Rita was waiting for him. She wore a dark shawl over her head, and she had cut roses to take to the cemetery. They drove in silence to the cemetery and parked. With tía Delfina between them they walked slowly to Gloria’s grave site.
They stood looking at the marble grave marker, remembering Gloria, feeling the tragedy of her death, what she had meant to them. Feeling also relief. The search was ended.
“Tía?” Sonny said.
Tía Delfina nodded, awakening from memories. “I think it would be nice if you spread the earth in the vase on her grave,” she said. “Let it nourish the grass. My daughter can rest now,” and then she added in a barely audible whisper, “and I can rest.”
Sonny took the vase and emptied it on the grass, spreading the earth and blood over the grave. The blood was joined to the flesh again.
Tía Delfina whispered a prayer for her daughter, and among the jumbled thoughts and emotions Sonny felt, the words of a Mexican corrido kept repeating.
“La vida es un puño de tierra,” he said. Life was a handful of earth, and it returned to earth. Only the light within remained.
He placed the empty vase at the head of the grave, and Rita put the roses she had cut in the vase.
“It’s done,” she whispered.
Part of it, he thought. He had learned that the dead had a presence that could complicate things for the living. Gloria’s spirit was still in him. Rita was right. Sometime in the future he had to return to Lorenza Villa and go through the cleansing ceremony, la limpieza, the washing away of Gloria’s soul with eagle and owl feather, the lighting of candles, incense, sweet grass, and chamisa burning in a small dish, prayers, the chanting and the praying.
It was the old way, the traditional cleansing, a way he wanted to keep, for his children and grandchildren, as long as his blood was alive in the Río Grande valley. Like others of his generation, he had forgotten a lot of the old ways, but with don Eliseo’s help and Rita’s love, he was returning.
His parents had given him a history, a sense of the traditions of the valley, the stories of the Bisabuelo and the heritage of the antepasados, the ancestors. But somewhere along the way, he began to get separated. Getting a degree at the university meant entering a different world, and living in the vast change that swept over the land meant losing touch.
Now he was returning.
He pulled Rita and his tía Delfina close to him, held them in an embrace as they looked down at Gloria’s grave.
Around them the grounds and trees of the cemetery were a throbbing green with light, the strong, dazzling light of morning that filled the valley. The Señores y Señoras de la Luz were blessing all of life, lifting the souls of the dead into their embrace.
33
A full moon glittered on the pieces of glass that littered the graveled parking lot of the Fourth Street Cantina. It glistened on car tops and the cracked windshields of old pickups. Ranchera music drifted out of the bar and mixed with the drone of the cicada song in the trees.
Inside, Sonny and Rita sat in a booth enjoying the music. Across from them sat Howard and his wife, Marie.
Tucked in a corner, a trio played Mexican rancheras and country-western. The place was considered a nice family place if you wanted to dance on Saturday nights. Dave McPherson, who owned the bar, ran a tight ship. You started one fight and you became persona non grata.
They had been to the ballgame, the kind of pitching game Sonny liked. I–o, Dukes. And El Gallo had retired fifteen batters. Now they sat drinking beer.
“Great game, great game,” Howard said, extolling the pitching. Sonny agreed as they relived the innings.
“I think we’re not going to get to dance,” Rita said to Marie.
“We’ll dance, we’ll dance,” Sonny said, smiling. “What do you think, Howard, do we give our women too much freedom?”
“You don’t give us freedom, darling, we take it,” Rita said, imitating Tamara.
“You tell them, sister!” Marie exclaimed.
“It was a great game,” Howard said, tactfully changing the subject. “But I promised Marie we were going to dance all night,” he said and grabbed his wife’s hand. “Come on, honey, let’s show these Chicanos that black folks can dance rancheras. Ajua!” he cried and swept his wife toward the dance floor.
Sonny took Rita’s hand and they sat in silence. He looked at her and nursed his beer; she fiddled with the plastic straw of her ginger ale.
“You okay?” he asked.
“I’m okay. How’s your foot?”
“How’d you know my foot had been bothering me?”
“The rains are here.”
