THE SECOND MILAGRO (n/a) Page 19

  Miguel thought he was going to be sick. Humiliation washed through him like a purgative. He and Tomas stared at each other. A sneer turned up the corner of Tomas’s mouth.

  Miguel’s passion turned to hate as he stared at the emerald. He was very familiar with it. Maxmillian had given it to his mother for a wedding present. She had worn it almost every day before he died. Tomas had evidently taken it away from Maria. And now he hung it around the neck of his lover.

  It was weeks before Miguel considered that he was wrong about Patricia.

  Poverty and jail awaited him in Mexico, so he stayed on in D.C., working for Tomas. He found a certain justice taking money from his hated half-brother and sending it to his friends, or in stashing it for his own return. It didn’t matter that he worked hard to earn it.

  He started out as a janitor in the Gallery, riding to work each day with Patricia. The trip always started in silence, but she would eventually break it. Every day she would question him about his life in Mexico, but he refused to answer, thinking she was probably reporting everything he said back to Tomas. Then he decided what better way to get Tomas to see things his way. The fervor of his convictions found a new audience.

  To his surprise, Patricia showed interest and understanding of the students’s movement. He poured out his ambitions, his disappointments, his history. Except for Dosey, she seemed to have no friends. She never volunteered anything about herself, but he was too self-centered, to immature, at the time to care.

  His friends accepted her as one of them. Laughter and his growing love for her softened the drudgery of living in his stepbrother’s world. He repented of his earlier thoughts about her and Tomas. She was shy, virginal. Tomas was exploiting her in the same way that Maximillion Morelos had Miguel’s mother. It was his duty, he told himself, to free her. He longed to make her his, only his.

  He began to look at Tomas without hate. His love for Patricia overshadowed all other thoughts, all other feelings. Except one: his allegiance to the cause in Mexico. It grew stronger, as if his desire for right in his homeland was at one with his desire for Patricia.

  He wanted to return to Mexico City, with her. He knew she loved him too. He was sure of it. For many nights they had parked on a hill above Great Falls, kissed and caressed each other. He could tell she was afraid. He wanted her to trust him, to want him.

  He had planned a special evening. It was time. To propose. To plan. To make love.

  The night took an ugly turn. His expectations were shattered. Not because she was not a virgin, no, not that, but what that revelation meant to him. For he now knew without a doubt that Tomas had been her lover after all. He was convinced. Her relationship with Tomas mocked him. He questioned her, demanded she tell him who her lover or lovers had been. She was silent, refusing to talk to him. Their turbulent affair lasted another month. She gave him her love time and again, asking often was that not enough, but he was tortured with visions of her and Tomas. He could not get her to tell him what he longed to know. Who had her lover been, if not Tomas?

  All his plans were shattered. Maximillion Morelos had stolen his mother from him and from her cause, had made Miguel a beggar in his own home, and now Tomas Morelos, the bastard’s son, had usurped him with Patricia.

  When she would not return with him to Mexico, he was convinced of her great guilt. In a blind rage he had deserted her.

  He was in prison when he learned Patricia married Tomas. He wanted to kill him. When he was released, it no longer seemed important. He was not even bothered that a simple, easy death, a heart attack, had at last taken Tomas. The thorn that did prick him was the knowledge that Tomas had been the winner. He had been married to Patricia all these years and she had had Tomas’s son. Nothing she could say now would change that.

  His muscles tightened around Patricia until he knew he must be hurting her. She said nothing, as if accepting some form of punishment. Is that what she thought he wanted, to punish her? Was that why he asked the question? It was he who deserved to be punished. And he had been for eighteen years. He no longer wanted to know the answers he had sought then. What purpose would they serve?

  If he was to have anything from her, it had to be in the future, not the past. He would not let Tomas take that from him, too, by dredging up those days and reliving them.

  He relaxed his muscles and Patricia felt herself go limp in his arms as if he had been holding her together.

