Rio Grande Wedding (10 page)

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Authors: Ruth Wind

BOOK: Rio Grande Wedding
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He lowered his eyes, laced his fingers together. “Thank you.”
“It won't be for long.”
When he lifted his face, there was weariness in it, lying in the hollows of his cheeks. “I hate to live this way. Sometimes, I think it would be better for Josefina to take her home to Mexico, to my uncle, where we would not have to hide.” He spread his hands and looked at them, as if they contained the future—or maybe the past. “It was a good life. I miss it very much.”
She thought of his description of what she should do with her land, and smiled. “Did you have goats for their milk? And sheep for their wool?”
He grinned. “
Sí
. And chickens for eggs.”
“And a rooster for morning.”
“It's a good alarm clock, no? Not like those bells.”
“I wouldn't know.”
“Try it one day. You will see.”
She hesitated, but only for a moment. “Why don't you take her back to your home, then?”
He lifted his shoulders. “My sister wanted her to be here. To be an American. She died for that, you know?”
“Yeah.” Molly inclined her head, wondering how to delicately phrase her question. “But wouldn't it be better for Josefina in Mexico? She could go to school. Be in one place.”
He made a soft snorting sound and leaned, wincing only a little, over the table. “When I first came here, those first few weeks, I was shocked every day. Women do anything here.” He paused. “Not in Mexico.” His eyes focused on something distant. “And Josefina—she's very smart. She already reads big books, and her teacher last summer, in the camp, was very mad that I could not take her to a normal school. She said Josefina was—” he lifted his hand, as if trying to pull the word from the air “—
dotada,
I can't think of it in English.” He touched his temple. “Very smart in mathematics.”
“Dotada,”
Molly echoed, liking the sound of the word. “I don't know what it means, but I get the idea.”
He smiled. “Say like this,” and he repeated it.
Molly tried again and was rewarded with a nod of approval.
“Bueno.”
She tried not to beam too much at his approval, and reminded herself to look up the word. Gifted, maybe? It brought her thoughts back to the little girl, alone and cold out there somewhere. As if she might spot her, she looked over her shoulder to the dark pane of glass facing the gardens. “Is it so impossible for you to get a visa, Alejandro? There's nothing?” She hesitated. “Is there anyone I could write, on your behalf?”
“God made you to nurse the world, I think.” He put his hand over hers. “From the bottom of my heart, I thank you, Saint Molly. But there is no one to write.” He smiled now, sadly. “I have already tried.”
She nodded, sighed and gently pulled away, picking up dishes to carry to the sink. “You know, this whole subject is in the news all the time. Laws about it.” She lifted a hand, staring out at the vast emptiness that was the northern New Mexico vista.
His mouth turned down and he lifted his coffee cup. “I do not blame anyone here. People wish to protect what they have, no? And if the politicos in Mexico would do what they should, we would not need to run here.”
“Yeah. It's a complicated issue.”
“No,” he said quietly. “It is simple, really. As long as America is here, so much richer, there will be Mexicans who come.”
Molly smiled. “That does make it sound simple.” To shift the direction of the conversation away from politics, she said, “I've wanted to travel in Mexico. What's it like?”
“In the north, much of it is like this.” He spread his hands toward the door. “But then it gets better. Where I lived, the land is rich. We grow many things, and sell them to the exporters—you know, who make frozen vegetables?”
“And what made it a good life?”
He inclined his head, making that hair fall a little to one side. Light caught on the glossiness, and Molly knew she was only talking to keep him there. But when he lifted his eyes, frankly, to hers, she decided he talked in order to stay. “It's a simple world. The days are the same. It's good, knowing you will wake up in your bed and the fields will be waiting, and then at night, we will sit in the back with the dogs, and maybe some children, and somebody plays guitar.” He smiled. “Boring, no?”
“Not at all.” In fact, she thought his description said a lot about his character. It reinforced her feeling that he was a man of the land, truly born of it, with the rhythms carved in his soul. “It sounds peaceful.”
“Peaceful. Yes, that's a good word.” Absently, he touched his ribs.
“Are you in pain?”
“No. Not so much.” He laughed a little, as if in surprise. “I was thinking this is a peaceful place, too.”
Molly laughed. “No, this is really boring. I had to get Leo, the cat, to have some entertainment.” Apologetically, she lifted a shoulder. “I don't always like living so far out. I hved in town all my life.”
“So you want the cars in the streets, those lights shining in your window?”
“Not exactly—but I like kids walking by after school. And talking with my neighbors. Having somebody over the back fence.”
The large dark eyes fixed on her face, strangely sober. “You are lonely. That is why you wanted me to stay.”
