The Creed of Violence - Boston Teran [38]
Rawbone slung the bindle over one shoulder. He took to walking away. The son saw him and called out, "You think you're leaving but you're not."
The father kept on.
"What about your family?"
Rawbone stopped. His face drained of expression. The son had heard himself say the words but there was no thought to them, no preparation, nor plan. They came out as squalls of pure anger, fully formed. Ready, willing and able to draw blood and serve a purpose at the same time.
"You do have a family, don't you?"
Rawbone flicked away his cigarette.
"In El Paso?"
The father did not move. He only swung the bindle up on his shoulder as if he were getting ready to start away.
"Could it be those questions you were asking of me at the church about the barrio, and did I know families there-"
"I have no idea where you're going," said Rawbone. "But I'll send you my regrets once you get there."
John Lourdes approached, his weapon in one hand, the father's in the other. Both were barreled to the ground.
"What if I told you someone at BOI knows of your family. I might even say justice Knox has spoken to a member of your family. Would it mean anything to you?"
The son could see something incubating in the eyes and the jawline of the man before him. I have put the knife to him, thought the son. I have found a place that bleeds. Thank God.
"Take a look out there," said John Lourdes.
He meant the ravine so lined with trash along that runnelled pathway that ran with water when the season warranted.
"That's your life." He slapped Rawbone on the back. "And you know what else? When it's your time, McManus will be out here waiting on you. With his wooden arm and marijuana." He even pretended he was banging away one-armed on the ivory keys with those oddly splayed fingers.
Rawbone stood in hard silence watching the display. Then he said, "Mr. Lourdes, I believe I'm going to kill you."
"You mean you're not sure."
John Lourdes took Rawbone's weapon and stuffed it into the front of his trousers. "Now," he said. "You've at least got something between your pockets." He started toward the truck. "I'm going to find Mr. McManus a good spot to watch the sunset."
The father did nothing. He'd been caught off guard and he now evaluated his situation thoughtfully. He looked up that ravine. From Juarez came a carreta pulled by a mule. An old man sat in the box seat. A boy ran alongside, sifting through the trash, holding items he thought valuable aloft and every now and then the old man would nod and wave, yes, yes, and the boy would run to him with an air of pride and achievement at his discovery.
The father removed his derby and wiped at the sweat on the inside brim with his bandana, the one he'd given the son to hold against his wound.
He should have taken his own advice back there on the road to El Paso when he first had the truck. He should have heeded Burr. He should disappear now into a landscape more hostile and befitting his station. Pay intelligent attention to what your insides tell you, for they are ever true. Yet even so—
He set the derby back on his head all cocked and rugged, then called out in that tone of voice he was best known for, "Mr. Lourdes ... save a seat in the truck for me!"
PAT II
TWENTY-ONE
IRE ROAD TO Casas Grandes lay to the south. The father drove to occupy his time; the son fought to keep at bay the rising pain from the beating with the black stick that the road made all the more merciless. When he stopped to urinate, the dust around his boots ran wet with red.
"McManus knew his trade," said the father. "You'll be fine in a day or two. Or you won't."
They drove on in the shadow of barren mountains and the son came to see and understand they were being stripped down, mile after mile, one as much as the other, till there would be nothing left between them but who they truly were.
Out of nowhere the father said, "Hammer and anvil. Each will have its turn."
THEY FOLLOWED THE line of the rail