  “Where shall I begin?” she asked, and snuggled into his shoulders, searching for answers in the stars overhead.

  “I changed my mind,” he said. “It does not matter. Not after all these years. You are in my arms now. That is enough.”

  “No,” she whispered. “It isn’t. I owe you the truth.” The story lay before her like the long cobblestone road outside Cedral. The end was beyond the horizon, but she was ready to start the journey.

  She took Miguel’s hand in hers, clasped his fingers as if to say, “Hang on.”

  She started at the beginning. Told him about her childhood, her mother’s death and going to live with the McFalls. When she got to her father and his awful deed, Miguel stiffened beneath her, but did not interrupt. She recalled her friendship with Dosey and the Mexican woman Carmina who worked for Tomas. Finally, she told him about the baby, her father’s child, and how Dosey and Carmina had delivered the baby boy who died.

  She braced herself for his reaction. He had alternately tightened his grip and caressed her as she had spoken. Now his silence filled the room and loomed up into the dark sky.

  “Why did you not tell me then?” he said finally, his voice flat. “You could have told me. I would have understood.”

  She held her breath. She couldn’t read his thoughts or anticipate his feelings.

  His arms laced around her, holding her to him. “Pobrecita, mi carino,” he said in a rush of pent-up breath. “What a terrible thing to happen to you. If, if I had only known.”

  He shifted her head so that his cheek touched hers. It was damp. She reached up and brushed her hand across his face.

  He cleared his throat. “It is all over now. You must think about the future. That was all finished there with the baby. You must forget about it.”

  She had forgotten. Memories of that child were lodged so deep in her subconscious that telling the story was like reading a book about someone else’s life.

  Miguel pulled her closer. “Now your thoughts must only be for getting your son Max home again. I will pledge my help to do this. A son needs his family. I can not imagine how terrible it is to lose a child since I have none.”

  His words were like the wind, so soft, yet with the power to bore deep into her soul. Max was his son, his family. How could she hold this truth from him? How could she tell him?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  October 1

  The sun had not yet topped the twin peaks of Friar Mountain, but rays shot upward from the “v” like so many arrows warning of its approach. A spiny green iguana swished its tail and stayed its place. A rat scurried into a cool, dark corner, shuffling dried palm fronds and stone shavings.

  Patricia stirred in her sleep.

  She was standing at the foot of an ancient Mayan pyramid. A boy was being carried up the high stone steps by a figure covered in silver scales. Indians dressed in brilliant feathers, blue jeans and miners’ hats danced on the steps. The boy turned his head, and she saw the face of her son Max. She watched the procession climb into the burning rays of the sun. The silver began to melt, run down, then fall away in drop-like coins. The dancers slowed their rhythmic movements, catching the drops of silver. The one that held her son moved on, carrying the sacrifice to the gods. Out of the midst of the dancers, scattered in their search for coins, she ran up the steps, stretching to reach Max. The silver figure turned. It was Miguel who held her son. Max pointed a finger at her and screamed, “I don’t know who you are!” She tried to tell him she would save him, but the heat drove against her face like a wind of fire, silencing her.
Miguel continued up the stairs, Max lying motionless in his arms.

  Patricia stretched her stiff limbs, scrapping dirt against the terrazzo. Her nightmare leapt full and threatening into daylight. Thoughts of where she was and why she was there crushed her. It was as if she had crawled beneath the stone slab floor.

  She had not even the luxury of a moment’s peace. At times in her life when she had gone to bed with things unsettled, she would awake with a vague knowledge of a problem. Just a gnawing realization. For a moment the forgotten worry would have no name. But not now. She wished she could stay huddled on the floor and not face the day, the truth, or Miguel.

  She had taken the coward’s way out the night before. Cuddled in Miguel’s arms, she had feigned sleep as she hosted the war within. When she had heard Miguel’s soft snores, she breathed a sigh of relief and gave herself up to the refuge of sleep. Now, she must face her turmoil again.