Molly ducked her head instantly, but it wasn't quick enough to hide her humiliation. It burned along her ears, and she was grateful for the hair that would cover it.
He touched her hand on the table and said gently, “I know about lonely, too.”
She couldn't quite bear to look at his face, but his fingertips rested lightly on her fingernails, the lightest possible touch, and she could look there. “Loneliness,” she said absently, and raised her head. “It's lonely and loneliness. One is an adjective, the other a noun.”
“Ah.” He nodded, but did not take his hand away. “Same in Spanish.
Solitario
and
soledad.”
He tapped her forefinger with his own. “And one more, too. If a place is lonely, it is
aislado.”
“Aislado.”
The word made her think of a desert beneath a full moon, a lone rider crossing in danger. “I like that.”
“You are lonely,” he said. “I know about loneliness. And this—” he gestured to the door “—is, for you,
aislado.
Can you say that word in English?”
She thought. Shook her head. “No. I don't think there is a word.” She lifted a shoulder. “Haunted, maybe.”
“Is your land haunted, Molly?”
She thought of the nights when she lay alone in her bed and heard coyotes howling in the distance—and sometimes not so distant. She thought of the emptiness of the fields when they were blanketed in snow, and not a single footstep showed on it for days and days. “No,” she said.
“Aislado
is better.”
His smile shifted every line, every angle in his face into a new light, putting mischief in his faintly tilted eyes. Molly wondered why it felt so amazingly good to have that zillion-watt grin turned on her.
And at the answer, she was appalled. Loneliness. She had been terribly, terribly lonely out here, and he broke the sameness. He made her smile, and gave her someone to take care of and someone to talk to.
Stiffly, she stood. “You should go back to bed.”
Perplexed, he inclined his head. “I offended you.”
“No,” she said. “I embarrassed myself, that's all, and I'd like a little time to recover my dignity.”
He frowned a little, but leaning on the table, pulled himself to a standing position. Molly moved close automatically to offer her shoulder, and he looped his long arm around her, using the wall for additional support.
And though they'd done this several times, Molly found herself a little lost in the sensations tonight. She was aware of his lean hip close to her side, of his wrist against her shoulder, and more than anything, the scent of him, his skin and hair and the warm places.
“Do you want to go to your room, or would you like to watch television or something, maybe?”
“I would like television.” His voice didn't show nearly as much strain as it had earlier, and she was taking far less of his weight than she had this morning. He must be prodigiously healthy.
Then she realized he'd walked under his own power to the back door earlier, and she raised her head. “You didn't really need my help this time, did you?”
A wicked glint sparked in the laughing eyes.
“Si, señora.
I feel so weak.”
They'd reached the living room, and she slid away. “You must think I'm very silly.”
He laughed, and caught her collar before she could quite get away. “No. I think you are kind.” The smile faded a little as he took her hair, now braided tightly, into his hand. “And I did not mean to hurt you when I said you were lonely.”
Every word, made oddly musical in his accent, fell like rain on her dry soul. “It's all right.” She took a breath. “It's probably true. Lucky for you, huh?”
He let her braid fall. “Yes. Lucky me.”
Chapter 6
M
olly illustrated the use of the remote control, and aware of an odd, pleased sense of happiness, went back to the kitchen, mouthing
dotada
under her breath, putting her tongue on her teeth in imitation of him, then tried the other words. Especially
aislado.
Great word.
Running the sink full of hot sudsy water, she mused for the millionth time on the fact that, even with all the opportunities around her, she still did not speak very much Spanish. There were four all-Spanish radio stations and two television stations in the area. At least half the people in the valley spoke Spanish—albeit a colonial version that. had some inconsistencies—at home and within the community, to each other. Everyone was expected to know the most basic things.
It seemed, with so much opportunity, almost absurd that they weren't all bilingual.
The phone rang as she was drying her hands. Expecting Lynette, Molly answered cheerfully.
“Oh, good,” said the voice on the other end of the line. “You sound a lot better.”
It was Cathy, the nursing supervisor at the small hospital where Molly worked. Busted. “I am, thanks. It wasn't that bad to start with. I just didn't think I ought to be breathing all over the patients with a virus.”
“Well, guess what, doll? I need you. Two more nurses called off tonight, and we're getting slammed. Two moms in labor, a bar fight and two new cases of pneumonia from this damned flu. If you come in tonight, I can probably cover most of tomorrow.”
Molly glanced toward Alejandro, torn. But she really couldn't say no. “Sure,” she said. “I'd like to have the morning off to get some sleep, but I can work the rest of my normal shift in the afternoon.”
“Thanks, kid. You might be able to get out of here after midnight sometime.”
“See you in a little bit, then.”
Molly went to the living room. “The hospital called,” she said. “I have to go to work tonight. Will you be okay?”
