“Okay. We can do it together.”
That sounded nice, Jean thought. “Faith, will you take these in to the table?” She motioned to the platter of lamb already sliced, the gravy bowl and mashed potatoes.
Faith made several trips and then asked, “Where’s the mint jelly?”
“Look left.”
Faith picked it up. “It wiggles when I walk.”
Father and son crouched on the Mexican tile floor just beside the table, Forrie sitting cross-legged.
“Got the candles?”
“Yup.”
Forrest pulled out two wooden utility matches from a box with a sliding cover. “I’m going to strike the match and when it’s lit, you take it and light a candle. I’ll do one match for each candle.”
With his little finger he felt for the rough grout between tiles, struck the match on it and held it aloft. “D’I get it?”
“Yup.” Forrie took it from him at the base and lit the candle in front of him on the floor, then blew out the match. “Okay.”
They did it again. Forrie took hold of both candles at their silver bases at the same time as he uncrossed his legs to stand up and put the candles on the table. He lost his balance and tipped to one side, not noticing a flame touch the fringe on the tablecloth. He centered both candles evenly on the oval table, studying to get them just right. Faith came in with a bowl of corn. “That’s where I was going to put this.”
“But we have to have the candles even.”
“Move it, Forrie.”
“No. Put that somewhere else.”
“Just move everything closer so there’s room,” Jean said. She heard them adjust the bowls. The candles smelled funny. “Everything okay, Forrie?”
“Yup.” Then she heard a gasp. “Mom, Pop, the tablecloth’s burning.”
“Where? How much?” Forrest asked.
The children could only stammer vague replies.
“Forrie. Take the candles,” Forrest ordered. “And the bowls. Got ’em?”
A hesitant “yes” came from both children. Forrest didn’t wait. He grabbed the cloth and whisked it away with a magician’s gesture, only most of the dinner was still on the table. Dishes and lamb and gravy and mint jelly clattered to the floor. Instantly Forrest rolled up the flaming tablecloth, raced through the kitchen, out the utility room door and dropped it on the gravel.
Four children stood immobile, looking at their special dinner spread in a devastation of broken plates and splashed gravy over the tiles. There was a shocked silence; then all four exploded into tears. “It’s my fault,” Forrie wailed. “Again.” He rushed at Jean and buried his face in her waist.
After a lengthy cleanup with everyone helping, Jean opened three cans of spaghetti. They sat in the kitchenette, all the gloom descending again. Jean slid in beside Forrest. He reached out to each side for someone’s hand, signal for grace. Jean squeezed his hand but he shifted and pulled back, then offered it again. He must have gotten burned. She touched his hand more gingerly. “Start us off, Billy.”
“God is great and God is good
And we thank him for this food.
By his hand we all are fed.
Give us, Lord, our daily bread.”
For a while all Jean heard was the clink of silver against plate, Billy gulping his milk and George screeching, “O-oh, say can you see.”
Perhaps Forrest had acted too quickly, but it was true—neither of them could tell how fast it was spreading. After a while she said, “It could have been much worse. Your father did the right thing.”
Jean and Forrest struggled through the next week, trying to rouse the children’s spirits, encouraged by the touch of each other’s hand or a quiet word whispered in passing. Mutual loss bound them tighter. On Friday Forrest asked, “Anybody want to go to Mexico with Betty and Warren tomorrow?”
“Yeah, me!”
“Me, too. Yippee!” All four chorused their approval.
The route to the U.S. border town of Calexico went across mountains studded with huge rocks, then down into the low desert where population was sparse. The American Canal outlined the edge of the desert, and fields of cantaloupes, lettuce and flax grew in irrigated rows.
“Lookie, lookie,” Billy said, sitting on Forrest’s lap in the back seat of Warren’s crowded Dodge.
“What d’ya see?” There was Forrest at it again. He never missed an opportunity to get someone to describe things, especially non-communicative Billy.
“A big machine.”
“What’s it doing?”
“Smoking,” said Billy.
“It smells like a cotton gin,” said Jean. “We found one here the last time we came.”
After a while the smell changed. “We passing some alfalfa now?” asked Forrest.
“I love it,” Jean said, breathing in. “It smells so fresh.”
Then there came pungent animal smells.
“I can tell what this is.” Forrest chuckled.
