Beverly Byrne (33 page)

At
dawn Tommy came to her door and knocked repeatedly. She had to let him in or he
would wake the whole house and frighten the children.

He
was pale and drawn, but sober. He didn't look at the big bed they had once
shared, or at her half-clad form. "I came to say I'm sorry," he said
grimly.

For
a moment Amy wondered if he meant sorry about everything. Maybe they could find
a meeting ground and begin again, for Kate's sake and Tom Junior's. "I'm
sorry too," she said. "About so much."

"Don't
mistake my meaning. I'm only saying that I understand the rules. We both do
exactly as we want, as long as the kids are taken care of, and no smut gets as
far as this house."

"I
see," she said.

"I
hope you do. You can sleep with whomever you want. My brother, the doctor-any
man that takes your fancy. Just don't do your whoring in any way that's going
to hurt my daughter or my son."

The
house on the Pecos Trail was really a cabin, a tumble-down wooden structure
hastily erected by some prospector in the last century. Tommy won it in a poker
game around the same time that he acquired Rosa Mandago. That was in 1917, when
he was scratching for every penny needed to rebuild Santo Domingo. It was
logical for him to install his half-breed mistress in the cheapest quarters
available. Since then he'd many times offered to replace the shanty with
something more substantial, but Rosa always refused.

"Will
you come to see me more often if I have a better house?" Rosa demanded
every time he mentioned it.

"I
come when I can. Don't start that again."

"When
you find nothing better, you mean," she said. "When your fancy wife
has the big belly, or the
chicas
in Albuquerque are too far away."

Usually
Tommy would leave when the familiar harangue began; sometimes he would respond
by kissing her lush mouth, fondling her ripe breasts, and finally finding peace
and release between her tawny thighs. It was all a question of his mood.

When
he first met Rosa, she drove him wild. She was so unlike any female he'd known
or imagined that the mere mention of her name enflamed him. Then he'd ride any
number of miles for the privilege of pouring his seed into the voluptuous
crevices of her alien flesh. Eventually the novelty faded, and she became just
another easy lay. Still Rosa remained different from other women. She was his
in a special way, one more symbol of his conquest of New Mexico. That's why the
business about the Indian so enraged him.

"I
just passed a redskin riding away from here," he told her when he arrived
at the cabin late one night.

"
Si
,
he came to see me."

Rosa
sat on a sofa covered with woven blankets. It was the only piece of real
furniture in the room. Her black hair was loose over her shoulders, and she
clutched a red satin dressing gown across breasts which strained at the fragile
restraint. Her fingers too were red-tipped, and they sported a profusion of
rings which sparkled in the light of the oil lamp."He is from my
pueblo," she added with a trace of pride.

Tommy
had removed his jacket and was unbuckling his belt while she spoke. He paused
long enough to laugh. "What the hell do you mean, 'your pueblo'? There
can't be any self-respecting pueblo prepared to claim you, my girl. Not Rosa
Mandago the
mestiza
whore. "

She
stared at him through half-closed lids. He liked to make her angry, but tonight
she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. "That shows how much you
know. My mother was from Pueblo San Felipe, so it is my pueblo. Always, no
matter what."

"Yeah?
Well, ok, if you say so. I still want to know why an Indian was riding out of
here after midnight." Tommy was naked now. He didn't wait for Rosa to
answer, but walked into the bedroom, expecting her to follow.

Even
without turning around he could sense that she'd not yet risen to do so, and
that she was thinking hard about the answer to his question. He began to feel
real anger, and a kind of surprised jealousy. Rosa was bought and paid for
years before. It was absurd to have to remind her of that yet again. He stood
where he was, his back still to her, and said in a soft, aggrieved voice,
"I'm waiting, Rosa."

"I'm
coming."

He
could hear the swishing sound made by her robe as she removed it. "That's
not all I'm waiting for," he said.

She
came up to him and slid her arms around his waist. Her breasts pressed into his
spine, and he could smell the raw, animal scent of her skin. "For why you
worry about the Indian? Is no man I like better than you. Maybe you forget
that. Now I show you."

Tommy
gripped her hands where they were clasped above his belly and wrenched her
round to face him. "You stinking whore," he said softly. "You've
been spreading your legs for some lousy heathen, haven't you?"

She
shook her head, and the great mane of black hair swung from side to side.
"No, no! What you think I do that for?"

"That's
what I want you to tell me." He didn't release his grip on her wrists.
"Talk, baby. Quickly, while I've got some patience left."

"I
ain't got nothing to talk about. You making it all up in that crazy head of
yours. You think too much, I always say it."

Only
once in his life had Tommy Westerman hit a  woman, the night he slapped Amy
when she came back from riding with Diego. There was still enough of his
boyhood and his upbringing in him to make the idea repugnant. Now he wanted to
punch Rosa's face.

He
wanted to retrieve his belt from the other room and whip her senseless. Maybe
if he'd been drunk he'd have done it, but he was cold sober and self-disgust
mingled with his fury. "You lousy bitch!" He pushed her away from him
and she stumbled and hit the wall and slid to the floor. "You stinking
cunt! What's his name?"

Rosa
was moaning softly, and tears were running down her cheeks, but she only shook
her head again. He moved to where she lay and stood above her, fists clenched
at his sides. "You tell me his name, or I'll make you sorry you were
born."

Again
Rosa shook her head.

