After Eden Page 3

  The alley smelled of burning lard, mesquite smoke, and re-fried beans. A whiff of corn tamales told her that not everyone had rushed to see El Gato.

  A foot-long turtle gnawed a newly opened yellow blossom at the base of a prickly pear. It had rained yesterday. Summer was the rainy season, and all manner of creatures that usually slept in the daytime came out to feast on puddled water and tender new shoots and blooms. The turtle’s lumpy, squarish, green-and-yellow head looked as if it belonged on a snake.

  At the end of the dusty, rutted trail, beneath a tall stand of cottonwoods, the small rented house she shared with Andrea and Mama stood alone. A narrow stretch of desert separated Tía Andrea’s house from theirs. Tall weeds and grasses sloped off, eastward, into a low sweep of ridges and mesas. Another stand of cottonwoods hid the schoolhouse where Andrea taught. Had Andrea and Mama also witnessed the events in town? Mama probably had. It was her day to work at the Blond Russian saloon. She must have seen everything. Andrea would still be at school. She might not have seen anything.

  A long-eared jackrabbit sped across her path. It looked like a tiny antelope with extra-long legs. The fur on its flank flashed white, then brown, and Tía blinked. If she lived on this desert forever, she would never get used to the way the jackrabbits could change color while running. Papa said it was to confuse their pursuers.

  Walking fast and looking back over her shoulder, Tía wished her Papa were there to protect her from El Gato’s bandits. She could imagine falling in love with El Gato or Johnny, and she could imagine them protecting her from bandits. She knew her Papa would protect her if he were there, but Papa just couldn’t always be there when she needed him. Tía loved Mama, but she adored her papa. A good warm feeling filled her heart at the thought of Papa. Andrea might look like Papa, but Tía rode like him. Papa’s pride in her riding set Tía apart, even from her sister. Papa said no one rode like his Teresa. The pride in his voice was all the incentive Tía needed.

  Usually she liked being alone, but now she prayed that if Papa wasn’t there, Andrea and Mama would be home, safe, waiting to greet her.

  Its shingled roof glistening under the hot sun, the square, wooden house perched next to a small patch of garden. She and Andrea had planted peppers, corn, onions, melons, beans, and tomatoes. A faint, hot breeze flickered and rattled the white-woolly leaves of the cottonwoods. The flavorful aroma of beef stew greeted her on the porch, but she knew from the empty feel of the close, hot house that no one was home.

  Tía stepped inside, looked around, and then hurried to stir the beef stew that simmered on a back burner. She breathed deeply of the aromatic smell. A sound drew her back to the door. A rider cantered toward the small house. Sunlight flashed off a silver bangle.

  It was El Gato! Tía forgot her romantic hopes and dreams. Her heart leaped with fear. El Gato coming here?

  Her gaze darted wildly, looking for help—for Papa or Johnny. Gray and olive green in the foreground, shading into the palest purple in the distance, the desert—dotted with clumps of sage, mesquite, creosote, ironwood, and cactus—shimmered under the hot sun. Except for El Gato, no human figure marred the desert scene.

  The faint pounding of El Gato’s horse’s hooves grew louder, more insistent. Even from this distance Tía could appreciate what a fine figure of a man he was. He rode his enormous black horse as if he were an extension of the fiery animal. Straight-backed, broad-shouldered, and lean-hipped, he rode the way the men in her dreams rode—the way Papa rode, the way she imagined Johnny rode.

  El Gato ran his horse almost up to the porch and then reined him in. Tía stood her ground. She could run, but on that horse he could catch her easily. She could hide, but he would have to look in only four rooms to find her.

  Screaming, the black clawed the air with his great hooves and then slowly settled down. Beneath El Gato Negro’s flat-crowned hat, her father’s face stared back at her.

  “Papa,” she said dumbly. Her feet—accustomed to running to meet her Papa—rooted to the porch and would not move.

  “Teresa? Dios…” Mateo Lorca cursed softly. He had seen a woman he’d thought to be Rita and had followed her. Teresa must have grown up more than he had remembered. Six months ago she could not have fooled him.

