Authors: Juan Pastor
tangled
vines, and into a cave in the side of a hill. He takes off
his hat, lays it upside down on his seat. He takes off the
bandana and places it in the dome of the hat. I pull the red
bandana down around my neck.
He
comes around to my side of the jeep and helps me
out. Surprisingly, it does not hurt as much as when he’d
helped me in.
He
leads me through a little passageway into another
much larger cave. The cave has bats clinging to the ceiling. A
spider, very light‐colored, scurries across one of the walls,
looking as if it is moving sideways. The larger cave has many
other passageways leading to it. We choose the one filled with
water.
“Watch where I step very carefully.” He says. “It might
be
a good idea if you took off your shoes.”
I sit down and start to unlace my boots. It is cool in the
I
am about to faint.
“Let me help you.” The cowboy says. “Just relax.
You’re
safe now. There’s no need to hurry.”
He unlaces the boot, and with some effort manages to
pull
it off.
“Whew!” He says. “I haven’t smelled anything that bad
in
some time.”
“I’ve been wearing them for days now.” I say. “Lo
siento.”
“No need to apologize.”
He helps me off with the other boot. Then he removes
a
sock. There is another sock under it.
“Smart girl.” He says. “Most people don’t even think of
that.”
He removes both pairs of socks.
“Your feet smell awful, but they look pretty good
He
helps me to my feet. The water looks very deep, but
when he takes his first step, it is onto something submerged
just below the surface. Then again, and again, until we are
across the water. Another chamber. Another passageway.
Then what looks to be his living quarters. Light filters in from a
vertical chamber overhead. There is furniture, though crude.
The room feels comfortable, not cold and damp, nor too
stuffy. He points to another passage.
“I never asked you your name.” I say.
“El hombre sin nombre.” He says. “But you can call me
Sin.”
“Uh Huh.” I say. "You fought in the Civil War. Now
you're
out to find the men that shot you and left you for dead?
You squint a lot because the sun hurts your eyes, you talk little
because you let your six shooter do the talking."
"Something like that." He says.
"I saw you in a movie." I say. "You were a lot
handsomer
when you were younger."
He
smiles
his
squinty
smile.
He
points
to
the
passageway
again. Then he disappears into another passage.
When I enter the passage he’s intended for me, there is
a
large pool. The room is full of perfectly clear crystals, some
looking like swords or spears, and some larger than I. Water
flows from a crevasse in the wall into the pool, and a fine
steamy mist arises from the pool. I look back out the passage.
I undress, folding my clothes into a neat pile. I don’t know
why. Out of habit? I am a maid. I step into the pool. I am deep
enough to sit down in it. I rest the back of my head against the
rock ledge.
“Are
you okay in there?” I hear his voice. “You’ve been
in there an hour now.”
“That long?”
“Yes.” He says. “There’s a plastic bag to put your old
clothes in. There are a couple of clean towels. There are some
clothes for you to put on. I think they’ll fit. There is also a tin of
salve that I want you to put on your wounds. But I want you to
stay in the water until the wounds turn white. The water will
bleach and disinfect all the dead tissue. Then dry the wounds
as well as you can before you put the salve on.”
“Where did you get the medicine?” I ask.
“I made it.”
“You made it?”
“Yes. I made it. I’m a doctor, remember?”
“What did you make the medicine from?” I ask.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” He says.
“Try me.”
“From snottites.” He says, I think.
“Snottites?”
“Yes. Snottites.”
“What are snottites?” I ask.
“Piles of snot I find in the caves. Aren’t you glad you
asked. You know how stalactites and stalagmites form in
caves? Stalactites are speleothems that form in caves, like
icicles. Stalagmites are spires that form on cave floors from
the drippage of stalactites. There are speleothems called
draperies, flowstones and columns. But all of these are hard,
like rock, because they’re made up of calcium bicarbonate
turned into calcium carbonate.”
“So what are snottites?” I ask again.
“Soft drippages from the ceilings of caves. I guess you
could call the soft deposits on cave floors snotmites.”
“But what are they exactly?” I ask.
“Colonies of single celled extremophilic bacteria.” He
says.
“So you want me to put bacterial nasal mucous that
you found in caves on my wounds?”
“I’m insisting on it.” He says.
I
come out of the room of the sauna pool all dressed.
The denims are tight on my hips and butt, but so long I had to
roll
them up several rolls. The shirt is much too big, especially
at the shoulders, and the sleeves so long I have to roll them up
also.
The
cowboy… I’ve got to remember to call him Sin…
laughs.
“You Latina girls sure are blessed by the creator in the
booty department. But He forgot to stretch you out
lengthwise a little bit, didn’t He?”
“Ha‐ha. Are these your clothes? You don’t have much
of a butt at all, do you?”
“Did you put the salve on your wounds?” He asks.
“Yes.”
“Let me see.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
He lifts the shirttails and examines the wounds and the
application of his salve.
“Very good.” He says. “Would you like something to
eat?”
“When the wounds heal, what will they look like?” I
ask. “Will they be ugly?”
“I suppose that depends on who you let look at them.”
He says. “They’ll either look like little belly buttons or small
circular burn scars. Or they may look like nothing at all. What
we have to do now is make sure they don’t get infected.
Fortunately the bullet passed through skin and adipose tissue.