“Yeah. It’s okay.” He nodded. He was wearing Raven’s medallion beneath his shirt; he didn’t want Rita to know. It would upset her, but since Raven’s disappearance, because the cops still hadn’t found the body, he for some reason felt naked if he didn’t wear it. Of course he would turn it over to the DA—it was state’s evidence—but not just yet.
“You’ve been quiet,” he said.
“I’m okay.”
“Good game.”
“Yeah.”
“So, qué pasa?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s because we haven’t had time together.”
“Yeah.” He put his arm around her. “But we have tonight, changa. Time to dance, time to make love.”
“Let’s leave now,” Rita responded.
“What about Marie and Howard?”
“They’ll understand.” Rita drew close and kissed him lightly. Her lips were warm, her voice beckoning. “Just the two of us.…”
“Am I still your vato?” Sonny asked, nibbling at her ear.
“Only you, amor.” She smiled.
“Pues, vamos,” he whispered, but too late. A loud clamor made him turn. He spotted don Eliseo, Concha, and don Toto marching into the bar and toward the booth, pushing the dancers aside to get to Sonny.
“Sonny, hey, Sonny!” Don Eliseo shouted.
“Don Eliseo!” Sonny called back and motioned.
“Oh no,” Rita moaned, “say it isn’t true.”
Concha pushed Sonny and slipped in next to him. She was done up in her Saturday-night best, a low-cut, bright red satin blouse and hip-hugging black skirt. On Saturday nights she took off her battered tennis shoes and put on her patent leather boots, a pair she had picked up at the St. Jude clothing store and that she treasured, because, she said, she just knew they had once belonged to a swinger.
“Sonny, cómo ’stás? How about a dance?” She nudged him. “Hi, dearie,” she said to Rita. “You won’t mind, will you?”
“Yes,” Rita replied, “tonight I do mind.”
“Hijo,” Concha said, grinning, “she really takes care of him!”
“Hello, Concha, you’re looking great.” Sonny welcomed her with a hug.
“You made my day, ese. This man knows how to treat women,” she said to don Toto.
“Yeah, pues, everything still works for him,” don Toto said with a shrug.
“We hope.” La Concha grinned and patted Sonny’s hand. “You feeling better, dearie?”
Sonny laughed. “I feel great!”
“Got something to tell you,” don Eliseo said and leaned over the table. It was clear they had been drinking.
“How about a beer?” don Toto asked.
“Seguro que sí! A drink for my friends. Snap, Crackle, and Pop.” Sonny shouted at the waitress, “Hey, Mary Bess, bring us a round!”
“Coming right up,” she answered kindly.
Mary Bess used to teach Shakespeare at the university where Sonny had taken her class, but a love for Lone Star and the funky bar drew her to the cantina, where she occasionally helped out her friend Dave. “I always wanted to be of service,” she said happily, a cigarette dangling at her lips. She loved to quote the bard to the Chicanos, lone cowboys, and Indians from Sandia Pueblo who came in to drink beer.
“I’m thirsty! Haven’t had a drop all night,” don Toto swore. “Come on,
Concha, let’s dance.”
“Vamos, viejo,” Concha laughed. “We’ll show these young kids a step or two!” She pinched Sonny’s cheek and winked, then let don Toto lead her out ceremoniously to the dance floor. The couples on the floor parted to watch the old couple do their thing.
“Ajua!” Concha shouted. “Viejo loco!”
“Gimme, gimme, gimme, honey!” Don Toto shouted back, and they swirled to the forties jitterbug tune the band struck up for them.
“Got something to tell you,” don Eliseo said, tugging at Sonny, his wine-laden breath spewing on Sonny’s face.
“What?”
“The Señores have brought life. It got green.”
“What got green?”
“My alamo! A branch put out leaves. Little green leaves, moist and tender. They’re growing! The branch that faces south is green, Sonny. It’s a miracle! The tree is alive! It’s alive!”
“You’re kidding me,” Sonny said.
“No! Not kidding!”
“Did you hear that, Rita!” Sonny shouted, jumped to his feet, and embraced don Eliseo. “Hey, the tree’s alive!” he shouted and danced the old man around.
