A Snake in the Grass (17 page)

I snorted at his retreating back, but rolled
over and helped myself to a couple of strips of bacon. Chores. I
could do chores. Chores were going to be the easiest thing I’d done
in days. After a few moments of munching on my breakfast-in-cot, I
sat up, stretching out muscles that were still protesting my
treatment of them last night. I guess it said something that I’d
slept through the mass exodus that morning, though the boys usually
sounded like a herd of stampeding wildebeest.

Fed and dressed – Mira had confiscating my
best T-shirts, but I’d managed to smuggle one out that said “I’m
not perfect, but parts of me are excellent” – I girded myself to
face whatever the Perez clan could hope to throw at me.

Okay, there were like a hundred people there
already, and more arriving every few minutes. I gave up trying to
remember everyone’s names after being introduced to the third Jorge
and fifth Maria. Carlotta latched onto me the moment I appeared and
I was set to work with the older boys, layering firewood into the
huge pit out behind the main house. I got the idea there was
probably going to be some kind of roast beast issuing from the pit
later, but for now, all we had was the grunt work.

On one pass through the courtyard, I caught
sight of Sveta teetering on top of a tall ladder as she helped
drape strings of lights through the overhanging trees. Terrence was
off to one side, surrounded by a circle of ancient Mexican
grandmother types, the women cackling at something the old man said
like he was the second coming of James Dean.

Somewhere around midmorning, Carlotta
collared both me and Estéban again, directing us to go take showers
and get ready for the ceremony with the same drill sergeant voice
that she’d ordered everything else.

“Is she going to follow me into the shower
and make sure I scrubbed behind my ears?,” I asked the kid as we
gathered up our nicer clothes.

“She might. Better scrub just to be sure.”
And y’know, I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. Don’t laugh, but
I scrubbed behind my ears.

I’d brought the one good suit I had, and I
tried not to think that this was the same suit I’d worn to Miguel’s
wedding, just over two years ago. I didn’t believe in bad omens or
jinxes, I reminded myself firmly. With my long hair still damp, I
bound it into a tail at the nape of my neck and seated the knot of
my tie properly at the opening of my collar. Damn, I clean up
pretty good if I do say so myself.

I was passing by the boys’ room again when I
caught a glimpse of Esteban standing at the window, staring out
into space and definitely not completely dressed yet. “Hey, kid.”
He flinched, proving that wherever his mind had just been, it
wasn’t there with us. “You better get that tie on, or your mom is
going to skin you.”

He looked at the strip of silk in his hands
with a sigh, shaking his head. “I don’t even know how to tie this
stupid thing. Miguel always did my tie for church.”

“C’mere… Christ, can’t take you anywhere.” My
jab got a little bit of a smile from him and he handed the tie over
obediently. “You gotta learn to do this yourself, y’know. Women
like a guy who doesn’t wear a clip-on.”

“Yes, because there are so many girls around
right now. I’m related to half the mountainside, you realize.” I
raised a brow at him, realizing that I had to look up just slightly
to do so. Damn kid needed to quit growing. He just shrugged his
shoulders. “Just saying.”

I got his tie all knotted up neatly, then
patted him roughly on the cheek until he swatted my hand away. “You
learned bad habits in America. Where’d all this attitude come
from?”

He smirked and gave me a pointed look. “I had
a good teacher.”

“Yeah, well get your jacket on, or we’ll both
be in trouble with your mom.”

With a sigh, he collected the jacket, but
touched my arm when I went to leave the room. “Jesse, I want to
thank you.”

“For what, kid?”

He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the floor.
Neither one of us were what you’d call expressive with our
emotions, which meant that even this much effort was important to
him. “For teaching me all that you did. And not just the fighting
stuff, everything. I mean, I know I was only there a year, and
there’s still tons that I have to learn, but… I’m glad for the time
we had. I think Miguel would have been really happy, knowing that I
was with you and Miss Mira.”

“I’m glad you were there too, kid. I learned
at least as much from you. If you ever need
any
thing,
anything at all, you just get on the phone and I’ll be there. And I
don’t just mean champion stuff. If you just want to share a beer
‘cause some girl broke your heart, you call me. Y’know, when you’re
old enough for beer.”