He
squatted beside her and grabbed a handful of the thick black hair. "Why,
for Chrissake? You've got everything you want, more money than you can spend....
Why?"

She
tried to speak, but her mouth was parched with fear. Finally she managed to
say, "You don't come so often anymore."

Tommy
stared at her, incredulous. "And you can't do without it? Is that it? If
you don't get laid enough, you can't stand it? Jesus!" He was trembling
with rage, and the fear in her eyes made it worse. He'd treated Rosa better
than any man she'd ever known in her life. And this was his reward.
"Ok," he said softly. "I understand now. I'll just have to give
you something you won't forget, something to let you know how things really
are."

He
was still holding her by the hair, and he used the grip to swing her over on
her belly. Then he thrust himself into her body between her buttocks.

Rosa
screamed with pain and rage. "You animal! You lousy cripple! He treat me
like I somebody! Like a human being . . ."

When
he withdrew his organ it was covered with blood. He used the water in the
pitcher beside the bed to wash himself, then carried it to where she lay
sobbing. Unceremoniously he dumped the contents of the pitcher over her
quivering rump and knelt beside her to towel dry her flesh and inspect the
damage. "You'll be ok," he said finally. "It's just a little
torn. Put some salve on it."

He
went into the outer room and got dressed. When he returned she was in bed with
the covers drawn up to her chin. "If I ever hear of that redskin coming
here again, I'll have you both strung up," he told her. Then he took two
hundred-dollars bills from his wallet, put them on the washstand, and left.

Tommy
didn't return to Rosa's for nearly a month. When he did she was docile and
subdued, and he figured the incident was over and forgotten.

By
December 1921 Tommy Westerman met with deference when he went to town. He heard
the same greeting from the black shoeshine boy working the lobby of the swank
new Hotel La Fonda or the manager of the First National Bank, "Good morning,
Mr. Westerman. Anything I can do for you, sir?" Tommy enjoyed it, but he
was smart enough to be cynical. He remembered when everyone was watching him,
expecting him to fail.

Tommy
was thinking of that when he looked up and spotted John Hughes, the bank
president, through the coffee shop window. He was crossing to the east side of
the plaza where his Greek-columned temple of finance stood, a symbol of one
kind of power in Santa Fe. Tommy waved. Hughes waved back. They were buddies
now.

Tommy
stirred his cold coffee and stared at it unseeing. A stamped addressed envelope
lay on the counter next to his hand. Tommy didn't touch it. The letter was an
omen of sorts, but he couldn't make up his mind if it boded well or ill.

The
waitress approached and broke his reverie. "I'll just hot that up for you,
Mr. Westerman." She smiled while she poured fresh coffee.

"Thanks,
Lucy."

"Don't
mention it. Awful mild for Christmas Eve, don't you think?"

"I
do indeed."

"Must
be even warmer down on your ranch. I guess you'll be goin' home today, loaded
with presents for your pretty wife and the kiddies." She sighed wistfully,
seduced by her vision of the good life-married and rich. She was single and
poor.

Tommy
removed a five dollar bill from his wallet. "Sorry there's no card, Lucy.
This is just a token for the season, and all the good coffee you serve
me."

She
thanked him effusively and moved away. Tommy still didn't drink his coffee or
touch the letter. He did have presents for the children, just as Lucy surmised,
but it was a long time since he'd bought anything for Amy. He remembered the
bugle-bead purse he'd given her their first Christmas together. That was before
they were married, while she was living with Lil and Warren. She'd given him a
cashmere scarf. He had it still, though he hadn't worn it in years. His fingers
crept tentatively toward the letter.

What
would it prove? If Luke came and they were all three together in the house that
Tommy had created, in the world where he was master, would it change anything?
Perhaps. He would see Luke and Amy together, and he would know for himself if
what he believed was true, or the lie Amy always claimed it to be. Luke was a
different man now, a priest, but that would make no difference to him or to
Amy.

He
picked up the envelope abruptly, left the coffee shop, and made his way through
the hotel lobby, stopping at the newsstand for a paper. The masthead of
The
Santa Fe New Mexican
announced that it was the region's oldest daily. Next
to it Tommy spotted a copy of
El Neuvo Mexicano
, the Spanish weekly.
They were both published by the same company. That was the way it was in Santa
Fe.

"Shine,
Mr. Westerman?"

"Not
just now, Jason. Thanks anyway, and merry Christmas." Tommy dispensed
another five dollar bill. By the time he'd collected his packages at the desk
he'd divested himself of twenty dollars in Christmas tips. The one to the
bellboy who carried the presents to the Packard made it twenty-five.

Tommy
stood hesitantly beside the car. He was conscious of the letter still in his
pocket. For a few moments he didn't move. Finally he turned and hurried in the
direction of the post office. He didn't slow down until after he'd mailed it;
then he had to lean against the building and catch his breath. He had the
sensation of having started a process with a doubtful outcome. It wasn't just
Luke. Other truths would need to be explained if his brother came.

"Shit!"
he cursed quietly. He didn't know what or who he was swearing at. Himself
maybe. He pushed back into the crowd of last-minute shoppers. Once he stopped
to examine a display of expensive perfume and the idea of a gift for Amy teased
him. Then he saw in the glass the reflection of Rick Ibanez. Tommy turned. Rick
was across the road, striding rapidly and exchanging greetings with people he
passed. Ibanez either didn't see him, or didn't acknowledge him. Tommy watched
until he was out of sight.