“Cows, hundreds of ’em, all bunched up together.” Billy was unusually talkative.
“Must be feed lots where they fatten them up just before slaughtering them. What kind of cows?”
“Dunno.”
“What color?”
“Reddish brown with white spots.”
“They’re probably Herefords. Are they Herefords, Warren?”
“No, more like Durhams. They’ve got more roan.”
“What else d’ya see, Billy?”
“Horses.”
The word clanged against the windshield. Forrest’s effort backfired. Jean felt sure all the children had their noses glued to the windows looking, saddened and wistful, at every horse they had passed. They’d have to begin saving money to replace them. Honeybunch and Skippy had brought too much joy. The vacancy they left carved too deeply not to have horses again. Jean tried to redirect their thought.
“Faith, read me every sign you see. That’ll be your job.”
“For sale. Fresh eggs.”
“What else?”
“Roder—Roderigo’s Garage.”
“It’s bright orange,” said Betty from the front seat.
“U.S.-Mexico border, 3 miles.”
The group of eight stayed at the De Anza Hotel where, from the wrought iron railing on the balcony, the children could see the medley of red, turquoise and passionate pink plaster buildings which was Mexico. After they got settled, they made their way across the line to Mexicali, really only across a raggedy street, to the incongruous Shangri-La Chinese Restaurant where George Wong remembered them from times before. “Missa Holly, Missy Holly, good to see you. Come in, come in. I fix barbeque pork, your favorite. Sit here.” After lunch George Wong gave them change in centavos. Forrest gave a handful to each child, a fortune in 1955 Mexican buying power.
They walked along the uneven sidewalk, raised two or three steps from the street, and ate the sweet, finger-sized Mexican red bananas. Out of one doorway came the rich musty smell of rawhide. “Must be a leather shop,” said Jean.
“Forrie, what’s in there?” Forrest asked.
“Boots, saddles, belts, whips.”
He asked at practically every doorway where there were voices or Mexican music blaring from a radio. When a child hesitated or just said, “Stuff,” that would set Forrest off. The next store was a “just stuff” store.
“Let’s go in.” The whole family trooped in, Forrest and Jean careful to follow right behind the child leading them through the narrow aisles piled with all sorts of items, some hand-made in Mexico, some from Japan. Forrie found a mechanized charging bull that won his heart. Once outside the store, Forrest stopped on the sidewalk. “Tell me everything you saw, Forrie,” he said.
“Tubes to catch your fingers in.”
“Made of what?”
“Straw.”
“What else?”
“Bull banks with flowers painted on. Puppets.”
“Is that all?”
“Mmm.” Forrie faltered.
“Not enough. Let’s go back. Look more carefully this time.” Jean waited with Betty while the others made the route through the store the second time and came back to the street. “Turn around,” Forrest said. “Now tell me everything.”
“Watches, little cameras, baskets, big paper flowers.”
“What else?”
“Lanterns, wooden clacky things for your hands and those round things you shake to make music, turquoise jewelry, radios, big hats.”
“Much better. Let’s trade. Faithy, where are you?”
“Here.”
They walked on and did another store. At the next doorway mariachis with guitars wailed a soulful love song on a scratchy radio. Forrest stopped. “What’s here?”
Faith whined, but said no words. Behind them Forrie let out a quick, naughty, little boy laugh.
“Tell me. What’s in that door?”
Faith still didn’t answer.
“Is it a bar?” Jean whispered to Betty.
“Yes,” Betty whispered back.
“Po-op.”
“Tell me.”
Faith pulled at her father’s arm to draw his face toward hers. “I think it’s a bad place.”
From the rear, Forrie and Billy screamed their laughter. “Oops,” Forrest said and walked on, humming the Mexican song.
Jean felt more relaxed and happy than she had all week. Forrie bought a rubber dagger, Faith a Mexican doll, Billy a bamboo rattlesnake, Hap a rubber tarantula—wondrous treasures that filled their minds and broke their somberness. Temporarily.
Chapter Thirty-three
Billy came through the gate into the patio, scraping a stick along the adobe wall. He felt restless. There was nothing to do.
“Hi, Pop.” Identifying himself was automatic.
“Hey, hey, Billy. Where ya been?”
“Walking around. T’the cemetery.”
“What have ya’ been doing?”
“Watching a celebration.” He traced the mortar between the adobes with his stick.
