Crossing Purgatory (17 page)

Benito looked about. The boys played with carved toys in the corner, block wagons, a horse, figures Benito had fashioned from soft pine last Christmas. His daughter was not present.

“Paloma?” Benito asked.

“In a state,” Teresa said. “In the field. Down by the acequia. Pacing.”

“And the others?” Benito asked. “The Anglos?”

“Hanna, she came over when we arrived,” Teresa said. “With her son, Joseph. She presented me with a tablecloth. Embroidered. Linen.” Teresa flipped the tortillas on the
comal
and stirred the beans in the pot. “I like her.”

“When is she due?”

“I don't know.”

“You didn't ask?”

“She doesn't speak. Captain Upperdine explained.”

“I thought, maybe.”

“No.” Teresa moved the pot to the table and Benito tested the seasoning with his finger. “But,” Teresa continued, “she brought me her gift and she set about helping. Sweeping, replacing the mattress ticking, the things Paloma should be doing.”

“Give her time,” Benito said.

“Time is dear,” Teresa replied, and removed the tortilla from the stone and added it to the others in the basket.

By evening, clouds had drifted in from the west and the low sun streaked them burnt orange. Benito watched the dark silhouette of Thompson coming across the field toward the placita and then detour to the river. Thompson's frame appeared stooped, belonging to an older body, a man who had been the better way through life and was contemplating folding back into himself. The work of the day over, he seemed to Benito to move hesitantly, as if unsure how to react to this time of repose.

A short while later Thompson entered the compound, his face ruddy and his hair damp from the river. Benito greeted him at the well.

“A pleasant evening. Shall we sit outside?”

Indeed the evening was pleasant, a cool breeze swirling in the plaza, but his purpose in asking had more to do with fear of his daughter's reaction to an American at the table than with agreeable weather.

Benito brought a small table and two ladderback chairs from inside, and they sat talking carefully, of weather and of crops, neither man comfortable yet with the other. Benito noted with approval that Thompson rose when Teresa brought their meal. While they exchanged pleasantries, he saw Paloma enter the compound and, keeping to the wall, make her way inside. The two men ate
machitos
of fried pork fat wrapped in Teresa's tortillas, and a thin stew of dried corn and beans reconstituted in a simmering broth of water spiced with crushed peppers from Benito's garden in New Mexico. The peppers from his own small garden here on the Purgatoire were not yet harvested and dried. Benito drew water from the well, cold and sharp with the taste of minerals, and as a homecoming toast poured a small portion of pear brandy brought in a wineskin from Plaza del Arroyo Seco. The brandy tasted of summer, a tart sweetness. They sat in the lavender dusk and ate, sopping the broth with tortillas. The chickens hunted insects left exposed in the dirt of the bare plaza. The burro ambled to the trough and watered. Later, Benito explained to Thompson, he would picket the burro with some fodder and keep the goats penned for a few days until accustomed to their home surroundings. He did not want the burro wandering onto the familiar trail or the goats straying back to Upperdine's larger herd.

“Much has gotten done, just this one day returned,” Thompson said, pointing to the animals, to the tools stacked inside the lean-to, a colorful blanket strung out to dry. “It feels of a whole.”

“The far wall needs completion, of course. Tomorrow I will start on a chicken coop.” Then, thinking of Paloma, added, “And, if the weather holds, another room.”

The brandy seemed to make both men drowsy. They sat in silence as the fading light attuned their hearing and accentuated the sounds that went unnoticed during the bustle of the day. Breeze stirring through shortgrass, the far-off gurgle of the river, the click and trill of night insects. Thompson slumped forward, elbows on knees, and went quiet. Benito wondered if he might have dozed off.

Suddenly, Alejandro and Benjamin bounded from the quarters and ran into Benito's outstretched arms. Thompson straightened and combed a hand through his hair and a light came to his eyes, it seemed to Benito.

“I can do a cartwheel,” Benjamin said. “Do you want to watch?”

“They speak English?” Thompson asked. The boys had been quiet and shy during the noon meal, neither speaking above whispers.