“That tree is like us, we got a little bit of that juice left, eh, Sonny,” don Eliseo said, gasping for air.
“You damn right we got juice left!” He turned to Rita. “Come on! Let’s go see the tree!”
“I thought we were going to …”
“Later, morenita, right now I want to see the miracle of the leaves!”
Don Eliseo nodded happily.
“Anda, vamos,” Rita agreed, smiling. Sonny grabbed her. “Call you tomorrow, Howie!” Sonny shouted and Howard waved and shouted back, “Pleasant dreams, compadre!”
“Toto! Concha!” don Eliseo called.
Sonny and Rita hurried out of the bar, followed by the three old friends. Rita, Sonny, and Concha jumped in the cab while don Eliseo helped don Toto onto the back of the truck. Then they sped down Fourth Street to don Eliseo’s home.
The full moon was hanging over the valley like a holy wafer, bathing the dirt roads and potholed streets of the valley in a sheen of silvery light. The full moon after the solstice was a moon of magic, rich with portents the old people of the valley believed. Magic strong enough to bring life back into the dry, gnarled limbs of the tree.
Sonny turned down don Eliseo’s dirt road and put on the brakes. The truck slid ten feet on the graveled road and stopped. In front of them rose the dry branches of don Eliseo’s tree, the huge alamo gordo. They stumbled out of the truck and looked up, looking for the leaves don Eliseo had seen, and yes, the huge southern arm of the tree was greening. The pale green leaves shimmered in the moonlight.
“See,” don Eliseo whispered, pointing. “Entre verde y seco.”
Between green and dry, some old trees grew like that, one side would began to dry out, but the spirit of life was too great to be denied, and they put out one green branch to show the roots were yet alive. Entre verde y seco, life on the Río Grande high plateau was like that, dry and harsh as the summer that had baked the valley and then soft as love under a summer rain.
Dry and green, like people whose juices dry up momentarily, whose spirits wither, then they cast off the dread and the blood flows again, renewing body and soul. A man is like a tree, and the blood of the man like the sap. Don Eliseo was like a tree, and his spirit was alive with life-giving light. He would live many more years.
“It’s beautiful,” Concha said softly. She put one arm around don Eliseo and one around don Toto, and together they stood looking at the mystery.
“The Señores y Señoras de la Luz have blessed it with life,” don Eliseo said.
Sonny held Rita close. Yes, he thought. The Señores y Señoras. Maybe the rain had kicked life into the roots, or the solstice sun reminded the tree of its need to bear leaves quickly. It couldn’t be explained; it didn’t need to be explained, as many other miracles in the history of the valley didn’t need explaining.
He whispered to Rita. “Time for love.…”
She smiled in the moonlight, and arm in arm they walked to his house, leaving the three old friends together.
“Buenas noches, Sonny,” they called after him. “Buenas noches, Rita.”
“Sweet dreams,” Concha added.
“Buenas noches,” Sonny and Rita called back, and paused at the door to wave to the three duendes.
They watched as don Eliseo put dry pieces of wood in the embers of the fire. He blew on the coals and the flames rose. Don Toto took out his bottle of wine, and they sat around the flames of the small fire and passed the bottle around.
Tonight they would talk about the appearance of the leaves on the old tree. It was a miracle, a new story to add to the stories of the North Valley, a blessing of the Señores y Señoras de la Luz.
Many would remember the summer as the Zia Summer, and they would tell stories about the terrible murder of Gloria Dominic. But the viejitos of the valley would remember it was the summer when don Eliseo’s tree recovered miraculously and offered forth its green leaves.
Turn the page to continue reading from the Sonny Baca Novels
1
Sonny felt the soft pressure of the eagle feather across his chest. The soft voice of the healer was calling him back from his vision. He smelled the sweet aroma of the burning copal in the room, and he struggled to rise out of the dark shadows where he had been running with a family of coyotes.
Thin wisps of copal smoke floated over the altar and curled upward. The traditional healers of the Río Grande burned sage or romero, common herbs growing in the New Mexican countryside, but Lorenza was burning copal, the incense of the Aztecs.
