Candlelight Bridge, page 8
Papá followed the horse’s tracks, which led to a crooked line of trees huddled over the secret desire of the desert: water. The low, black river winked in the moonlight as if to say, I knew you’d be back. Hard to believe this was the same river that tried to drown Lalo two days ago. Thirsty roots now tamed its progress. There stood the horse, scratching his salt-stained neck against one wide-hipped tree. He snorted a gentle warning as they approached.
The Riveras skidded past him and scrambled down the steep bank, clutching willow scrub and each other, till they stumbled to a halt at the water’s edge. The moment Miguel set Graciela down, she knelt in the mud, put her face in the cold water, and gulped.
Papá snatched her up. “Not so fast, mija. You’ll throw up.”
“I’m thirsty!”
“Trust me.”
Trust Papá. That sounded so easy. He’d always taken care of them, provided a warm, safe home and enough to eat. Sometimes he yelled when they picked on each other or acted careless, but neither his words nor his hands were ever cruel. Except now he’d abandoned their home. What if next he was forced to join the war and abandon them? Mamá was strong, but how could they make a home without Papá? That’s when it struck her: if he left, then the eldest son would become head of the family. Could they trust Miguel?
For now at least, Papá remained with them. So, for now, she put her faith in him. Though she’d never been thirstier, she drank the water in tiny sips as he instructed.
She dipped her feet in the river with a sharp intake of breath. Though her feet were callused from a lifetime spent barefoot, the soles now stung with torn and bloody blisters. Two long strips fluttered before her eyes—her mother dangling two cloth bandages. Candelita assumed Mamá would bind the wounds. Instead, she said, “You know what to do.” True: Mamá had taught her all she knew. She bit back tears, accepted the bandages, and wrapped her own feet.
Miguel leaned back to watch. “At least you didn’t have to carry Graciela, the little fatso.”
“I’m not fat!” Graciela said, then threw up in the river. So, Papá was right about drinking fast.
“Pobrecita!” Candelita helped her rinse thin vomit from her face.
She and Lalo led Graciela up the slope to join their parents.
Miguel remained alone at the bottom, lying against the bank, head resting on clasped hands, staring up at the half-moon.
Atop the bank, the rest flung themselves amid rocks and roots, too exhausted to set up camp. Mamá handed out machaca, still in jerky form. Candelita could barely chew. Graciela leaned against her, jaw working till it went slack and gave way to snores. Mamá tossed a blanket over them.
Candelita couldn’t sleep, staring into the desert’s thousand directions, sure it hid a thousand eyes. A silhouette crept toward the horse and his tree. She feared it was a ladrón come to steal their things. Then she heard Papá murmur. He rested a palm against the animal’s neck, eased the harness into his other hand, and used a rope to tie it to the tree. The beast snorted but didn’t resist. The horse trusts him, she thought. Papá patted his flank. “Que sueñes con los angelitos,” he said in the same sweet voice he used when tucking his children into bed.
She wished she were the horse, who seemed sure not only of Papá but also of himself. If she were alone in the desert, she’d never survive. She shivered and watched her breath rise.
***
A red glow pressed against Candelita’s eyelids as she tried to identify a crackling sound. More gunfire? No. She inhaled and relaxed, grinning at the smells of grease and green: nopalitos and eggs frying in a pan. She wondered how much longer they’d have eggs. Mamá had left the hens with Primo Chorizito in exchange for food easier to run with.
Her parents whispered while Papá cooked. She pretended to sleep so she could listen.
“No!” Mamá hissed. “What if the owner comes looking for it?”
“No one’s coming for him, vieja. His owner’s dead.”
“How do you know?”
“Blood. But not the horse’s blood. ¿Me entiendes?”
“Maybe the rider was only injured.”
“Trust me. I rinsed more than just blood off that horse.”
What else had the dead rider left behind? Guts? She shuddered. Whatever it was, she hoped Mamá let them keep the horse. She pictured galloping across the desert, her knees hugging his flanks, his courage flowing into her. Together, they could face anything.