  The bed roll next to her was empty. She pushed herself up, holding the blanket against her naked body and grabbed her clothes where she had thrown them the night before. Dust mushroomed around her. She coughed and spat grit.

  Looking around for Miguel, she remembered that he had planned to go for help and another vehicle, something to take them on to Real.

  On the ledge of a window cased with ornately carved stone, a piece of paper reflected the sunlight. A small capped container of water weighted it against a nonexistent wind.

  “Buenos dias, Sleepyhead. Left early. Sun will heat water. Coffee in pack. Return soon. Love, Miguel.” She read the words aloud to the iguanas and scorpions. Memories of the night before staggered her and tears flowed unheeded. “Miguel, Miguel,” she whispered. “I am so sorry.”

  Shame heated her face and dried her eyes as she recalled telling Miguel of her father and what he had done. She trembled at flashes of Miguel’s anger, and shivered at the thought of Miguel meeting Max. She wasn’t sure what he would do to her if he learned about his son. What chance did she have of keeping the two of them apart in Real? The only hope might be that Miguel was so blinded by his hatred of Tomas he wouldn’t pay attention to his brother’s son. Father and son meeting was frightening her, but something more had nagged and plagued her sleep. And made her have that awful nightmare.

  It was something Miguel had said. Something that she barely registered. The words stuck in her subconscious like the thorns that had pierced her hands.

  She prowled through the hacienda trying to remember. They had talked about so much. Max. Tomas. She stared through a window at the mountain looming in the distance. She could hear Miguel’s laughter. No, the memory of his laugh. He was saying something about Tomas and Max. If Tomas had known. Had known his son would love ejitos. One who would give peasants and miners everything he owned.

  Had he really talked about Max inheriting Tomas’s company? Max and something happening to her? Or had he simply laughed at how Tomas would kick his way out of his grave if he knew? She felt broken inside, in a place unseen, unreachable.

  The truth glared at her: if she and Max were out of the way, Miguel could conceivably become the owner of Morelos. Which he, too, would quickly give away, she reassured herself. He certainly wouldn’t do anything to get Tomas’s money for himself. She tried to shake off these crazy thoughts.

  Miguel had once loved her, said he did now. She put her fist to her abdomen, as if to stop the fluttering that took over her stomach at every thought of Miguel. Could it really be? She asked herself over and over.

  Miguel was taking too long. Even if he had had to walk all the way to Cedral, he should have returned by midday. She began to pack up their things to be ready when he arrived. Maybe they could still get to Real tonight.

  She stowed her things, then gathered their bedrolls. She was stuffing a dirty shirt and trousers into Miguel’s pack when the sores on her hand caught on something. “Damn!” she swore and jerked some papers out of the pack.

  Her name jumped out at her. And the company. Morelos Enterprises. A legal document. “Damn!” she said again, frustrated because she couldn’t read it. She searched for words she knew. “Legalese in Spanish,” she groaned.

  It seemed to be some kind of agreement involving Morelos Enterprises and someone named Juan Catera. Official seals and stamps made it look like a “done-deal.” But there was no signature page. Who was Juan Catera? If she didn’t know him, the papers couldn’t be legal. She looked at the date, 04 October. It was only October 1st, so how could it be a legally executed document? Maybe Catera was one of the miners and Miguel was anticipating an agreement she might make with them.

  The questions grew like monsters. Proliferating, evil monsters. If she and Max were dead. The thought became an endless chant.

  Had she been a fool to trust Miguel? He had always hated his brother and everything he stood for. This agreement probably assured the miners that they had no reason to negotiate anymore. If they thought they had won, Max was in mortal danger.

  The very marrow of her bones cried out to her to go to him. To protect her son. Where was Miguel? What was taking him so long?

  Almost the same moment that she decided something must be terribly wrong, she heard a noise in the distance. She was sure it was a small explosion. Then shots. Not just gun play, but the sounds of war. She looked out around the wall at the end of the veranda and saw smoke rising not too far away.

