Dorothea Dreams (Heirloom Books) (31 page)

Great, man, Roberto mourned, now you busted the shotgun. All you got left is that rifle and the pistol Great-uncle Tilo left you. Shit. Wonderful. Better get going and run away because you got no fire-power to speak of, and they’re going to come and get you for sure.

Here came Bobbie, that stupid cunt. If he tripped carrying the twenty-two like that he might blow his own head off, with luck. Running down the hill and whining like usual: “Beto, we got to go right away, let’s get out of here quick!”

Roberto’s hands still stung from the impact of smashing the shotgun. He tucked them into his armpits and hugged himself with his arms. He didn’t want Bobbie to see him cry. Not because of his hands hurting, either. It was frustration, that was all. And there was Blanca at the door, staring out with that goddamn curiosity of hers about things that were none of her business. What would she know about his frustrations? She’d just see her brother crying, that’s all, and she’d be scared, and what good would that do?

I could have killed that kid, he thought. Maybe I’ve killed the old lady. Maybe she’s dead from the recoil. Some witch. Why is the whole world such a bunch of hopeless
wimps?

“I’m going to go load the truck,” Bobbie dithered. “I’ll come get you when I’ve checked it out, all right?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He went. Speaking of wimps. And I was thinking I wasn’t too bad off, having him with me. Jesus, how desperate can you get? This is all Bobbie’s fault.

Roberto looked at his sister. “Get back inside. Tell your English guy Mrs. Howard’s okay, right? He must have heard the shooting. He’ll be worried, won’t he? Well, go tell him!”

The old lady wasn’t dead. She looked up at him and groaned. Just an old lady with a couple of busted ribs, man, you couldn’t do that to a
bruja.
No
bruja
would do what she did, either, jumping a guy with a gun.

“Shit,” he said, dabbing at his nose with his cuff. Never been so damn mad. Would have shot that dude right in the back, man, and he deserved it, the sneak. If I could have even hit him at that distance. He was pissed off to have lost the chance, but it was funny how now he was relieved, too. So much, his legs sort of gave out. He squatted down on his haunches.

“Can you sit up?” he said.

She was just an old lady, like his aunt Lucy or his aunt Marguerite, for cripe’s sake. He couldn’t leave her laying there on the bricks, with the stars on them where the shotgun-stock had come bashing down. Whoo, man. What a dumb thing to do! But he was so mad, it was all so unfair — he was still mad, he was still busting with tears, like a baby, and he wasn’t even sure why.

Funny, touching her finally. Like after a wedding or something and all the old aunts and people like that hugged you and patted your back. Not like grabbing a chick, none of that at all. And he wasn’t scared to touch her either, like he had been before when he thought she was a witch.

He reached down and took hold of her arms, thin arms under the flannel sleeve, but not flabby. It was probably good exercise, gluing things to that rock out there, but don’t think about that, she might pick up on what you did there right out of your head, the way people do sometimes even if they’re not witches.

He helped her sit up. She grabbed his wrist a moment, gasping, before she would let him release her to lean back against the trunk of the cottonwood with its fresh scar where the shotgun had hit it.

“God damn it,” she whispered.

He liked that.

“Better go,” she gasped.

And suddenly he just boiled over, he leaped up and started screaming and stomping around, just spewing it all out: “Why the Hell
should
I? Everybody keeps telling me to get out of here, and
I’m not going to.
I live here, this is my place, why should I run away? I can’t just run away, God damn it! That’s my street and my friends and who’s going to help my Mom out? She’s a widow, and Great-uncle Tilo’s a lush, and all my friends are down there; who the Hell’s going to be my friends in Canada, for Christ’s sake? I don’t have friends in Canada! I’d never have friends in Canada! I can’t just drive away with that shivering little cunt Bobbie. Jesus, I’d be better off with that gray dog of yours, it’s got more sense! Bobbie and some weepy Anglo girl whining and moaning the whole way and who knows what she’ll do soon as you turn your back —
fuck that!
What would happen to Blanca? You tell me that. What would happen? You can stop telling me to run away, everybody can just quit that. I’m not going.”

His face was all wet, and his voice kept cracking like a kid’s. He steadied himself against the redwood table and tried to take deep breaths.

“Guns,” she whispered. “You only have — two guns — people will get — killed and — you’ll still lose out — in the end. You can’t —”

“I just got through telling you not to tell me what to do! Jesus, don’t you listen? What you want me to do now, give myself up like some retard in a movie? Lady, they’d cream me, there wouldn’t be enough left to fill a coffin! You think I’m going to let them get their hands on me?”

“Maybe not if — they know somebody’s — watching,” she said. “Keeping track. Somebody famous, Beto. Got this damned importance — never wanted it — useful now. Use it. Good for something.”

He rushed on, borne along on his own rage and despair. “I’d rather — I’d rather load up the truck with the ammunition that’s left and drive right into the cops and shoot into the bullets and blow us all sky high, like those guys in Lebanon did to those Marines. I’ll do that before I’ll run away to goddamn Canada or LA or Mexico — or any place!”

