The Hummingbird's Daughter_ A Novel - Luis Alberto Urrea [146]
“But I am tired. You will have to test me tomorrow, señores.”
“José,” cried José. “Please. Just call me José.”
Cruz was watching this exchange with raised eyebrows.
Teresita smiled.
“Joseph, like the father of Jesus,” she said.
José hung his head and blushed some more.
“Why,” she exclaimed, “you look exactly like Saint Joseph.”
“I do?”
“Without a doubt.”
She gestured for him to come closer.
“We must fix that growth on your neck.”
He covered it with his hand.
“Tomorrow,” she promised.
She turned away, but before she went in the door, she looked back at Cruz.
“And you, Tiger? What is your name?”
“Cruz Chávez!” he bellowed, a little too loud. Caught himself snapping to attention. He cleared his throat and slouched a little. Then he informed her: “I am the Pope of Mexico.”
“Oh my!” she said.
She glanced at José.
“He is a little crazy, no?” she said.
José laughed, though Cruz glared at him.
“That’s all right,” she said. “People say I am crazy, too.”
She stretched and sighed and opened the door, and before she slipped inside, she said, “I am glad to meet you, Cruz Chávez. It’s about time we had a Mexican pope!”
The door slammed.
The three warriors stood there.
“Is she laughing at me?” Cruz said.
Both of his men replied, “Yes.”
The next morning, they were waiting for her. She came forth at eight o’clock, eating an apple.
“Saint Joseph,” she said, holding her free hand out to José.
He hurried up to the porch, and she gestured toward the door. He took his hat off and peeked inside. He hung his head, glanced back at Cruz and Rubén, giggled, and stepped in.
“Your Holiness,” she said to Cruz. “You may sit here.”
She gestured to a swing, hung from the porch rafters on chains.
“I —” he said, but before he could finish she had gone through the door and closed it.
Pulling himself up as tall as possible, Cruz stepped onto the porch and sat on the swing. It rocked back, and he leapt to his feet. He had never seen a swing. He ordered Rubén onto it, and he watched Rubén sway. Cruz stopped it with his foot and he joined his rifleman. He used the butt of his rifle to push them back and forth. Rubén turned to him and smiled. Cruz remained stoic. He had slept little. His mind jumped and sparked with Teresita. Her eyes, her voice. Those roving hands. When he finally fell asleep, he dreamed that they fished trout in the rivers of Tomóchic. He caught very big fish, and she admired him.
Presently, Tomás appeared on the porch. He stared out at the mob and shook his head. He turned to the two on his swing and said, “Who are you?”
Cruz stood and gripped his upright rifle in two fists.
“I am the Pope of Mexico,” he said.
Tomás gawked at him.
“Jesus Christ!” he said. “Another maniac!”
He jumped off the porch and stormed away, pushing pilgrims aside as he went.
Cruz sat back down, resumed swinging.
“What’s his problem?” he said.
The door regularly opened, and her assistants came forth to gather a child or two, but she did not reappear.
Cruz opened his Bible and read silently, while Rubén snored. Flies came, wandered their faces, then flew away. It was another day. Hot. Dry. Full of invisible motion. The windmill barely stirred, and it squealed, squealed, squealed. The pilgrims slumbered. Squeal. Squeal. A horse shifted, its hoof clopping once. Bees moved above them all, sniffing their breath as it rose.
Cruz drifted into sleep. In his dream, Teresita was covered in blood. “Help me!” she cried. When he awoke, he jerked to his feet. José stood before him, clutching his rifle.
“What happened?” Cruz asked.
“She touched me.” José looked down at him kindly—now that he was to be the new Saint Joseph, he was sure his countenance must reflect a certain holy glow. “After she touched me, she healed a deaf boy. It was the most remarkable scene, Hermano Cruz. She took him in her arms and whispered to him. It seemed odd, I admit, to whisper into a closed ear. But the boy suddenly smiled, and they laughed at some small joke.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what she said. But the boy’s father fell to his knees