The Milagro Beanfield War (29 page)

But then, too, there was this thing in Bloom: at heart, and especially today after that tête-à-tête with Bruno Martínez, the lawyer did not want to commit himself to these hostile, impervious old people; he had no desire to carve some kind of niche for himself on the state police shit list because of their dead houses and their pathetic abandoned beanfields.

But he was willing to do it anyway, and he really did not understand why. He was simply caught, trapped, wishy-washy, doomed.

Apologizing for his bad grammar, Bloom began to speak in Spanish, knowing even as he did so that his Spanish was much more formal and correct and classical than their own; knowing also that he could read books and newspapers in Spanish, and write letters in that language, whereas most of them could not; they were illiterate in Spanish as well as in English; very few had progressed as far as the fifth or sixth grade.

Ruby Archuleta and her son Eliu, Ricardo Córdova, and Tranquilino Jeantete held up the maps while he spoke. Tracing the conservancy district boundaries, the lawyer showed where the dam would be constructed, and then ran down who owned each piece of land within the district. He repeated himself, talking slowly, trying to make a very confusing thing simple and clear. He tried to make them understand technically what they all knew instinctively, that they were going to be taxed heavily for water which would be used mostly by a very few people, and those people would by and large be connected with the Devine empire.

Leaving the maps, then, Bloom talked about the history of the north, about land grants and how they had been lost, strayed, or stolen, divvied up. He named thieves and quoted statistics, working hard to relate what he knew of the far past and the near past to the present. He spoke of sociological trends in Chamisa County, in the entire United States. He ran down for them a history of other conservancy districts in the state which had effectively destroyed subsistence farmers by forcing them into cash economies where they could not compete. He did everything possible to probe and expose the hypocritical rhetoric surrounding the Indian Creek Dam—the state engineer's pronouncement, for example, that it was “the only way to save a dying culture.” He tried to demonstrate how the conservancy district and the dam was just one more component of the economic and sociological machinery which for a long time had been driving local small farmers off their land and out of Chamisa County. He quoted figures about per capita income and median incomes; he outlined what the real costs of the dam could balloon into, and broke those costs down to an amount per acre, per year, per person, regardless of that person's wealth. He explained how the proposed Ladd Devine Miracle Valley project would drive their land values sky high, and what that would do to their taxes. He told them that when middle-class or wealthy people from other states bought expensive vacation homes up in the canyon or around the golf course on the subdivided west side, they would want a school for their children, sewage systems, a cleaner water supply, and for that
all
the people of Milagro would have to pay. And once the ski valley was completed there would be pressure to raise taxes for a better road up to it. And Bloom did his best to question the myth that this development would bring wealth to every inhabitant, and jobs and security for all. For forty years, in Chamisa County, there had been a tourist boom: and yet most of the profits went into a few pockets at the top. Skilled construction workers and technicians were always brought in from outside. For the poor and the rural people little had changed, except that in taking service jobs for low wages they no longer had the time to work their land, and so had often wound up selling it, only to discover themselves poorer than before, with not even the security of their own land and a home on it to take the sting out of a poverty as bitter as Chamisa tea.

“In 1950 this county was 85 percent Spanish-surnamed people,” Bloom said quietly. “Now it's only 60 percent Spanish-surnamed and declining fast. In 1950 the per capita income was eight hundred and seventy dollars a year; now it's one thousand two hundred and eighty dollars, but that increase isn't because people are making more money, it's largely because of inflation. Actually, everyone, all the rural people, are a little poorer than before in spite of the tourist boom these past fifteen or twenty years…”

In the end he petered out. Their faces, perhaps paying close attention, perhaps not, never seemed to change. He couldn't tell if he was making a point, helping to explain the specific workings of what they already understood all too well in general, or if he was talking to seventy-five or a hundred walls. Judging from their expressions it occasionally seemed as if they heartily mistrusted him and hardly believed a word he was saying. Then he picked up on hostility: they were thinking, he thought, What right does this smart aleck have to come in and tell us what is happening, and what is going to happen, to our lives?

He stopped.

“Hay preguntas? Yo puedo tratar a explicarles qualquiera cosa que tal vez no entienden.”