If a bullet passes through body tissue, those are the two best
tissues for it to pass through. And it looks like it was a smaller
caliber bullet, probably .223, that was full metal jacketed. If it
was a bigger diameter bullet, and one that expanded or
disintegrated on contact, it would have done a lot more
damage. The good thing about a bullet fired from a gun is that
it is sterile from the heat of the burning gunpowder. Even if
there were bacteria all over it from handling, all the bacteria
were exterminated when it was fired.”
“What is adipose tissue?”
“Fat.” He says. “You ever wonder why Latina and black
women often have bigger buttocks, thighs, and hips?”
“Because we do more work, and the muscles get
bigger?”
“And why do you have bigger boobs? Because you do
more work?”
“I don’t know, because we have more children?”
“It’s all adipose
tissue.” He says. “There’s also
mesenteric adipose tissue that cushions the organs and
subcutaneous adipose tissue that houses thousands of small
blood vessels. It all has to do with how living systems have
evolved to handle extreme stress. Adipose tissue is kind of like
the body’s way of insuring its survival during periods of stress.
Some peoples’ bodies have had more training in it than others,
over time.”
“I wish Rosaria was here.”
Sin remains quiet.
“She wanted to learn all this.”
“She wanted to be a doctor?” He asks.
“Yes.”
“Maybe you can become a doctor someday.” Sin says.
“You already know more about trauma than most doctors will
ever know.”
“Si los deseos fueran caballos (If wishes were horses).”
I say.
to
me. One is some type of salad. He eats it with no dressing at
all. I douse mine liberally.
“What is this?” I ask, holding up a piece of meat that
looks a little like a chicken thigh.
“Gambel’s quail. Try it. It’s better than chicken.”
I try it. It is tastier than chicken. Tougher too.
“And what are these?” I ask.
“Why don’t you just eat, and see if you can figure out?”
Sin asks.
“Well, they are beans. But, wow, they are the best
beans I’ve ever had. They have kind of a nutty‐sweet taste.”
“Congratulations.” Sin says. “You’re now an honorary
bean‐eater.”
“Sticks and stones may break my bones. And bullets
may pass through me.” I add “But words will never hurt me.”
“God, Central Americans sure are sensitive.” Sin says. “I
wasn’t implying you are a Mexican. You can call me a Gringo all
you want. I couldn’t care less.”
“Okay. I’ll guess. They’re Tepary beans.”
“I’ll be damned.” Sin says. “Yes they are.”
“I’ve heard of these. Native Papago lived for over 8000
years on these, and cactus and mesquite, almost exclusively,
and their systems adapted to this diet because it was actually
superior in nutritional content. Now that native peoples have
turned to Western foods diabetes has become a scourge.”
“Before I’m done with you, we will eat deer, bighorn
sheep, rabbits, and snakes. And my favorite, nice fat Gila
Monster tails. And we’ll try every form of fruit, seed, root and
pulp that the Sonora has to offer.”
“Are you planning on keeping me here forever?”
“Only until you’re ready to go.” Sin says.
His answer throws me. Because I hadn’t really thought
much about where I might “go” since the shooting. Would I,
should I, go home to Guatemala, or still try to enter the United
States? Sin notices my disoriented state of mind.
“Where you go, and when, is up to you.” He says. “But
I really hate to see someone give up on a dream. Rosaria is
dead by staying faithful to that dream. I think she would want
you to realize it for her. Oh God, please don’t cry. Jesus, I hate
it when women cry.”
“I’m sorry.” I sob. “I can’t help it.”
“I’ll tell you what. When you are healed, you decide
then. If you want to go home to Guatemala, I will personally
take you there. If you want to get into the US, I will take you
there. And I promise I will not desert you in the desert, like the
coyotes did. It makes me want to puke to call them coyotes.
Coyotes have more honor than they do. They should be called
vultures.”
“Why are you doing this?” I ask. "How did you even
know I was in the desert?
“You inspire me, and vultures.” He says. “Let’s drop
this for now. Would you like to try some pickled quail eggs,
and some of my home‐made beer?”
“Sure. I guess.” I say, while wiping my eyes with the
back of my hand.
He gets out the pepper jar with the greenish brine,
unscrews the cap, and fishes out an egg with his fingers. He
goes to an old refrigerator, grabs two brown bottles, holds
the top of each bottle near the edge of the sink, and pops the
caps off with a downward slap. When he hands me a bottle, I
notice a handmade label with what looks like a valentine next
to a fist.
“Heartpunch Beer.” The label reads.
“Got the recipe from an old college friend who used to
brew this himself.” He says. “He’s gone now. Died one
Christmas day, along with his wife, going to see family. This is
my way of keeping his memory alive.”
Sin pries out an egg for himself, places it daintily in his
mouth with his thumb and forefinger, and begins to chew. I
look at his long gray hair, pulled back in a pony tail. He has a
few days, maybe a few weeks of whisker growth on his face.
His eyes are penetrating, yet kind. He smiles. The green,
yellow, and white chunks of chewed up egg are all over his
teeth. Some bits of it drop on the table. He looks so
disgustingly unhandsome. But then he looks like Jesus might
have looked had he lived to 60, had a hard life, did a lot of
drugs, but was looking for one more soul to save.