“Yes,” Benito said. “From their beginning, I knew where their future lay. Paloma as well, but she often refuses.”

“I would like to see a cartwheel,” Thompson said, smiling at Benjamin.

Benjamin stepped away from the table into the open plaza and arms and legs extended like spokes from the hub of his frame, spun vertically once, twice, before sprawling in the dirt, turning to Thompson, grinning proudly.

“Well done,” Thompson said, and clapped his hands.

“Off to bed, now,” Benito dismissed the boys with a wave. The men watched the boys run back into the house. They sat in the new quiet. Almost immediately, a darkness came over Thompson; he seemed to melt into the evening, became almost like a ghost. Had Benito been a superstitious man, he'd of thought to poke him, to test his substance, but he was not such a man, and soon Thompson seemed to come alive once again.

“I'd like to continue with the ditch,” Thompson said.

Benito did not answer straightaway. What were this man's motives? Why was he attempting to indebt him? “The field is small. Enough for one man to work.”

“I don't wish to share your field,” Thompson said, evenly. “The ditch is a way to earn my keep. Until I decide where to go from here.”

“You seem at ease farming. Why look further than this valley?”

“Different soil. Hard enough to break a plowshare,” Thompson said. “I know about black loam, but not this. What might grow here? No water. All sun-baked and wind-blown. Another world, almost.” He finished his brandy and stood and stretched. “Today, I felt good mowing. For the most part. I thought back only a few times.” He shook his head as if clearing it of some unbidden memory. “But I don't know.”

Benito stood with him. “Stay a while, then. Work in the fields and on the acequia if that is your wish.”

They parted. Benito watched until Thompson blended into the darkness and then turned for his quarters. Paloma stood outside waiting for him by the door.

“Where do you expect me to sleep?” she asked.

Benito pointed to the adjacent room. “There.”

“The boys are sleeping in there.”

“Yes. You will share the room with them for now.”

“You promised me my own quarters,” Paloma said.

“Yes,” Benito said, struggling for patience. “But temporarily you must share.” He glanced toward the room occupied by Hanna Light and her son, Joseph.

“I refuse. I will not tolerate—” Paloma began.

“Enough,” Benito said, his voice low and tired. “You will do as I say. I did promise you, but conditions have changed. I've agreed to host John Upperdine's guests, and you will honor my decision.” He felt the blood pulsing. He hesitated, dizzy, and after pausing for a moment, added, coldly, “Carlos is not with you. You do not require a room of your own.” Paloma recoiled as if Benito had struck her and spun on her heels and retreated into the room.

Benito remained outside, staring into the darkness, regretting his harsh words. He asked himself, do I deserve respect? What in my life commands it? My station? He walked the inner walls, absently counting, thirty strides square, and gradually he comprehended that the land under his feet was his land, the rooms his rooms, as well the walls, the livestock, and the field beyond, a minor kingdom. The realization brought him comfort, revived his optimism. He might actually set the course for his family, establish his heritage.

He retired to his rooms. Inside, Teresa slept. Heat still radiated from the hearth. The night had cooled and the warmth brought drowsy comfort. Weeks of travel had bowed him. He felt exhausted from the long day. But the warmth seeped into his bones like a soothing balm, and before taking his place beside his wife of so many years, he went to his provisions sack and retrieved three small candles and a hammered copper cross mounted on a slab of sandstone. He arranged the pieces in the corner of the room adjacent to the fireplace and lit the candles, and then remembered the Santo. He reached into his bag and found the carving of Saint Christopher, patron saint of emigrants. He held the carving and thought back to the Plaza del Arroyo Seco the morning of their departure. He'd led the burro to the north gate and tied the rope to the post and entered the chapel while his family waited beside the cart. Gypsum flakes had been added to the white plaster that coated the inner walls of the chapel so that they sparkled wherever the morning light flowed into the window and touched them. He walked to the rail and knelt before the altar. Before him, on the lower shelf of the altarpiece, were six
bultos
, one of which, St. Christopher, he alone had carved from a cottonwood root. The statuette was crude, nothing like the magic the itinerant
santeros
could achieve, but he'd gotten the hands right, perhaps a bit out of proportion, large, but gracefully folded in prayer at the saint's chest. And somehow, the eyes also, sorrowful and expressive. And the green robe stood out pleasingly against the faded red backdrop of the altar screen.

