The Hummingbird's Daughter_ A Novel - Luis Alberto Urrea [82]
“My tongue! Where was your tongue? In some peasant culo?”
“Loreto, Loreto, what has come over you?”
“Hypocrite!”
He put out his arms in a badly timed attempt to collect a hug.
She smacked him again.
“The shame!” she shrieked. “You shamed me every day of my life!”
“Shame!” he suddenly amazed himself by roaring. “Who bought you everything you ever wanted?”
“Uncle Miguel,” she replied, archly. “Urrea,” she added, as if he didn’t know who she meant.
Stunned, he sat down.
“That was unfair,” he said.
“Prove me wrong, Tomás.”
She folded her arms and looked at him with the satisfaction of a hunter who has just shot a lion.
“I worked my fingers,” he complained, “to the bone.”
“Yes, and your knees got bloody from begging for loans all day, too.”
“God.”
He put his head in his hands.
“You used me,” Loreto said. “And you used my womb, you failure.”
“God, God.”
“The big patrón! The master of the hacienda! What a pretty wife. What lovely children. By the way, did you hear he has been fucking every lice-ridden whore on the ranch?”
“That will be enough!” he announced.
“Oh no.” She shook her head. “Oh no, my love. I am only beginning.”
“What do you intend to do?” he cried.
“From now on,” she replied, nostrils flaring magnificently as her cheeks burned a deep carmine, “you may sleep on the couch. Do you see my legs?” She lifted her skirt. “Do you see them?” He looked around to catch out anybody who might be spying on this dreadful scene. But the domestics were all gathered on the other side of the kitchen door, giggling into their fists. “These legs,” Loreto whispered, “will never open for you again.”
He hung his head.
“I could have lied,” he said. “I could have kept the boy a secret.”
Loreto bent down to him and looked in his eyes.
“Your mistake,” she said.
The three riders headed out of town. Tomás was sullen. Buenaventura said, “Nice day, eh, Dad?” And Tomás whirled in his saddle and shouted: “Shut your hole, you little bastard!” Buenaventura turned to Segundo and made a hurt and baffled face. Segundo knew enough to keep silent. He only shook his head once and kept his eyes forward.
The horses soon sensed the glum mood, and their heads drooped and they shuffled along at a pathetic pace. They gave out long sorrowful sighs and only vaguely turned their heads toward roadside flowers. They were too depressed to bite off any tasty blooms.
“When you try to be good,” Tomás said, “you are punished.”
His horse sadly agreed with a long blubbery blowing of the lips.
“Women!” he said.
“Goddamned women!” Buenaventura offered.
Tomás pulled out his revolver and pointed it at him.
“Say one more thing,” he said.
He stuck his gun back in its holster and kept going.
It took most of the morning to reach the Alamos turnoff. Tomás stared at the big cottonwoods that shaded Cantúa’s restaurant.
“Let’s eat,” he said. “Life goes on.”
Segundo, whose timing was always excellent, repeated this bit of wisdom: “Life goes on, boss.”
“Yes . . . yes . . . I suppose it does.”
Buenaventura rode up to them and smiled and Tomás held up one finger and said: “Shhh.”
They tied off their horses and entered. The little restaurant was empty, except for the green flies. Señor Cantúa drowsed in a wooden chair, but when they walked in, he snorted awake and jumped to his feet.
“Don Tomás!” he exulted. “You grace us with your presence!”
“One cannot pass by Cantúa’s,” intoned Tomás, “without stopping to sample the wares.”
“Very good, very good,” Cantúa babbled, as he wiped off a table. “You are too kind.”
They sat.
Tomás heard a sound behind him, and he turned to see the kitchen door cracked open wide enough for one stunning eye to peek out. Those lashes! A strand of curling hair passed over the eye. It blinked. The lashes were like a garden! The door slammed.
Segundo nudged his foot under the table.
“Yes?” he said.
“The señor was saying something,” Segundo said.
“Yes?”
“I was merely mentioning how curious it was to me that just this morning a wagon from your ranch stopped here for a quick meal.”
“A wagon,