“Sure.” He held up the remote control. “Movies. TV.” Spread his hands, a faint smile on his face. “Couch and pillow. I'm very okay.”
“Okay. There's food, too. Help yourself.” She started to walk to her room and turned back. “And don't get any brave ideas of striking out on your own. I'll be very worried about you.”
He touched his chest, a promise. “I will stay until the morning, Saint Molly.”
 
It was indeed very busy at the hospital. Molly hit the floor running and didn't stop till nearly eleven when the second baby was delivered. By then, after her long night and day, she was yawning so hard her jaw cracked, and her boss sent her to get a cup of coffee. Stirring sugar into the thin brew, she thought of the luscious mixture Alejandro had made—was that only this afternoon?—and made a mental note to have him leave the recipe.
When he moved on. As he would.
She sat in the break room with the door open, and heard the shouts when a new patient came in the emergency exit. With a sigh, she poured out her unfinished cup, wondering if it was the full moon or something, and jogged out into the hall to see what had happened now.
When she saw who it was, she halted abruptly, and it seemed all the systems in her body stopped for a moment, too. It was Wiley, and in his arms, he carried a small bundle of child wrapped in a blanket—a blanket, Molly saw with a tight clutch of fear, that was stained with blood.
She looked at Wiley urgently, and he gave her a slight, small nod.
Her body switched from dead stop to humming overdrive in a flash, and she rushed forward. “Josefina?” she said, pulling back the blanket to see the child's face. “Oh, God!” Blood smeared over one cheek. “Take her in there quickly.” She followed, her stethoscope banging against her breasts. “What happened? Where did you find her?”
The farmer settled the child on the bed with more gentleness than she would have expected. “Damnedest thing. A yappy little dog showed up on my back porch just as I was getting ready to go to bed. I opened it to shoo him away, but he backed off, barking his fool head off.”
Molly listened as she stripped the blanket away, revealing a very slim child with long black hair, her angled face pale but unmistakably related to Alejandro. She appeared to be unconscious.
“The dog wouldn't be quiet, so I followed him, thinking about what you said.” He lifted one gnarled brown hand. “I found her under a tree, just like this. Blood all over her face.”
“Has she spoken?”
“Nah. Not really. Just some moaning.”
The girl twisted and started to cough, her body pulling into a fetal position as if in protection. It was a violent, spine-wracking cough, and Molly realized where the blood was coming from. Automatically, she grabbed a face mask and tied it around her mouth and nose, handing another to Wiley. “I'll get the doctor in here, and then you can go, but you say that Josefina went to Health Services?”
“Yeah. Don't know what for.”
The girl started to shiver, and she twisted again, crying out a name, “Tío!” in a pitifully weak voice. It started a new coughing fit.
The doctor, a tall woman in scrubs, appeared, and started her examination, barking out questions none of them could answer. The child was dehydrated and feverish, but when the doctor listened to her chest, she exchanged a look with Molly—this was not bronchitis or pneumonia, though the girl's condition might have been complicated by one or both. “Let's get an X ray. Now.”
“TB?” Molly said quietly.
“Sure looks like it. Let's run the tests, get her blood gases, and get her into isolation.” She peered at Wiley. “Where are her people?”
“No idea,” he said gruffly, pulling at his mustache. “Might call the sheriff to see if they got him down at the station. Her uncle was a big tall fella, not too old. Name that was familiar somehow—oh, I know, it was Sosa, like that baseball player.”
“Thank you.” The doctor glanced at Molly. “Get the kid settled, then let's get Annie to call the sheriff's office and see what we can find out.”
Wiley hesitated at the door. “What's gonna happen to her?”
Molly tugged the blanket over the child and made preparations to move her. “Probably Social Services will decide. I'll let you know.”
“Thanks.”
The little girl bolted straight up all at once, her eyes wild.
“Pequeña!”
she cried. “My dog!” She gripped Molly's arm almost painfully.
“Dónde está mi perro?”
“I'll take care of him, sugar. Don't you worry.” Wiley said, and Molly was oddly moved by his gentleness. “Put him in a bed all by himself, with some bones. How's that?”
She looked disbelieving and unbearably sad. Molly stroked her head. “Do you understand?”
“I speak English,” she said bleakly.
“You can trust him, sweetie.”
The grip eased. She nodded. Molly soothed her back down, and Wiley tipped his hat and left.
Glancing over her shoulder to make sure she was alone, Molly then bent over the child, and took the tiny, frail hand in her own. “Josefina,” she said, “I need to tell you something important. It's very secret, and I can only say it once, so listen carefully,
comprende?”
“Yes.” Luminous eyes, fever bright, showed no fear now. She even patted Molly's hand, as if to reassure her. “I speak English very
well.”
