The Hummingbird's Daughter_ A Novel - Luis Alberto Urrea [151]
“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