wanted. Like my mami , who had me and then Pablo before she was eighteen. And no man—this was her story when we grew old enough to wonder about our father—no papi . “As if,” Mami said, “I was the Madonna.” Blessed with babies and never the misery of a man. Now she’d been dead four years, her heart stopped by her own reckless living, and Pablo and I were left with no mami to tell us anything. We were on our own, mami and papi to each other, the way it had been, really, most of our lives.
Sometimes I thought if we’d had a papi , Pablo wouldn’t have fallen into the trouble that he did. If there’d been a papi to teach him the right way to be a man in this world, maybe then he wouldn’t have been where he was that evening I walked down Oak with this Donnie— mi hermano , Pablo, hiding on the other side of trouble so big even I couldn’t see a way out for him. He had the cash from those bulls and bred heifers he’d sold in Kansas, but it was cash got with a big price attached. Not only had a Special Ranger from the Texas and Southwestern Cattle Raisers Association started sniffing around, Slam Dent was also on Pablo’s trail.
I put it all out of my mind the best I could and concentrated on my own story. I was trying to convince this Donnie that we were husband and wife. Yes, it was crazy, but I didn’t care. I’d stopped thinking right. Was I ever scared of him? No. Like I said, he was a gentle man, and from the start, it was like I’d known him a long, long time.
“We’re going home,” he said, like he was trying hard to accept that this was his life that he had stepped into, the life that had always been going on even when he didn’t know it. I told him, “Yes.” I reached outand touched his wrist. I stroked it the way I’d pet a stray cat, easing my way into its trust. “We’re going home.”
“Home,” he said. He had it now. He’d given into it, the fact that he had a home and that’s where we were going, and for just a moment I had a twinge of guilt because I wondered where his real home was and who was waiting for him there.
It was only three blocks up Oak, a block west on Scripture, and then we were at my little bungalow, the one with the sapphire blue gazing ball on its pedestal by the front steps, the clear glass bottles hanging from the branches of the mimosa tree, bottles meant to catch the evil spirits before they had a chance to enter my house, and for good measure a string of green chili peppers around my door frame.
Donnie touched one of the bottles on the mimosa as we came up the walk, gave it a little nudge and sent it to swaying.
“They’re pretty,” he said. “Those bottles. They catch the light.”
It was true. The gaslight along the walk was on in the dusk, and the bottles held its glow as if a low, warm fire burned inside them.
“They keep the devil away,” I told him. “Remember?”
He stood there awhile, tapping his finger against the bottle, and a pained look came onto his face as if he were close to recalling something important and if he just concentrated he could find it, something that meant the world to him.
“No,” he finally said. “I don’t remember, but it sounds like a good idea. Did you think of that? Did you …” His voice trailed off, and I realized then he was trying to recall my name. “Did you, Betty?” he said.
“You did,” I told him, hoping that little lie would make him feel better about where he was, would give him a sense of owning the ground he walked on, the house he was about to walk into. “You hung them there to keep us safe.”
My throat filled up on that last part, feeling, as I did, how desperate I’d always been for a good man to watch over me.
Just then, my neighbor, Emma Hart, came out onto her front porch and called to me. “Miss Baby, I’m home.”
She’d been gone since the Fourth of July, visiting her daughter in Mississippi, and I’d looked after her house and yard.
“Did you have a good
Sometimes I thought if we’d had a papi , Pablo wouldn’t have fallen into the trouble that he did. If there’d been a papi to teach him the right way to be a man in this world, maybe then he wouldn’t have been where he was that evening I walked down Oak with this Donnie— mi hermano , Pablo, hiding on the other side of trouble so big even I couldn’t see a way out for him. He had the cash from those bulls and bred heifers he’d sold in Kansas, but it was cash got with a big price attached. Not only had a Special Ranger from the Texas and Southwestern Cattle Raisers Association started sniffing around, Slam Dent was also on Pablo’s trail.
I put it all out of my mind the best I could and concentrated on my own story. I was trying to convince this Donnie that we were husband and wife. Yes, it was crazy, but I didn’t care. I’d stopped thinking right. Was I ever scared of him? No. Like I said, he was a gentle man, and from the start, it was like I’d known him a long, long time.
“We’re going home,” he said, like he was trying hard to accept that this was his life that he had stepped into, the life that had always been going on even when he didn’t know it. I told him, “Yes.” I reached outand touched his wrist. I stroked it the way I’d pet a stray cat, easing my way into its trust. “We’re going home.”
“Home,” he said. He had it now. He’d given into it, the fact that he had a home and that’s where we were going, and for just a moment I had a twinge of guilt because I wondered where his real home was and who was waiting for him there.
It was only three blocks up Oak, a block west on Scripture, and then we were at my little bungalow, the one with the sapphire blue gazing ball on its pedestal by the front steps, the clear glass bottles hanging from the branches of the mimosa tree, bottles meant to catch the evil spirits before they had a chance to enter my house, and for good measure a string of green chili peppers around my door frame.
Donnie touched one of the bottles on the mimosa as we came up the walk, gave it a little nudge and sent it to swaying.
“They’re pretty,” he said. “Those bottles. They catch the light.”
It was true. The gaslight along the walk was on in the dusk, and the bottles held its glow as if a low, warm fire burned inside them.
“They keep the devil away,” I told him. “Remember?”
He stood there awhile, tapping his finger against the bottle, and a pained look came onto his face as if he were close to recalling something important and if he just concentrated he could find it, something that meant the world to him.
“No,” he finally said. “I don’t remember, but it sounds like a good idea. Did you think of that? Did you …” His voice trailed off, and I realized then he was trying to recall my name. “Did you, Betty?” he said.
“You did,” I told him, hoping that little lie would make him feel better about where he was, would give him a sense of owning the ground he walked on, the house he was about to walk into. “You hung them there to keep us safe.”
My throat filled up on that last part, feeling, as I did, how desperate I’d always been for a good man to watch over me.
Just then, my neighbor, Emma Hart, came out onto her front porch and called to me. “Miss Baby, I’m home.”
She’d been gone since the Fourth of July, visiting her daughter in Mississippi, and I’d looked after her house and yard.
“Did you have a good
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