He gave me a small grin. “In Mexico, I
am
.”

“Oh lord, we’re doomed.” We shared a chuckle,
and then one of those awkward man-hugs that nobody wants to talk
about later, but means so damn much at that exact moment. “Okay,
kid. Let’s go get you made all official.”

The tiny chapel on the Perez land wasn’t even
remotely big enough for the entire clan to congregate, so most of
the distant family remained in the courtyard, catching up on family
gossip and working to get the party food ready for later. It was a
small procession that followed the pebble-lined path to the chapel,
now decorated in wreaths of aromatic flowers. The priest led the
way, followed by Carlotta and Estéban, the boy’s machete and
studded leather armor cradled in his arms like they were made of
glass. The stained weapon and worn hauberk seemed so out of place
with the rest of us all dressed in our Sunday finest, and yet they
were the reason we were here. They took up a rather odd seat of
honor, all eyes repeatedly drawn to the slender young man and his
strange burden.

Estéban’s siblings came next, from his older
sisters on down to the youngest girl who was around twelve, and too
young to have actually known her own father or eldest brother.
Behind them came cousins and aunts and uncles, most of whom I knew
lived at the compound. Once, I caught a glimpse of Paulito, his arm
lent to an older woman for support. His mother, I supposed. Later.
There would be time to talk to that little shit later. I wasn’t
uncouth enough to make a scene at a funeral.

Bringing up the end were Terrence, Sveta and
I, even the Ukranian woman looking finely coifed with her dark hair
up and in a retro forties-style dress and jacket suit in steel
gray. She gave me a small smile and slipped her hand into the crook
of my elbow, pressing close enough that I could feel the knife
sheath on her forearm. I wasn’t even going to bring it up. If
that’s what it took for her to feel comfortable, so be it. Terrence
himself was dressed in a neatly pressed kilt and formal suit
jacket, hobbling along with his cane as if he wasn’t just as
capable of walking without it. We made an odd trio, but I knew that
Estéban was glad for our presence. It was the least I could do for
the kid.

The chapel itself looked like something out
of a post card. The white stucco walls gleamed in the midday sun,
and garlands of flowers dripped from the eaves and lined every
window. Inside, a central aisle led the way between the pews to the
altar, a statue of the Virgin Mary and Jesus standing in each
corner. Around the walls, though, was the feature unique to this
particular chapel.

Starting at the doors and wrapping around
almost all the way to the front were tiny shrines, each sporting a
tiny flickering candle. The ones closest to the doors had only
small, yellowed cards, neatly printed with a name and dates. Some
of them were adorned with items of obvious age, everything from a
wooden club to an ancient farmer’s hoe. At some point, the pictures
began, starting with painstakingly hand drawn images, progressing
up through the very first attempts at photography. Each man – and
every one was male – stared out with the same dark eyes and hair,
something unmistakably alike about such a disparity of faces.

The images went past tin-type into faded
black and white photos with curling edges. At some point, color was
introduced, first hand painted, then in the film itself as
technology advanced with the years. The weapons, scattered and
varied, became steel blades and axes. Every champion was there, as
far back as the family’s collective memory could recall. They
claimed that there were more, predating written record. All of them
were catalogued, the span of their lives noted on neat little
cards, their weapons cared for and cherished once they were truly
retired from use.

Along the left-hand wall, the last three
photos were the ones that drew most of my attention. Three
eight-by-ten glossy photos in neat frames, each man smiling at the
camera, the stamp of blood clear between the three.

The oldest of the three, a man with salt and
pepper at his temples and a vicious scar following the line of his
jaw, was Estéban’s father. He’d been older, when he died, a rarity
for a champion. His oldest son, Joaquin, had already largely taken
up the family mantel, when a stray call summoned the father out of
retirement. It was his last challenge.

Joaquin himself graced the next frame, a
charm to the smile that reminded me so much of Miguel. I hadn’t
known Joaquin. He had fallen and Miguel had stepped into his place
years before I knew the family. Miguel had been so young, younger
even than Estéban, when he’d stepped up as head of the family. His
was the third photo, and one I recognized as being from his wedding
day. My eyes found Rosaline, standing at the first pew next to
Estéban’s sisters, her head covered by a dark lace veil, and my
heart hurt for her. Too soon. It had all happened too soon.

