The Hummingbird's Daughter_ A Novel - Luis Alberto Urrea [76]
Still, farther out, in the dry wastes beyond their arroyo and windmill, the desert gave up blooms. Even the small peyote cactus bloomed, as did the nopales and the few huge saguaros that were sentinels of the great north. Wildflowers erupted from the ground without any help at all from Tomás. In the summer, the rains came, and the magical event of toads bursting from the ground followed: toads started to shoot up from the soil, blinking their happy yellow eyes, excited by the first drumming of rain. Wildflowers were sure to follow. First toads, then flowers.
Desert marigold. Threadleaf groundsel. Paleface flower. Texas silverleaf. Sage. Desert calico. Purple mat.
If you knew where to look, it was a jungle in miniature. The bees knew where to look. And so did Huila.
Fagonia. Ratany. Filaree storksbill. Indian blanket. Daisies. Phacelia. Trumpet flowers. Purple groundberries. Burrobrush. Mormon tea.
The bee boxes stood about as tall as a short man. The beekeeper’s hut was not far away, looking like the houses of El Potrero where the People lived, but painted white and with windows covered in screen to keep the bees away. Beekeepers’ suits hung on pegs inside the door, and hats with veils stitched to the brims were stacked on the worktables. In the sheds outside, pry bars and slats and empty frames and sheets of wax and knives and gloves and the curious little bellows-pump smokers. And on three sides of the house, bright marijuana plants.
But Tomás knew his bees so well, and was known so well by his bees, that he didn’t bother with veils. In the years since his epochal ride into the Yaqui villages, he had confided mostly in his bees. Loreto, delighted to be ensconced in the pretentious house in Alamos, had set about spending fortunes on lace tablecloths and lace-up boots and awful kneesocks his sons wore like little princes from an idiot’s fairy-tale book. Loreto had not managed to come out to see Cabora. She did not care to be told excruciatingly crude and vicious tales of the ride or of the debased conditions in the demesnes of the savages.
Loreto had borne him a fifth child since the reconstruction. Now the Urrea children were all gathered in the city, learning to read and do factors. They had never branded a cow or castrated a horse. At times, Tomás was thankful for this. But they had also not slept on the ground, and his oldest boy, Juan Francisco II, had not yet learned to shoot. Leticia and Martita, the girls, helped around the house, though these duties were ably handled by the wash girls and the cooks and the maids. Leticia won a beauty pageant, and Martita had pale skin and huge lucid eyes. Alberto was a happy boy, dearly loved by Loreto. He was all muscle: Tomás liked to wrestle with him and feel his rocky torso strain to lift him off the floor. The baby, Tavito, was all smiles and laughter. Tomás liked to inform diners at Loreto’s table that Tavito was born smiling.
Once a month, he rode to La Capilla, as the Alamos home was known. He bathed, slathered on unguents and eaux de toilette, suffered through delicate meals with fine little forks and thin little plates with oily businessmen and their powdered wives—every one of them holding out their pinkies as they ate. Nobody ate with a tortilla in Loreto’s house. Nobody ate pork rinds or drank beer. After these interminable dinners, Tomás bid all his gathered children good night, then took Loreto’s delicate hand and led her upstairs, where he climbed atop her and did his duties. For the first time in his life, he thought of other things as he served his bride. And when she gasped her “Oh! Oh! Eres tremendo, mi amor!” he often had to turn his head so as not to laugh. Everything felt rehearsed in Alamos. Everything