Authors: Charlie Price
Angel was bent over, hands on knees, hoping to ease the burning in her throat when she heard the screen door. Abuela. Standing in the opening, watching. The old woman used her cane to negotiate the step, came forward holding a wet dish towel. She washed Angel’s face and walked her back inside.
7
Matteo leaned against the sink, shaking his head and frowning while Angel sat at the kitchen table with Tío and Abuela. Tío rubbed his hand through his hair. Angel kept her head bowed, but her knee had started jittering and she stuck her hands under the table to hide picking at her hangnails. Abuela was looking at her so intently Angel could feel her skin growing warmer.
The old woman had started with the short blond hair, matted and singed. Angel stopped herself from reaching up to comb it with her fingers. Abuela tilted slightly to better see the cuts on Angel’s forehead, the reddened burns on cheek and nostril. She took in the stains on Angel’s torn jacket before returning to Angel’s face. She focused on Angel’s eyes and read them like tea leaves.
“Why didn’t you tell him?” Matteo challenged. “Her father. It’s her family to work out.”
Tío shook his head.
“You’re always telling me
la familia es todo
. We can’t do nothing with her,” Matteo insisted.
Abuela silenced him with a look.
Matteo lowered his eyes, rubbed the instep of one boot against the back of his other leg.
“Not father,” Abuela said.
“Son differentes.”
“He’s not my father,” Angel said, speaking for the first time since Scotty left.
Tío turned to her. Spoke softly but firmly. “You run from him. Okay. He is gone. After dark, you go. No police,” he said. “We…” He looked away to find the right words. Gave up. Tapped the table for emphasis. “No police here.”
“¿Piensas que él lo sepa?”
the grandmother asked Angel.
“I don’t understand.”
“You think he knows?” Matteo translated impatiently. “Knows what?
¿Que?
”
“That I’m here?” Angel didn’t need to think. She nodded, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “I know he does.” In the following silence she wasn’t sure they believed her. “He’s a hunter.” She spoke slowly and looked at Abuela, hoping to be understood.
“Un cazador,”
Tío translated.
Abuela closed her eyes and crossed herself.
* * *
M
ATTEO PULLED A STOOL OUT OF THE MUDROOM
and joined them at the table. Time to make a plan. The family waited, everyone looking down at the place where the plate would be if this were a meal. It was on Angel to speak first.
What could she say? She wasn’t used to talking. At all. To anyone. Her mother had told her a hundred times.
Don’t say nothing. What we do is nobody’s business.
So maybe she could keep them out of it.
“Do you have a phone?”
Matteo snorted. Tío shook his head.
Okay. There was really no choice. Scotty was out there. Watching. If she left, he’d take her. But if she stayed … he could torch this place. Or sneak in and— Angel stopped herself, couldn’t stand to imagine what Scotty might do to this family.
“I have to go.” Angel kept her voice steady, but her eyes were busy searching the kitchen counters for a weapon. Would they give her a knife?
“I’ll walk her to Ramón’s,” Matteo said. “He can drop her at the police on his way to work.”
“Walk her…?” Tío was frowning at the idea.
“Okay, I’ll wait till Celina comes home and drive her to Ramón’s.”
“Celina?” Angel asked.
“My sister,” Matteo said, sounding irritated at having to explain. “Works in town.”
“The man watches?” Tío asked.
“This house?” Angel nodded.
“¿Él hizo esto?”
Abuela asked. “Man, did? All?” She was pointing at Angel’s wounds.
“Yes,” Angel said. A surge of shame rushed through her. Her fault. She should have seen this coming. Should have done something. Made her mom leave. Killed Scotty in his sleep. Run—
Tío interrupted her thoughts. “He will hurt everyone?” he asked, moving his eyes to include Matteo and Abuela.
“Yes,” Angel said, swallowing back tears.
Tío stood and left the room. Came back with a small rifle and put it on the floor next to him as he sat.
Angel pitied him. Next to Scotty’s high-powered rifles with scopes, Tío’s gun was a toy.