“Pretty soon you can take a real ride.”
“Ride what?”
“Horses, of course.”
“Only Faith does that. What a turtlebrain—pretending a hunk of stone’s a horse.”
“I don’t mean a hunk of stone.”
Billy stopped scraping the stick and looked at his father. It was nearly two years since Honeybunch and Skippy died. He thought Pop had forgotten about horses.
“Next week we’re getting two new horses and a pony.”
“All at once?” It was hard to believe.
“We got to have that many. Otherwise, how would we all go into town together to Riley’s?”
“Do you mean it, Pop?”
“Course I mean it. And the pony is just your size.”
The next weekend the horses were delivered in a big truck. Faith and Forrie jumped around like crazy but Billy watched from the top rail of the corral fence. When the driver led the first one out of the truck, Forrest felt him all over in order to get acquainted. “This one’s Macginty, a thoroughbred,” he told them. The horse was a palomino with a golden coat and white mane. “You can run like the wind, can’t ya, big guy?” Forrest turned to stroke Macginty’s neck. “Remember our little ride last week?” Jody was a chestnut quarter horse and Tony was a black Shetland pony. Forrest explored them, too, talking to them and stroking them. Then he led them into the corral with Mort. Billy didn’t say anything, just watched from the fence, but Forrie and Faith petted each one, jabbering like parrots.
When spring came, the whole family rode the four horses into town to Riley’s Cafe. Forrest rode with Hap on Mac, and Faith and Forrie rode together on Jody. That left Mort for Mom and Tony Pony for Billy.
On the way back Billy trailed along behind, unable to manage the feisty Shetland. “I only hear two of you. Who’s missing?” Forrest asked.
“Billy,” Faith said. “As usual.”
“Get Tony on up here. He’s holding us all up,” Forrest called back.
“I can’t.”
“You can, too. Just set your mind to it.”
Tony had stopped to eat grass. Billy kicked him, but he kept on eating. “I can’t make him move.”
“Yes, you can. You do what you got to do, just like anyone else in this world.”
When Tony finally got going, it was off to the side, not following the others. Billy yanked on the reins, trying to steer the horse’s head right, but it didn’t work. “He won’t do anything I want him to,” Billy grumbled. It was hot and Billy was sweaty. Tony lurched forward from time to time, always when Billy was unready for it. “Dumb horse,” he muttered and kicked Tony again, harder. He didn’t want Pop to get any madder. It didn’t make any difference. It was just like kicking a log you were straddling. Everybody knows you can’t get a log to move.
“Maybe you’re not kicking him hard enough. Show him who’s boss, Billy.”
That’s just it, he thought. Tony is.
Billy yanked and kicked and waited. He couldn’t help what Tony did. He hated it when Pop yelled, but he hated riding Tony even more. He pulled on the reins and held them in and kicked again, his eyes blurry with frustration all the way home. Just inside the fence, he slid off Tony and let him go into the pasture, saddle and all. Then he wandered out to the highway. He kicked a pebble around but that wasn’t any fun, so he kept walking out toward Indian Rock. Looking for arrowheads there was boring—he never found any, only Faith and Forrie did—so he just sat down on the rock and stared, a sick feeling rumbling in his stomach.
He knew he’d done wrong by just leaving Tony without even letting Pop know. Or leaving Pop too, for that matter. When Pop would talk to him or ask him something, and he wouldn’t be there to answer, Pop would get mad. And now, when Pop would find out he just let Tony go, he’d get mad all over again, only worse. Billy picked up a twig and bent it back and forth until it broke. He did it again with the pieces, then threw them into the greasewood bushes. Pop would be waiting for him when he got back, standing there like he always did, his head facing straight ahead, his eyes blinking. Putting it off would only make it worse. He stood up and squinted into the sun.
When he got back, Pop was standing by the corral gate, right where he knew he would be, just as if Pop knew exactly when he’d be coming home. He could try to be quiet, but what was the use? It’d happen eventually. He scuffed and dragged his boots in the dirt even though he knew Pop didn’t like dust raised on purpose.
“What were you thinking of, going off by yourself and letting Tony go? What’s got into you?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t you sass me. Why’d you do it?” Billy didn’t even want to talk. “Look at me.”
Dumb thing for him to say, Billy thought, but he did as he was told anyway. Pop was scowling.