“Don’t fight them,” she said in that same painful gasp. “Beto. I’ll speak — for you. Help the best I — can. Could be a lot. Try me.”

He stopped raging. She meant it, he could tell. And he already knew how tough she was, how she could damn well get what she went after. If she wanted to help him, shit, she could probably really help. She was what she said, a famous artist; he had seen the proof himself. Seen it and tried to trash it, man. What a fool he was. Dancing in the moonlight, smashing his chance to come out of this alive and get back home where he belonged.

“You won’t want to help,” he said, hunkering down again to her level but unable to look her in the eye. “You’ll want me dead more than anybody else will.”

“Oh, Beto,” she said. He saw her face go all crimped with pain and her eyes shining out so bright at him, waiting for it; she knew, all right. “Beto, what did you do?”

“I just saw it there,” he said sullenly, “and I couldn’t help it. I had to do something. So I did. You could fix it. All you got to do is glue some things over where I busted it and nobody would know the difference.”

He couldn’t stand it, the look she gave him. He really couldn’t stand it.

“It’s not my fault,” he stormed, “I didn’t ask to get chased up here by the cops! I didn’t ask for all this trouble!”

She kind of caved in right in front of him, going so slack against the tree-trunk that he was afraid she would die right there, as if he had killed her, not with the shotgun but with the rock he’d used to bash up the wall last night in the moonlight.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” he said, squatting down again anxiously. “I mean, I know it must have taken a long time to make that thing. You can see it was a lot of work.”

She seemed to come back from someplace way deep inside herself where she’d gone to cry privately about the ruined work. She looked at him with this very calm, very tired look and went right on as if he hadn’t said anything about that.

“Listen,” she said. “Get the phone. I’ll call — Frank at the hospice — he can bring Johnny Sanchez — out with him. Johnny’s — a policeman, but — calm by nature. Won’t panic, won’t do — stupid things — helicopters and sharpshooters — none of that. Good chance, if you — stay close to me — with the others. No guns. With the class. Can you try?”

Wow, was he tired all of a sudden. He couldn’t tell what was going on any more. Well, maybe what, but not why. He sat down on the flagstones. “Thanks for offering, I guess, but I think it’s more likely they’ll just kill me, you know? Because of the cop that got shot in the riot, and Mr. Escobar being dead and all.”

“You really don’t — want to go.”

“No,” he said. God, he did not want to go, he did not want to leave his street and his friends and his family.

“Can’t guarantee anything.” She winced. “Do my best. Will you — take a chance?”

Oh, man, is this crazy. But suppose it worked. He squeezed his eyes shut for a minute, nerving himself up to it, and then he nodded, quick and short, and it was like the weight of the whole sky just slid right off him.

He jumped up to go get the telephone from where Bobbie had dumped it down the arroyo.

Jake and Martín — if Martín ever came back — would get some story from him, when he got back to Pinto Street.

Blanca watched the patio gate swing behind Roberto. She stepped away from the door frame, where she had been standing hidden to listen. She couldn’t hear it all, but she’d heard enough, all right. Her face felt hot and red and she knew she was working up to a super fit, but she didn’t care. It would serve them all right if she died right there, her blood on their heads.

She went out onto the patio, turning to keep from catching the cast against the doorway, and stood over the old lady.

“He’s not going to Canada, is he?” she said. “You stopped him. You sold him some fairy tale about giving up to the cops instead of getting out of here — you’ve ruined everything!”

The old lady squinted up at her. “You should be — glad. He couldn’t — have taken you along.”

“He would have! I’d have made him take me, I can get him to do what I want! You don’t know anything about it! We were going to go together, we were going to get away, far away where nothing is the same, and you spoiled it!”

“You could have died,” came the whispered answer. “Both of you, any of the rest — shooting, chases — too dangerous.”

“Dangerous for you, you mean,” Blanca sneered. She kicked at the wreckage of the shotgun. She felt explosive with her own fury. Damn that Beto, damn him for ducking out on her! Damn this old bitch for making him do it! She hoped the old lady was really hurting right now, she sure deserved it.

“Help for Ricky, too — sooner.”

“First place we stopped, I’d have slipped away and telephoned for help for Ricky, without giving my name or anything. Did you think I’d just leave him like that, locked up and waiting? I’m his friend. And now they’ll lock us all up and I’ll never see him again and I’ll never ever ever get out of here and I hate you so much — If I had a gun, I’d shoot you myself, right now. You’ve ruined it all.”

The old lady’s eyes closed. “You’ll make yourself sick,” she murmured.

“I
don’t
make myself sick! It’s other people that make me sick!” Blanca cried. “
You
make me sick!
Beto
makes me sick! Everything and everybody, you
all
— make — me — sick!”

Ellie sat at the end of the big, bare room leaning her head against the wall and looking out of the window. There was nothing to see outside, no movement, and no sound since the shots. In here the kids were quiet, listening as she listened.

In books they talked about the sweat of fear, usually the “rank” sweat of fear. She kept thinking she could smell her own sweaty clothes and skin.