  Rita would be angry he had revealed himself to Teresa, but Mateo was accustomed to his wife’s anger. He would simply tell her that any young woman who could fool a man into not recognizing his own daughter is old enough to know her papa is El Gato Negro. Mateo patted Panther’s heaving side and waited for Teresa to collect her thoughts. Her eyes were so blue and clear he could read every passing emotion—shock, fear, disbelief, and finally resignation. Slowly he dismounted and climbed the steps to the porch.

  Tía backed away from him. Mateo shook his head and pulled her roughly into his arm. “Forget what you saw in town. I am still your Papa.”

  Tía struggled against him for a moment and then became still. He smelled like Papa. He sounded like Papa. But still part of her could not believe El Gato Negro was Papa. But he had sounded like Papa in town, and Papa always called her Teresa; when he was especially proud of her, he called her Teresa Garcia-Lorca, and his black eyes fairly snapped with pride. Papa disdained the nickname Andrea and Mama used. They called her Tía, Spanish for aunt, because she reminded them of Tía Andrea, the old woman who had cared for Mama since before Andrea was born. But Papa called her Teresa.

  Tía lifted her face from his shoulder. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she said accusingly, her eyes brimming with tears.

  “Your mama would not permit it. She said you were too young to understand. I argued with her, but since it was not important…” He shrugged. “Women like to think they have won arguments. Where’s your mama?”

  “In town.”

  Mateo did not like that news. Rita had strong feelings about his role among his people. She would not be pleased at what she had undoubtedly seen today. Mateo blamed that damned gringo, Johnny Brago, for leading him here. Brago could have run anywhere else and not caused all this trouble.

  The look on Teresa’s face was so tense and miserable that Mateo shook her and pulled her close. “I missed you, little one. Every time I saw beautiful horses I thought of you, bareback, mounted on the fastest, strongest stallion, your hair whipping around your shoulders…”

  “I’m surprised you recognized me with this bonnet on.”

  “You could not fool me,” he lied.

  His dark, hawklike face broke into a grin, and Teresa flushed and brushed aside the memory that she had been attracted, repelled, and frightened by him less than an hour ago. With his perfectly chiseled, sun-browned features, fierce black eyes, and glossy black hair, Papa was the handsomest man she had ever seen. She could not believe she hadn’t recognized him, even from behind. But she had never seen Papa on horseback dressed in that fashion. Always in the past he just appeared at the house, usually while they slept. When he rode, he wore a brown serape that completely hid his body.

  Stepping back from her, he pulled off his wide-brimmed sombrero, wiped his perspiring forehead, and pulled her toward the door. Tía put her arm around his waist and forgot everything except how much she loved him.

  “Well,” Papa observed, “my flower is blossoming, isn’t she?”

  “I’m almost eighteen. That’s old enough to be an old maid.” Tía laughed and then sobered instantly. If Mama didn’t want her to know that Papa was El Gato, then Mama would be furious that she had learned the truth. And when Mama was mad at Papa, no one dared to offer Papa any kindness. No one dared even look at him if he was the cause of Mama’s wrath.

  Tía felt flooded with confusion—on the one hand she felt like a traitor, torn between upholding the family rules and loving Papa, who broke any of them whenever he liked. On the other hand she felt old enough to know. Poor Mama. All these years she had kept her secret—that Papa was El Gato Negro, a hunted man. Of course Tía understood. She was grateful she hadn’t known. It was easier to know only that Papa d
ressed like a poor gringo in shabby black frock coats that never suited him the way this tight-fitting charo suit did. She would have hated knowing Papa was El Gato Negro, and if Papa were caught, the military would undoubtedly make good on their promise to cut off his head, put it on a stick, and parade it through the towns like a trophy of war. She was glad Mama had pretended he was a businessman who made frequent, long trips to Mexico City.

  Tía tried to imagine how Papa’s true identity must have affected her mother. Perhaps it explained why Mama didn’t even try to be respectable. And then again it didn’t. Tía knew that Papa’s infrequent visits created tension in the house. Mama would be tense the first day or two Papa was home, and then she seemed to relax. Whatever went on between her parents was never put into words, the same way Papa’s activities away from home had never been discussed.