  Trying to still her breathing, she looked back at their belongings. Should she try to carry their packs and make a run for it? Where would she go?

  Shots continued to echo around her. She might not know where she was going, but she liked the idea of staying put less. She quickly took what supplies she thought she could carry, gathered her pack and hurried from the ruins.

  Using the maguey plants and Joshua trees for cover as they had done the day before, she half-ran, half-crawled across the desert landscape. Whoever had shot at them yesterday could be watching. Or had they followed Miguel when he left? Her heart lurched at the thought. Her eyes burned and she wiped them roughly with the back of her hand. If she could just make it back to the road they had been on, maybe she could find help. She might see Jim and his men on their way to Real.

  She would not allow herself to dwell on how different things might have turned out, or on the loss of Miguel for a second time in her life. She had to think of Max. She looked in the opposite direction from Cedral, toward the mountains and Real, and hurried on.

  The road lay glimmering in the distance like a shiny snake. She could hear the rumble of an occasional vehicle. She skirted the foothills, weary, alert. On an upward curve, a group of people walked slowly, no doubt heading for the festival in Real. The women were dressed in long, flowing skirts and shawls. Some carried baskets delicately balanced on their heads.

  How could she know if they would help her, if she asked? Without knowing who had shot at them, who wanted them dead, she could take no chance in approaching these people. Her clothes made her stick out like a stalk of corn in a wheat field. Her legs were wobbling from running in a crouched stance. She needed rest and a disguise. She walked on more slowly until the distance between the road and the mountain narrowed. Climb or walk in the open. Finally, those were her choices.

  She leaned against a gnarled tree and watched the sky darken. It was going to rain. A small adobe structure lay nestled into the near hillside. It looked deserted. She ran along an arroyo, up a bank and into the tiny one room building. Soon the rain beat and swirled on the roof like some god washing clothes on a washboard.

  A three-legged table was propped against one wall. A broken lantern and some pans lay under it. Hammock strings clung to a peg like a macrame hanging. A basket with a torn bottom dangled from a nail. On the floor was a pile of rags. She pushed at them with her foot. Something scurried away.

  She took the basket down from its nail and examined it. The bottom was frayed. She tore lengths of thread from the hammock and pushed the string and frail straw back and forth until she had rewoven and secured the
hole.

  The basket finished and set aside, she dumped the contents of her bag into a scrap of cloth, added her watch and tied it into a bundle. She took what she needed from the backpack and threw the rest into a corner. She lined the basket with her blanket, putting the bundles on top, shook the dirt out of one of the cloths and put it around her shoulders like a shawl. Then, she wrapped a longer cloth over her pants, tucking it under her belt, and cuffed the trousers until they no longer showed beneath the makeshift skirt.

  Her pale ankles glowed above dirty brown socks and muddy mountain boots. She slipped off the socks, the boots, then took a pair of shoes from her pack. Scraping a stone across the soft leather slippers, she defaced them, taking color and hide away, then rubbed them with mud. She wiped her hands on the top of her feet and ankles.

  Everything was ready. She picked up the basket and stared down at the dirty shawl and shirt, the rag of a skirt, her mud-brown ankles and feet, the worn shoes. A soft whimper escaped her throat. Time took a giant step back and she was Dorothy again. Back in that corner of her mind which still held the memories, images, and shame.

  She whispered the words Max had spoken in her nightmare, “I don’t know who you are.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Patricia waited until almost dark to leave the little adobe shack. When she reached the road to Potrero, she squatted by the shell of an abandoned car until a group of people disappeared around a curve. Then, basket balanced on her head, bending forward under its weight, she stepped out into the open and headed up the mountain.

  Not daring to look around to see if anyone was watching, she forced herself to think of Max and breathe deeply as if she were in labor and needed to calm her pains. In minutes her heart pounded less. After an hour of steady uphill walking, her leg muscles cramped and her shoulders drooped. Her pace slowed. She fell farther behind.