There were no questions. Incredibly, after an hour of talking, there were no questions. People shifted, coughed, did not take their eyes off him, but still seemed not to respond. He hadn't even made a dent. Embarrassed, hating them, and hating himself for getting into this thing, for butting into their affairs, for daring to think he had any answers (let alone the courage of his convictions) after only a few years in their town, Bloom sat down, thoroughly ashamed.

After thanking him, Ruby Archuleta asked, “Who wants to speak?”

Tobías Arguello creaked erect. “We are a peaceful people,” he said, his voice trembling. “We don't play the Anglos in their own game because they are possessed by the devil. I have a gun, but I use it only to hunt for food. I detest violence. I don't want no more Smokey the Bear santo riots. I'm also a good American. I fought for my country in the First World War. I love being an American, and I am proud. I think maybe if we are violent, we are un-American. I am a man of peace. So we should be peaceful. If we don't watch out, Snuffy Ledoux will come back and start another riot. Thank you.”

Sparky Pacheco stood up and, hat in hand, nervously croaked, “These goddamn Anglo bastards like the Zopilote will steal our land and everything else, our babies, and our tractors, and even—please excuse me—our testicles if we don't say ‘Stop!' I for one hope Snuffy Ledoux comes back to start another Smokey the Bear santo riot!”

A smattering of voices croaked feebly:
“Que viva Snuffy!”

Another old man said, “The gabachos, and especially their lawyers, are always deceiving us. They are full of lies.”

And, a little stronger this time:
“Que viva Snuffy!”

Panky Mondragón growled ferociously: “We deceive ourselves. We're full of our own hypocrisy and lies. For years we have stolen our land from each other and from the Indians. Men are men and women are women, to hell with the colors and languages. Charity begins at home.”

A woman, Lilian Chávez, said shyly: “I am ashamed of Nick Rael and Eusebio Lavadie, and all the others who work with the Zopilote. They have betrayed my race. All the same, though, God forbid we should have another Smokey the Bear santo riot in this town.”

“Que viva Snuffy!”

“Wait a minute!” Onofre Martínez stammered excitedly, emotionally placing his only hand on Ray Gusdorf's shoulder. “This is my neighbor, and he is a gringo, not even a little bit coyote. But he's been in the valley as long as I remember, and I consider him to be of my people. And that white man over there who told us these things about the dam and the conservancy and showed us the maps, I consider him to be of my people, too, even though he is a lawyer, and even though he speaks a funny Anglo Spanish you can hardly understand. But I believe he at least tries to speak the truth, and a lawyer who does that should get a big gold medal to hang around his neck. I don't consider Nick Rael to be of my people, though, because he works against my interests, I think. He's too busy counting money to care about the people. So I don't believe this is a brown against white question. This is only one kind of people against another kind of people with different ideas. There are brown and white people on both sides. Remember, too, there are brown chotas as well as white chotas, and brown políticos as well as white políticos. People are people. My own son will roast in hell, I hope, for becoming a chota. The brown and white people on our side are better people because they are on the correct side, that's all. And if I am ashamed of Nick Rael it's only in the same way I am ashamed of Jimmy Hirsshorn and the Zopilote. If there was no Zopilote or Jimmy Hirsshorn, in their places would be a Mr. González and a Jimmy Pacheco, I think. And if I love my brother Tobías, it's only in the same manner I love my brother Ray, here, who is a good neighbor and a good human being, even if he isn't even part coyote. Let that be understood by everybody, please. And another thing: if Snuffy Ledoux comes back to start another Smokey the Bear statue riot, I'm gonna be the first to shake his hand. Que viva Snuffy!”

“Que viva Snuffy!”

And when he sat down, Onofre stared fixedly ahead, lips trembling—for he had spoken.

“Who else wants to speak?” Ruby asked.

“I wanna speak,” Joe's brother Cristóbal said. “I nominate my brother José to be president of the Milagro Land and Water Protection Association.”

Joe leaped up: “Oh no you don't, not me! I ain't no president!”

“You're the one with the beanfield!” Cristóbal shouted. “You started all this! If the state chotas stick a bullet in my ear, it's because of your pinche beanfield!”

“Bullshit! I didn't start nothing!
I
didn't call for this meeting!
I
didn't ask for nobody's help with my beanfield! What am I, crazy to ask for help from mental retards like you?”

“It's because he won't ask nobody to help him that he endangers us all!” Fred Quintana said.