Matteo’s eyes had widened. “So I’ll get her out of here,” he said, pushing up from the table. “Out the back. Off the road. Be at Ramón’s in fifteen minutes.”
“And if Ramón’s not home?” Tío was shaking his head. “If this man sees you and does something?… Sit.”
“La iglesia,”
Abuela said. “Church. All.”
Matteo snorted again. Angel grimaced. It was too late for church years ago. Tío narrowed his eyes at Abuela, as if that would help him see what she was thinking.
“Church,” Abuela repeated.
“Tan pronto a que vuelve Celina.”
Angel looked to Tío.
“Soon Celina come, we all go to church,” he said, picking up the rifle and standing.
8
When the elderly Ford sedan rattled into the drive, Abuela hobbled out the front door followed by Tío, then Angel, then Matteo. Tío carried the rifle inconspicuously at his side. The young woman driving looked surprised and started to open her door, but Abuela shook her head, made her way to the passenger side, and climbed in front. Tío opened the rear door and crawled in first. Angel and Matteo followed.
“Church,” Tío said.
“A la iglesia, ahorita.”
“What … who—”
“
¡Ándale, Celina!
Now!”
While the car rolled back onto Dillon Road, the passengers scanned both directions looking for the camo pickup. The two-lane and the surrounding desert flats appeared empty. They missed the vehicle tucked behind mesquite three hundred yards west, missed the brief glint of raised binoculars.
* * *
W
HILE
C
ELINA DROVE TOWARD
H
OT
S
PRINGS
, Angel looked for landmarks in case she had to flee the car.
Right.
The desert flats were crisscrossed by hundreds of identical shallow washes cut by runoff from the rare thunderstorms. Houses were farther apart than she remembered. There were no stores, no businesses, and the miles sped by with numbing sameness.
* * *
C
HURCH
. This was the old woman’s idea of a plan? Angel only went along because she thought there might be a phone to call police or a chance to run again without Scotty seeing her. Angel had never given religion much thought, but it wasn’t like God or prayer had ever helped anything. If there was a god, he was for other people. Scotty was an ugly man. Maybe worse, but similar to several men her mom had hooked up with. Not the devil. There was nothing supernatural in Angel’s world. Nothing was to blame for her mother’s death but persistent stupidity. Angel tried to stay with her anger but she missed her mom with an ache that not even rage could cover. She coughed to stifle an involuntary sob.
After several minutes Celina made a right on a dirt road at the edge of town and skirted the settlement until she reached a whitewashed adobe building with a square steeple. In front, a weathered wooden sign said
SANTUARIO DE LA VIRGEN DE GUADALUPE.
The gravel parking lot was full of dusty cars and dented pickups. Angel could see families climbing the short steps to an open front door, the older women in dark dresses and shawls, the men in white shirts with cowboy hats or baseball caps.
Abuela drew a scarf out of her bag, put it on, and handed one to Celina. Tío and Matteo wore button shirts and straw hats. Though her jeans would blend in, Angel had nothing large enough to cover her short blond hair. She hated to stand out in a crowd but this was such a dumb idea anyway, it could hardly get any worse.
Once inside she followed Tío to a rough pew in a row near the back, far from the altar. Abuela stayed at the door talking with Celina and several other women. A middle-aged man in a black shirt and white collar stood by the pulpit talking with a young couple holding a baby. Angel closed her eyes and listened to the soft buzz of conversation in the room. Sanctuary. She took a deep breath and enjoyed a rare moment of safety. Scotty would never come in here.
She must have dozed. When someone jostled her awake, she saw the priest and the young couple had now been joined by four gray-haired people. She imagined they were discussing a thing for the baby, a christening, probably. Jostled again, she turned to find Abuela shaking her shoulder.
“Put.
Esta camisa
.” The old woman held out a large white snap-button cowboy shirt. A stocky square-faced man standing in a T-shirt beside Abuela looked like he might have just taken it off.
