The Hummingbird's Daughter_ A Novel - Luis Alberto Urrea [150]
L.A.
FAITH. STOP. AGUIRRE YOU FOOL. STOP. THE ONLY FRUIT DANGLING FROM THE TREES WILL BE NAMED URREA. STOP. YOU WILL EAT ITALIAN ICE IN TEXAS AND SLAUGHTER US ALL. STOP. HYPOCRITE. STOP.
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