  Thoroughly confused, Tía walked to the stove. “Would you like something to eat? We have stew,” she said, looking at the large iron pot on the back burner of the wood stove. She and Andrea had cut meat and vegetables into the pot before leaving for school. Tía lifted one of the stove lids. The fire was burned down. Mama must have added wood before she left for work at eleven. The meat would be tender by now. The vegetables had blended their flavors into a fragrant brown soup. Mama must have stirred the stew. It wasn’t burned on the bottom.

  “Muy bueno, niña,” he said, switching to Spanish. “I could eat a string of donkeys.” In midlaugh he turned back to the doorway as if he had detected some danger. Tía’s gaze followed his.

  Beneath a billowing, fast-moving dust cloud, a knot of riders approached the house.

  “Who is it?” she asked, knowing his vision to be better than hers, better than anyone’s. Now she knew why. Years of watching for enemies had honed every faculty to razor sharpness. Was this what had excited her about him? Made her so sure that no man alive was as wonderful and as special as her Papa?

  “Just Patchy and some of my men,” he said negligently. “Nothing to be alarmed about, niña.” Restlessly he walked to the stove and lifted the lid on the stew. “Where’s your sister?”

  “Andrea’s at school, correcting papers. She said next month, when I’m through with my last reader, I can be her assistant. Until then I just clean and wash clothes and iron. That’s all they think I’m good for.”

  “Then why aren’t you in school?”

  “The older kids get out early.” She shoved him aside with her hip to fill his bowl and set it—steaming with hot, fragrant beef, tomatoes, carrots, and peppers—on the table. He rummaged through cans and bottles on top of the tall iron stove, which also served as a makeshift pantry.

  Knowing what he wanted, Tía leaned down and pushed the faded curtain aside, exposing a shelf where Mama kept a bottle of whiskey. She located a clean glass and placed bottle and glass beside the bowl of stew.

  “Ahhh. You know your Papa.” Smiling, he dropped onto the chair, lowered his dark head over the bowl, and ate hungrily. The sound of hooves grew to a clattering roar and then subsided abruptly as a dozen of Papa’s men reined in their horses. Saddles creaked. Men muttered curses in guttural Spanish. Shortly the shuffle of booted heels accompanied the clink and jingle of one set of spurs scraping across the wooden porch.

  Patchy stopped at the door, hat in hand, and waved his men to the water pump in the shade of the cottonwoods on the west side of the house. He walked in, nodded respectfully to his commander, and placed a letter on the red-and-white oilcloth that covered the table. It was addressed to Rita Garcia-Lorca. Still wordless, Patchy clumped outside to the porch and sat down on a chair as if he had been directed to do so. Tía looked questioningly at her papa, but he said nothing, just kept shoveling the food into his mouth. Occasionally he swallowed large gulps of the whiskey.

  “What’s your Mama doing in town?” he asked between bites.

  “Working.”

  Papa put down his spoon.

  Tía shrugged. “She works at the Blond Russian. It’s a—”

  Unexpectedly his fist slammed onto the wooden tabletop, clattering the dishes. Tía flinched. Usually she felt safe from his anger—it had never been aimed at her before—but now his dark face stifled the words in her throat. Looking into his furious eyes, she knew how poor Bethel must have felt before they hanged him, but she was not really afraid. Papa was frequently furious with Mama. Mama always survived.

  “How long has she worked at this…place?” he demanded, his voice containing more fury than Tía had ever heard, even when he had ordered the marshal hanged. He had switched to Spanish. Always, Papa set the language. If he spoke Spanish, the rest of the family spoke Spanish. If he spoke English, they spoke English. Papa could be polite in English, but in anger he always spoke Spanish.

  “A few weeks,” Tía answered in Spanish.

  His fist slammed onto the wooden table again. “Because I am not man enough to provide for her?”

  “No, Papa! You’re a good provider,” Tía replied fervently. “Mama—”

  “Then she does it to shame me in front of the town and my people!” he said, his voice tight with fury.

  Papa rarely came to see them. Even when he did, he did not mingle with the neighbors. Tía had always wondered why he did not allow Mama’s many friends in the house when he was home. Now she knew.