Molly smiled. “Good. You've been looking for your uncle, right?”
A nod.
“I know where he is.” The thin fingers tightened convulsively and didn't ease. “He was hurt, just a little, in the raid, and he is not far away.” She paused. “No one must know, or he might go to jail. I need you to pretend you know me, okay?”
“My uncle is okay?”
“Yes. He is very worried about you.”
“Can he come to me here?”
“I don't know. I'll try.”
Another soft nod. “That's your name?” She pointed to the name tag. “Molly?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you, Senora Molly,” she said very gravely.
“You're very welcome.” She let go and explained what she had to do now, to take care of her. The child endured the needle pokes with good grace, and Molly wheeled her into a room down the hall, with a window and a view of the Rio Grande by day. If she had tuberculosis, she would probably be here for a while.
She washed the girl's face and propped her up, then started the IV tube for rehydration and whatever course of drugs the doctor chose once the results were back. The child, obviously exhausted, fell into a doze, and Molly tenderly tucked her in tightly.
Only then, winded, did she sink down in the silent room to consider what this would mean. Tuberculosis was on the rise throughout the country, and it had been showing up with alarming frequency among several levels of the population, often in cities where people lived close together, and in migrant camps for the same reason. Many, like in Josefina's probable case, were misdiagnosed until the disease was advanced.
If it was indeed TB, Josefina would be quarantined until the active symptoms could be controlled, and then she would have to take a course of treatments that lasted eighteen months.
Molly reeled with the implications. The child was not going anywhere for quite some time. As an American citizen, she'd be placed with Social Services while Alejandro was deported. How could Molly stave it off?
The answer must have been brewing in the back of her mind, because it appeared, simple and terrifying, without much prompting. It also held the potential for a better than moderate humiliation for Molly, who would look even more like a sex-starved widow. She didn't know if Alejandro would even agree—though she suspected he would, to save his niece.
Before she could lose her nerve, Molly jumped up and went to find her supervisor. “I need some help,” she said quietly.
“What's up?” Cathy asked.
“Keep Social Services and the law off the little girl in 202, will you? Just till morning.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What's going on, Molly? You've been weird for two days.”
Molly raised her eyebrows. “I can't tell you right this minute. But I promise I'll have some answers when I come back. Just keep the dogs off the girl for a few hours. Will you?”
“Yeah.”
“I'll be back by say...ten?”
Cathy nodded. “All right.”
 
 
Alejandro had trouble falling asleep. Each time he lay down, thoughts of Josefina overtook him. Thoughts of her cold. Thoughts of her frightened. And each time, he'd work himself into a panic, wanting to act, and having no act to perform. Fear for her stole his breath.
He looked through the paperback books on one shelf. His reading in English was progressing, and he took a ghost story from the shelves. He considered going to the kitchen to get a glass of water, but it seemed too far for the assembled aches starting to creep back in all over him, and he settled with a blanket over his shoulders for warmth in the living room. The cat jumped up into his lap, a warm, heavy lump. Glad of the company, Alejandro stroked the silky, longish fur.
The reading proved to be more work than it was worth and with a sigh, he put the book aside. Sleep would make time pass faster. And he needed it for healing purposes—he needed to take leave of his saint before he made some move that wounded her, offended her.
At the thought of Molly, however, the tightness in his neck seeped out. Encouraged, he let his mind take him to those moments on the back steps when he'd held her hair in his fingers, letting that swath of gold glide over his flesh. He allowed an imaginary vision to follow the memory: gilt and earth hair glazing breasts shaped like half moons, her pale eyes turning quicksilver with need. He imagined kissing her, and wondered if it would be a surprise, or if she'd seen the curiosity and growing attraction in his eyes.
A pleasant lassitude spread through him, building a defense against stabbing thoughts of Josefina. Pleasant to think of a woman's body, the give of a breast, the heat of her thighs, the long, lazy ways he liked to make love. So much better than worry, he thought, leaning his head back, his fingers idly caressing the cat's back. So much better to think of kisses, and it had been a very long time since he'd allowed himself the luxury. He closed his eyes. Molly's mouth. Yes. Molly's breasts.
 
Molly found Alejandro asleep on the couch. She bent down, afraid she would lose her nerve if she delayed, and put her hand on his shoulder. “Alejandro.”
He stirred, turning his head, and opening those dark liquid eyes. Sleep made his lids heavy, and he blinked once, then stretched a hand up to her face. “Saint Molly,” he murmured, a soberness lying across his forehead as he looked up at her. His lashes, so extravagant, gave his eyes a kind of starriness. His thumb moved, and Molly, afraid he was going to caress her mouth, grabbed his wrist.

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