He made the sign of the cross and looked up. The image of the Holy Mother returned his gaze from the top panel of the altarpiece. Veiled in black, her head inclined slightly toward him in benediction. Benito asked for her blessing over his family during their journey. He stood and began to back away and then, on impulse, reached across the rail and removed the figure of Saint Christopher from its shelf fronting the altar screen.

Retreating down the aisle, he noticed that the old woman grandmother Melita had entered and taken a seat on the back-most bench, veil covering her head, but her eyes were upraised and alert. She watched as he approached. He saw her glance at the carving in his hand, and then she looked into his eyes and he could not interpret whether her expression constituted a blessing or a curse. He laid his hand on her shoulder as he passed and exited the chapel and led his family from the plaza.

B
ENITO SET THE STATUE BESIDE
the copper cross and knelt down before the icons and gave thanks for a safe journey and for finding Captain Upperdine and Genoveva healthy. He prayed for peace to descend upon his daughter and upon himself as well. He thought about the new people to the valley, the Anglos, but did not know what to pray for concerning them. So, instead, he asked for guidance, for the light of God to show the path forward. That he, Benito, his servant, might follow. He prayed for an easy yoke, a light burden.

At length he rose and went to the bed and eased onto the mattress beside Teresa. The ticking rustled under his weight and accepted him into its folds and all was quiet. Teresa stirred, and he could tell by her breathing that she had awakened.

“Your placita.” Benito whispered.

“Yes,” Teresa said.

“Do you like it?”

“It is a wonderful place. So much room.”

“Is it a home?”

“Coming here,” Teresa said. “Did you notice?”

“What?”

“For three days before we arrived we passed no plaza, no village, no houses at all. No one.”

“But Genoveva is here. Paloma. The boys. The others.”

“Yes, they are here.”

“Is it enough?”

“Will others come? From our Plaza?”

“Yes, others will come, others will follow us.”

“When?”

“Soon.”

“Why? What is here for them, to draw them away from their history?”

“Land. Land is here, and a future for their children. They turn from their past to face their future. They must follow. They have no other hope.”

They lay together, Benito wishing he could say something more to comfort his wife but knowing that there was little more to add. In time, the valley would come to feel like home to Teresa, he felt certain. As season passed into season, as the rhythm of life in a new country settled into their bones, the memory of old ways would fade into a soft nostalgia rather than the acute ache it now was. He forced himself to believe this.

Outside, night grew still, the animals bedded. The ever-constant wind moderated, a light, swooshing lament. Teresa's breathing evened, her body slackened into the ticking, and Benito relaxed into the warmth.

16

T
hompson slept late the following morning. He was unused to waking to a lighted room, and for a moment felt exposed and self-conscious. He'd dreamed during the night, himself the proprietor of a fine placita, the rooms, the outbuildings, the fields, much grander than anything in the valley, finer than Benito's, finer than John Upperdine's, an expanse of field and grazing land. Full awake, he refused to dwell on his night visions even for a moment, but rose from his sleeping robes with resolve. After a breakfast of two cold biscuits and a ladle of water, he walked to Upperdine's, yoked a pair of oxen, hitched a wagon, and loaded a plow and additional harnessing. He led the team upriver, past the placita a half-mile over a small rise where he'd noticed a promising stretch of level ground tight against the river. He hoped spring run-offs would not wash it, but he could not imagine this land experiencing significant flooding. He rigged the plow to the team and began breaking a small patch. Only a few hours' sweat, but tough going, sod-busting. Low-growing grass with tangled roots pulled at the plow, frustrated his intention for straight rows. Still, the plow felt natural in his hands, the animals massive and plodding, the land yielding, if grudgingly. The furrows extended not more than seventy-five paces in length and half that in width, a large garden, really. Midday, Thompson already had the team unhitched.