  “Unless you made an announcement to the townspeople after I left, no one knows we are connected to El Gato Negro. How could she shame you?”

  “She shames me with her friends and her working and her…” Papa swelled with rage. His bronze face reddened.

  Tía had heard this or similar arguments before. Papa wanted Mama to be invisible, to melt into society, to live quietly and respectably. Mama would rather die. In any town they moved into, according to Papa, Mama became the undisputed queen of the misfits. Other women were content to be simple members of society. Mama needed to reign over at least a part of it, no matter how dissolute.

  “Papa…she gets lonely.” Tía stepped behind him, put her arms around his shoulders, and hugged him. In truth, Tía realized now that Mama probably did work to shame Papa. She probably knew how much Papa would hate it when he found out. Tía did not fully understand what went on between her parents, but she knew enough to stay out of their affairs. She had already said far too much.

  “Pah! Rita is many things, but she is not lonely. See this! She gets mail from strange men.”

  Tía had forgotten the letter and thought he had as well. Now her gaze flew to the envelope. No name showed in the upper-left corner.

  “It is not,” she argued.

  “I know a man’s handwriting when I see it. Here, I will prove it to you.”

  Tía started to protest but suddenly realized Papa had probably gotten angry to justify opening Mama’s letter. Now everything would be Mama’s fault, for getting him mad by going to work.

  Papa picked up the letter, tore off the end, and tapped out the contents. Without looking at Tía, he unfolded the paper and pointed at the bottom to draw her attention there. It was signed Bill Burkhart. Tía had never heard that name before. She read over Papa’s shoulder.

  My dear Rita,

  I write this to let you know what is happening here. My doctor tells me I have only weeks to live. In contemplating death, I realize I must leave at least part of what I have accumulated to our daughter, Teresa.

  I know you have never asked for anything, and would probably prefer that this not become public knowledge at this late date, and I would like to accommodate you, but…

  Tía stopped reading. Something about the feel of Papa had changed, become unpleasant under her hands. She stepped away from him. Papa’s dark face seemed to drain of color. He read the letter to the end, crumpled it in his fist, and let it drop onto the bare wooden floor. Her heart pounded strangely. What did it mean—“our daughter, Teresa”?

  “That cheating, gringa bitch!” he bellowed.

  “What does it mean, Papa?”

  Panting, too strangled by his own em
otions to speak, Mateo looked at the girl. His chest heaved with each breath.

  “That bitch tricked me,” he rasped.

  Teresa reached out her hand to touch him. Mateo recoiled as if her touch would burn.

  In his thirty-year battle with the gringos, he had become a machine of destruction for his enemies. Long ago he had nurtured his rage against the gringos into a monster within capable of doing the things he, Mateo, could not. Now the monster within roared Kill! The command, a surprise to Mateo, was accompanied by such a hot flush of energy he could have killed a dozen men with his bare hands, but only Teresa stood before him, and his heart did not yet recognize her as enemy.

  Mateo’s arm raised of its own accord, but he could not strike the blow. He quivered like a man afire. His internal struggle went on for what seemed a lifetime, then his arm dropped to his side and hung like a drawstring.

  Mateo sagged on his chair, suffocated by the sight of his “daughter.” He had loved Teresa too long and too well. Hoarsely, he bellowed to his lieutenant. “Patchy!”

  Patchy’s boots scraped across the wooden porch. “¿Sí, General?”

  “Find the man…at the Blond Russian…who hired my wife…as if she…were a whore…and let him join the marshal.” Ominous silence filled the room for several heart-stopping seconds, then in a voice that chilled Tía to the bone, he added, “Bring my wife to me.”

  “No!” Tía cried. “No, you mustn’t hurt Ludie or Mama. They’ve done nothing! She wanted to work there. Ludie didn’t do anything wrong.”

  Patchy glanced from Tía to his commander. El Gato Negro nodded. Patchy sighed, turned on his heel, stamped off the porch, and yelled to his men. The men mounted quickly and whipped their horses into a gallop.

  “Stop them!” Tía pleaded. “You can’t hurt Mama!”

  “They will both die!” His energy returned, and he knew he had found the proper outlet. Rita would die for her betrayal. He should have killed her twenty-five years ago.