Praying to the saints, burning copal, and instructing Sonny on how to find the coyotes, his guardian spirits, were all part of the cleansing ceremony she had just performed on Sonny. The limpieza was to rid him of the ghost that had plagued him all summer.
“You have susto,” Rita had told Sonny all along. “Your soul has been inhabited by Gloria’s ghost. That’s what causes the fright. Go to Lorenza. She’s a curandera; she can help you get rid of Gloria’s ghost.”
Sonny had felt the shock of Gloria’s spirit when he entered her bedroom and Frank Dominic had pulled back the sheet that covered her body. She had been murdered that June night, and her body had been drained of its blood. Rita believed that Gloria’s spirit, still lingering in the room, had entered and taken possession of Sonny.
Her spirit had attached to his, and its needs had sapped his energy. All summer he had felt depressed and distracted. Even nights with Rita suffered. He needed to be cleansed.
So Rita had finally persuaded him to see Lorenza Villa, her good friend. A very nice-looking curandera, Sonny thought. Lorenza was about thirty-five, her body rounded but firm. Her clear, brown skin was the color of Mexican milk chocolate, and her black hair fell around her shoulders, dark and luxuriant. But it was her bright brown eyes that held those who dared look into them.
When he first met her, he thought she was cross-eyed, as each eye seemed to look at him from just a slightly different angle. Then he remembered that the face of a shaman has a pronounced right and left side, and so, he figured, a right and left eye. The right seemed to smile; the left looked deeper into his thoughts. Perhaps there were two women in her, two souls.
Which eye gazed at the lover when she was making love? Sonny wondered.
Yes, sensuous, with a smile that was reassuring and seductive at the same time. She moved with grace, self-contained, every ounce of energy a fluid movement. When she touched him, a tingle of arousal ran through him.
She clapped her hands to awaken him, and the drumming stopped. When she began the ceremony, she had put a tape in the player, and the sound of the drum helped transport him to a place where he could finally rid himself of Gloria’s spirit.
He opened his eyes and looked at her. She smiled, her full lips the color of the bright prickly pear fruit of late summer. Her long dark hair casca
ded down either side of her face, creating a black shawl that fell over her full breasts.
She moved to the small altar in a corner of the room. A statue of the Virgen de Guadalupe stood surrounded by flowers, herbs, and votive candles. The statues of other saints filled the lower tier of the altar: the Santo Niño de Atocha, St. Anne, and the black San Martín de Porres.
Also arranged on the altar were milagros, small ex-votos probably brought to her by other clients, a pearl rosary with gold crucifix, a photograph of a man on crutches, a child’s scapular, a pocketknife, a book of fairy tales.
A shaman who prays to the saints, Sonny thought. His mother believed in the saints, prayed to the saints, trusted in their power. He thought for a moment of his mother lying in her hospital bed, recovering from the heart bypass operation. He had stayed with her for three days. Her recovery had been excellent. Still, he told himself that tonight he would drop in and see her.
There was a santo for every need. For don Eliseo the saints were Lords and Ladies of the Light, men and women whose souls were filled with clarity.
Lorenza rose and placed the votive candle Sonny had brought at the feet of the virgin. She lit it, bowed in prayer for a moment, then turned to him.
“Concentrate on the smoke,” she said.
“Gloria’s gone.”
“Yes.”
“Someone fell from the sky.”
“Death,” she whispered.
The last thing he had seen in his vision was a body falling from the sky. Why did Lorenza say it was an image of death?
“Are we finished?” he asked, still feeling groggy. Was he back from the river world of the coyotes? Back from the vision?
“For today,” she said, then she went out and closed the door behind her.
Yeah, Sonny nodded. What a trip. With her help he had gone to a place he had never dreamed of. Now as he looked at the dark smoke rising from the candle, he saw it take the shape of the head of a coyote.
There it was again, his nagual. His guardian spirit in the animal world. He stared at the smoke as the figures of coyotes took shape and rose in the curling wisps. The same coyotes he had met during the cleansing ceremony.