but she was already pulling him down the steps and around the corner of the house.

The chapel was round, made of white adobe. Its doorway was trimmed in blue. Its walls were thick, rough. No matter how hot the day could get, the chapel would remain relatively cool.

She pushed open the door and gestured for him to go first. He pulled off his hat and stepped through. The room was small—it held about nine benches. The floor was red-clay tile. The walls were curved, so there were no corners to speak of.

Directly across from the doorway, a dark wooden cross hung above a small altar. He recognized the pagan glass of water on the altar. It was very Mexican, he thought. Incense, candles. Oil lamps mounted on the walls guttered. Peaceful.

“I like it,” he said.

“Thank you.”

She sat on the first bench and folded her hands in her lap.

“You aren’t going to cover your head?” he said.

“No.”

“But this is God’s house,” he said.

“The entire earth is God’s house,” she responded. “This is my house. God comes here to visit me.”

He put down his rifle and sat at the far end of the bench.

“Your life is difficult,” he said.

“Oh?”

“You are lonely.”

“Lonely . . . ,” she murmured.

“Everybody here to see you,” he said. “But nobody
with
you.”

“Yes,” she said, cautiously. “I have thought of this.”

He rubbed his hands on his knees.

“I did not choose this fate,” she said. “But I won’t turn from it.” She laughed. “Though I wouldn’t mind going to a dance once.”

“I don’t dance,” he said.

“Because you’re the Pope?” she asked.

“Because I dance like a donkey!”

They laughed.

Outside, Segundo listened through the door and frowned.

“How do you do it?” he asked.

“Healing?”

“Sí.”

“I don’t do it. It . . . it comes through me.” She looked up, opened her hands before her. “It feels like water. Or something . . . golden. It comes, I can feel it, it comes to me from above. It passes through me, in through my head and my heart, and out through my hands.” Her fingers curled into loose fists, her hands fell to her sides. “God is the healer,” she said. “Not I.”

“Always?” he said. “Is it always like this?”

She shifted in her seat. She cleared her throat.

“Not always.”

“It is not always from God?” he asked, alarmed.

“It is always from God,” she replied. “Everything is from God. But, sometimes . . . I don’t know.”

She turned away from him.

“Tell me, Teresita. Please.”

“Sometimes, I can talk to them.” She searched for the words. “I can use my voice to calm them. Sometimes . . . it
is
me.”

He nodded.

“What is it like?” he asked.

She smiled.

“It’s like falling in love.”

He blushed, looked at his hands. She patted her hair—a few strands had escaped the bun in back, and they framed her face in the orange candlelight.

“You love them,” she said. “You feel a tenderness toward them, an unbearable softness in your heart. You feel a tingle in your belly, you feel like crying. You want to kiss them, but you know you cannot.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, Cruz! My father would never allow that!” She put her hands over her mouth and laughed. “Can you imagine Tomás Urrea allowing me to kiss pilgrims? Ay, Dios!”

Cruz smiled.

“Or dance with them,” he said.

She laughed again.

“Can you imagine?” she cried. “Can you imagine me waltzing with a pilgrim?”

He shook his head.

“Sometimes,” she said, “I don’t actually touch them. I can see the colors around them, the light that comes from the body. Sometimes the light breaks. Do you understand? No? Let me see. It is as if the body were a candle.”

She took his hand and led him to the votive candles.

“The flame might be the soul. But see the way the wax glows? The burning flame casts light through the candle. See?”

He watched the candles; their waxen bodies glowed below the flames, reddening as if blood were in them.

“I see,” he said.

“Soot on the candle”—she wiped black ash on the side of one of them —“blocks the light. So too does illness. Do you see? The sickness makes . . . a shadow. I see the shadow.”

She went back to her seat.

His hand, where she’d held it, felt warm. He rubbed it on his pants.

“I can sometimes touch the shadow,” she said.

He went to the bench and sat behind her.

They were close enough to smell each other.

“May I touch you?” he asked.

She was quiet a long time.

“To bless you.”

“Usually it’s me doing the blessing.”

“But I am here now. May I?”

“Yes.”

He put his hand on her back. His other hand on her head.

“Bless you, Teresa.”

Then he laid his forehead against her spine. He closed his eyes.