Angel looked at Abuela to see if she meant it. The old woman poked the shirt at her again and the stocky man nodded. Angel felt a wave of dizziness. This was crazy. Did she have to wear white for this church or were they giving her clothes like she was a homeless person? Angel didn’t want a scene. She began to take off her jacket.
Abuela stopped her. “No …
encima
.”
“Over,” the man said. “Leave your jacket.”
Angel gave up trying to make sense of this and pulled on the garment. Like wearing a sheet. She rolled the sleeves up to hand level.
A boy came up behind Abuela and handed her some khaki pants.
Abuela reached them to Angel.
“Pantalones.”
Angel couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She braced against the idea and looked around to see who was watching. Though she was in a crowd, everyone including Tío and Matteo was staring straight ahead. What the—
“
Ahorita.
Now!” Abuela’s face was grim as she pushed the khakis at the girl.
Was this a punishment? Angel fought an impulse to run. She glanced at the front door and noticed Tío and Matteo had moved and were now walking down the center aisle toward the front. Their hats, which they’d left behind on the pew beside Angel, were quickly picked up and carried away by the young man who’d delivered the pants. Angel watched as Tío chose a pew down front, sat next to an older man, and began taking off his shirt. She looked for Matteo but couldn’t spot him.
Changing clothes.
She finally got it.
After she’d tugged the pants over her jeans, Abuela held out her hand.
“Zapatos.”
Angel thought she understood. “Shoes?”
Abuela nodded and handed her some black cowboy boots that looked two or three sizes too large.
“Over?” Angel asked.
Abuela shook her head.
While Angel slipped off the tennies, the young man returned, bringing Abuela a bright turquoise T-shirt and navy blue slacks. The old woman took the clothes and handed him the shoes Angel had taken off. “Panama,” she told the boy.
“¿Qué?”
“Sombrero,”
Abuela said, pointing at Angel and shooing him away.
Angel looked for Celina but couldn’t find her. Abuela walked to the back of the church to change. The young man brought the straw cowboy hat and offered it to Angel. When she put it on she smiled in spite of herself. If she kept the brim tilted down, from a distance she would look like a short, heavy Mexican rancher.
Abuela didn’t return, and Angel sat beside the stocky older man who had donned a black sport coat that was too small to button. In a way, it made him look younger. The short-brimmed Stetson he’d worn earlier was missing. Angel wondered if he’d given it to Matteo. Someone tapped Angel on the back. She froze.
“When it’s over, you go with him.” Celina’s voice.
Angel quarter turned. Now Celina had a dark red denim jacket over a brown skirt, a matching bandanna tied around her hair.
“Him,” Celina repeated, nodding toward the stocky man. “Ramón. He take you away.”
“Okay,” Angel said. “Thanks.” But when she turned around again, Celina was gone. Was that Abuela standing at the back in a baseball cap?
At the end of the brief service, Ramón took Angel’s arm and put it through the arm of a plump woman in a dark shawl. “Together,” he said, and took the woman’s other arm. The three of them walked out with the crowd and made their way to a maroon crew-cab with livestock rails. “Get in back.”
Angel had kept her head down the entire walk, but once inside she scanned the parking lot. Scotty’s pickup sat just inside the entrance, facing the line of departing traffic. He could see each car.
“Get on the floor,” Ramón told her.
No way Scotty could keep track of everyone leaving the church and know how many people were in each vehicle. He wouldn’t be able to recognize Abuela’s family dressed differently. But the car? Before she knelt she looked at Celina’s Ford. It was empty, by itself now, at the far side of the lot. No one was walking toward it.
9
Ramón’s house was on a paved lane heading south off Dillon Road, not far from Abuela’s. It sat in a thin grove of trees and ocotillo among different smaller cactus that made a garden of sorts. A climbing rose followed a trellis over the front door. The outside wood was painted a celery green and the door and windows were trimmed in white. A home. A real home. Angel couldn’t stop looking.
“Stay in till I check,” Ramón told her, walking around the truck to help the plump woman get down from the cab.