Joe spluttered: “Oh Jesus Christ. If that's the way it's gonna be, as soon as this meeting is over I'm going to start up my tractor and drive it to the west side and plow up that beanfield and get all you people off my back!”

“You do, José,” his wife Nancy threatened, “and I'll shoot you! I'll put ant poison in your enchiladas!”

“Wait a minute!” Ruby cried. “Wait just a minute,
please
—”

“We should tie José up and throw him in a closet before he wrecks everything!” Seferino Pacheco bawled.

“That's
my
beanfield!” Joe howled. “That's my private
property!
Nobody here's got a right to tell me what to do with my property!”

“Well, we'll kill you if you plow under those beans!”
Sparky Pacheco fairly screamed.

There ensued a sudden silence as these words echoed in the church. By now, half the congregation was standing.

“Well…” Joe pouted, “I still ain't gonna be no president.”

“There wasn't even a motion on the floor to make ourselves an association,” Ruby soothed. “This is no time to vote for a president when there's nothing to be president of.”

“Why are we shouting at each other?” Tobías Arguello asked softly. “We should be peaceful.”

Panky Mondragón explained, “We're not shouting at each other anymore, so siddown.”

Tobías held his ground. “I got a right to speak. This is an open meeting—”

“But we're not shouting anymore,” Panky snarled. “So you can siddown. And besides, you're blocking my view.”

“When I'm ready to sit down, I'll sit down—”

“You siddown!” Panky shouted, waving a fist.
“We're not shouting anymore, dammit!”

Lilian Chávez asked, “How can we steal eggs from the Zopilote's nest when you idiots are fighting about who's shouting or not?”

And Onofre Martínez stood up again. “Outside, my evil son, the state chota, is having a good laugh because we're all growing donkey ears in here. Now you take me personally, I get sick to my stomach whenever that chota son of mine has a chuckle at my expense. So I'm sorry to say that if everybody doesn't shut up pretty soon and sit down, I'm gonna barf.”

For some reason, Onofre's attitude, tone of voice, words, or all three taken together did the trick. Muttering unhappily, everyone sat down, folded their hands in their laps, and returned their quiet, sullen (though pious) attention to the front.

“Alright,” Ruby Archuleta said calmly. “Does anyone wish to talk quietly and in turn, first about this Milagro Land and Water Protection Association, and second about electing leaders?”

Tranquilino Jeantete arose, taking forever to adjust his hearing aid and clear his throat. “These are probably good ideas but we should think about them and talk among ourselves for a while before deciding.”

The rest of the gathering nodded, murmured, stirred about, ready for fresh air.

“Alright,” Ruby said quietly, frowning warily. “Then I guess this meeting is over.”

“Que viva Snuffy!”
Sparky Pacheco cried, as everyone else got up to go.

*   *   *

In the evening, after the church meeting, Joe Mondragón finished eating supper and, with his six-year-old son Larry in tow and a basketball under one arm, he walked up the road to the elementary school basketball court at the foot of Capulin Hill.

Usually on summer evenings before dark there would be enough men and boys around for a game. But today only Benny Maestas and Jimmy Ortega, and Joe's twenty-eight-year-old cousin, Floyd Mondragón, were at the court laconically shooting baskets. After mumbling subdued hellos, Joe stood at the edge of the dirt court with Larry's hand tucked tightly into his own, reluctant to step out and begin. The sunset, rosy, orange, nacreous in spots, flecked with pastel blues and streaks of lavender and blood, reflected gorgeously in those few school windows not yet broken. From this vantage point slightly above town you could see uninterruptedly across the mercury-colored mesaland, pocked occasionally with juniper bushes, bisected by that thin dark crack of a gorge, and stretching westward for smooth, dusty-soft miles to the dim ice cream–mound mountains and buttes beyond which the sun was slowly floating into its kaleidoscopic oblivion. In the foreground, black silhouettes, the two boys and Joe's cousin, moved in a lazy kind of athletic ballet. In a drowsy, almost slow-motion way they dribbled once or twice, stuttered their bodies in that lovely, almost awkward, jerky syncopation peculiar to basketball players, and pumped, moving heads and shoulders in careless automatic fakes, then rose casually off their toes and shot, the ball leaving their delicately fluttering fingertips and hanging for a long time in the air like a black moon—