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26
the vaqueros had to pick pieces
of his mind out of the dirt, but
those cattle didn’t mean to. The
churchyard was packed with
folks from all over but somehow
I quit Baptist First after that.
Lo sentimos mucho, mis
vaqueros said. Son, we need you,
you belong here now so don’t be
going off by yourself, Mr. J said.
I shook hands all around and
took my pay. I gave away
Marco’s furniture such as it was,
and moved into this adobe one-
room built by Mexicans last cen-
tury, way out on a piece of what
used to be the old Truehome
Ranch.
Miss Darlene was blue eyes,
gold hair and girl-soft every way
to Sunday. That woman still is so
pretty and sweet, and married to
Miguel with those four mostly
grown kids of theirs. Momma
and Daddy left me in her arms
with their blessing after we put
Marco in the ground.
She
brought supper every night, and
I ate some but not much, fed it to
the dogs when I could get her to
leave, usually crying, thought her
tears would wash me off the
porch by the time she quit, a
monsoon I could not abide nor
find shelter from, I only wanted
to be quiet and dry. Baby, come
on, kiss me Raul Jesusito, she
said, I miss him too, honey. I did
try to eat her food and lie down
with her, but soon as she was
asleep, I would soft step out onto
the porch with the dogs and
wonder what was wrong that I
was so gone. The tender hopes
of a young girl did not fill the
sinkhole that became my mind,
couldn’t stop it opening up every
morning and funneling the dark-
ness down into it. It’s a wicked
thing when a good horse and
some skittish calves crush the life
from a man; it’s hard times God
chose not to lay up stores against.
Either that or He turned a blind
eye, although I mean no disre-
spect.
The church people brought
food too, a reason to lay on
hands and get me back to seeing
it their way. Casseroles and
prayer did not cause me see the
rightness or goodness in Marco
going home to Jesus like they
Cenizo
Fourth Quarter 2012
said he did. You will forgive me
when I say Marco does not sit on
the right hand of God at His
eternal throne in heaven eating
his mama’s enchiladas verdes
and refried beans watching
Monahans high school football.
His bones have turned to dirt
after the worms had his flesh,
and weren’t even his mama or
papa still alive to place a stone on
the mound.
Valentine took up a collection
for a concrete angel with wings
and hands folded, and a carved
headstone. One night in my
young dreaming, her cement
wings took flight and in her aggre-
gate kindness I was chosen along
with her. We drifted quiet and
high above the desert like the
aerostat Border Patrol flies to
catch Mexicans trying to come in.
Mr. Johnson’s cattle were small
specks of black, and I knew prop-
erty lines and rooftops from the
air. Upon waking I swallowed the
gritty small pieces of concrete left
on my lips and in my teeth from
her parting kiss. She never did
return. The years hence have
been bereft of wings to carry and
of stones to anchor. Folks don’t
talk sense any longer nor do I rec-
ognize my hand in front of my
face.
I’ve been the one to tell Miss
Harris about about tsunamis
and hurricanes and earthquakes.
There was a story attached
today about another volcano
erupted in 1883 in Krakatoa,
about ash that turned the skies
the world across blood-orange
and crazy purple and all what-
not other colors for years after,
caused scientists to discover the
jet stream and the winds that
blow up over the rooftop of the
earth – way above our hail
storms that make the roads and
fields white in five minutes time
in summer, or the blowing dust
that flies by 65 miles an hour
sideways in spring. The
Krakatoa volcano caused
unknown painters to become
famous for making 500 paintings
of those startling skies; it set the
world on its ear, spewing belief
and the utter lack of it, all in one
instant and for days and years to
follow.
In Valentine there is not so
much to see or to buy, excepting
postage stamps and old baby fur-
niture at the church rummage
sale. I drive to Van Horn or
Marfa for my Jeremiah Weed
and what I can’t grow myself.
Mostly I eat from the garden,
cook it up with some rice and a
fried egg on top. I don’t know
how you can eat that slop, says
Orlando, my compadre of 30
years at the post office. He sits
down with his wife and family at
night to hot supper. Venga, he
says, a mi casa con mi familia.
They invite me to come but I
don’t go. I did go once maybe 30
years ago. Por favor, make grace
Raulito Jesusito, Rosa said, all
smiling and soft and kind, what
with Orlando swatting the two
littlest ones under the table for
laughing at the way I am. Maybe
they thought I didn’t see, but
those little children didn’t mean
anything by it. God bless this
meal and keep this house, I said.
The seven of them sat by staring
with Rosa’s carne guisada on the
table, and her corn tortillas send-
ing up trails of steam and the
smell of another life.
An Act of God, people are
calling it, but I don’t believe that.
Maybe He brought Miss Ruby
seeking shelter from a storm on
the border road, but I do not
imagine He erupted that vol-
cano, or can be held accountable
for every earthly wrong. Likely
He is tired but not entirely
absent, just watching now. Last
night as I slept in the small bed of
my childhood with a red dog on
the floor beside in a one-room
mud house, ashes unbidden and
untold rightly rose up into the air
we breathe. A whole continent
was drifted in dust, countrymen
awoke with grit and death upon
their lips, and the big machines
went quiet.