The three of us, all outsiders, claimed seats
in the very last pew, leaving Sveta on the aisle where I knew she’d
be happiest. Clear line to the only door, y’know, wouldn’t want her
feeling trapped.

The priest gestured for everyone to sit, and
we did, obediently. I wasn’t sure what to expect from such a
ceremony which was part funeral, part celebration, but I’d seen
enough Catholic masses to guess at most of the words, even if it
was all in Spanish. The padre spoke for a while, the congregation
responding quietly at times, and then Estéban stood, bowing as he
presented the machete and armor to Rosaline, whose shoulders were
stiffly proud as she accepted her fallen husband’s weaponry.

Standing, she walked to her husband’s shrine
and laid the leather hauberk and stained machete down in front of
the picture. She kissed her fingers and pressed them to his smiling
photo, and I pretended that there was no knot in my throat and that
my eyes were stinging because of allergies. Stupid Mexican pollen.
With a thin taper, she lit the candle in front of him, and as one
we bowed our heads to pray.

I’m not really a prayer kinda guy. Still not
sure how I feel about God-with-the-big-G. In light of my recent
discovery that his angels were going to stand by and do nothing
while the demons went to war and destroyed everything in their
path, I’d probably have to have a long talk with the Guy about that
if I ever met him. But for Miguel, I’d make an exception.
Take
care of him.
It was all I wanted, and I hoped that someday,
someone would have the same thought for me.

Once the prayer was over, Rosaline took her
seat again, and Carlotta rose, facing Estéban. The priest looked
between the two, his gaze settling on Carlotta. “
Este es el
hombre que será un campeón ante los ojos de Dios
?”
Is this
the man who will be a champion in the eyes of God?

She inclined her dark head. “
Sí.”

The priest looked next to the kid, who didn’t
look much like a kid anymore at all, if I was forced to admit it.
“
Y voluntariamente viene ante Dios para ser un campeón, mientras
viva
?”
And do you willingly come before God as his champion,
so long as you shall live?

Estéban answered without hesitation, and I
was a bit proud of him for that. “
Sí.”

The priest gestured for us all to bow our
heads and pray again, resting his hand atop Estéban’s dark hair.
This time, I prayed. I prayed my ass off.
God, you and I may not
get along, but you better watch this kid’s ass. He’s a good kid,
and this war isn’t his. Keep him safe.
The skin along my back
warmed as the souls I carried responded to my vehemence. Sveta
elbowed me lightly and gave me a subtle “what the fuck?” look when
I glanced her way. I just shook my head, and willed my strange
passengers into calm. I think God got the message.

After that, the ceremony was over in pretty
quick order. The single bell above the chapel pealed with a high,
joyous sound, and we all filed out of the tiny church, Estéban
escorting his mother on his arm. The family broke into loud
chattering the moment we were outside, as if the sheer level of
noise they could create could only be contained for so long, and
from that moment on, the party was on. Someone in the courtyard
struck up the band, and mariachi music filled the afternoon
air.

The kid got his back slapped, his shoulder
slugged, his hand shaken, and through it all, he kept a tight smile
on his face. Only someone who knew him really well would have seen
the unease behind his dark eyes, and I had to wonder if anyone in
his family really
did
know him that well. He was doing his
duty, but it didn’t sit well with him.

Through the packs of darting children, the
gossiping clusters of family members catching up on news, and the
occasional circle of dancing that broke out, I prowled the crowd,
looking for Paulito. I knew he was there, and I fully intended to
snatch the little bastard and present him to Carlotta once I could
lay hands on him. Sveta followed along behind me, close enough that
I could feel her presence but not so close that she was smothering
me. I had to admit it, I liked having backup close at hand. Sure, I
could take Paulito on my own, but there’d be less of a disturbance
if Sveta and I could corral him quietly. (It may make me a bad
person, but I kinda wanted to watch Sveta beat someone’s ass with a
high-heeled shoe. ’Cause that would be hilarious.)