“How will we feed it?” Mamá asked.
“We’ll stay near the river, where there’s water and grass. I’ll buy feed in Ascensión.”
“With what? Your good looks?”
“My spurs.”
“You’d sell your spurs to feed a horse but not to feed your children? You always refused before.”
“I needed the spurs before, so el jefe could see my value shining astride his best and know me as a cowboy of quality. And our children never missed a meal.”
“Maybe you’ve noticed times are harder?”
“You don’t understand. He can carry supplies. He can carry the children. Who knows when I’ll find work in El Paso? But we can sell this horse.”
“It’s a good idea, Mamá,” Miguel said.
“No one asked you,” Papá said.
“But I’m defending you!”
“Listen to your father.”
Why couldn’t Miguel learn it never paid to take sides between their parents?
Now that he’d broken the morning, she sat up, then looked down and giggled. The others turned and laughed with her. Graciela had flipped in her sleep: head now at Candelita’s feet, rear poking up in the air. Candelita stepped over her and rummaged through the bags for gourds. “I’ll get water.” She was always the one to change the subject when things grew tense.
After breakfast, Papá introduced the children to the horse, who he’d named Feo. The horse was anything but ugly, but this was how nicknames worked in Mata Flores: skinny kids became Fatso, tall kids Tiny, handsome kids Feo.
“Mucho gusto, Feo,” she said. His ears flicked forward as if eager for her secrets, and she stroked the white flame between his eyes.
“Not there,” Papá said. “Not till he knows you better. He’s blind there.”
She jerked her hand away.
Then he lifted Graciela to pet the horse. She beat his neck with the same casual violence she used to spank her doll. “Good Feo!”
The horse nodded and nickered, apparently used to harsh treatment.
“Graciela, Lalo,” their father said, “would you like to ride Feo to Juárez?”
Lalo rocked onto his toes and gave one stirrup an eager tug. “Can we?”
“Graciela hits him and she gets to ride?” Candelita’s hand flew to her mouth, too late.
Papá shook his head. Not angry—disappointed. They were running for their lives, so of course the smallest should ride. Even so, it felt unfair. She used to think growing up would mean doing more of what she wanted, but it seemed adults were just the people who survived childhood. With that thought came understanding: her parents’ argument over the horse was about their children’s survival. She looked into one of the horse’s big brown eyes, and the word came to her as if Feo had spoken it: sacrifice. Ashamed, she hung her head.
Papá and Miguel proved Feo’s worth by balancing the family’s entire supplies in two bundles secured across his flanks. She held his bridle while they worked. “Feo, I wish I was brave like you.” She petted his neck till her hand brushed something crusted there, then scratched at it till a white, buttery substance came away on her fingertips. She stared. What was it?
Miguel whispered in her ear, “Brains.”
“Liar!” Still, she wiped her fingers on her skirt in disgust. Then she touched her own head, marveling. Was it possible all her thoughts, and all the ideas Papá taught her—trust, honor, sacrifice—could come from contents so soft?
Papá lifted the little ones into the saddle, took the reins, and clucked at Feo, who let the man lead him. The walk went faster with Feo carrying their burdens. They followed the flats along the Río Casas Grandes, though the river meandered like a drunk with no idea where to go.
***
For days they looked over their shoulders, for fear they’d be followed—even her sister, because whatever Candelita did, Graciela copied. Maybe that’s why they failed to spot what was right in front of them until it was too late to hide from the arrow of dust kicked up by someone’s approach. Whoever it was surely saw them too; the Riveras kicked up their own cloud.
Papá held up a hand, signaling the family to stop, and squinted into the distance.
Miguel blurted, “It’s a wagon!”
“Don’t shout.” Papá yanked off his hat and raked a hand through his hair.
The wagon headed straight for them, till they saw first the mule pulling it, then the driver. Papá warned them not to assume he was alone. “More men might be hiding under the canvas.”
Once they were in shouting distance, the driver waved his cowboy hat. “¡Buenos días!” His baritone scattered the quiet like a burst of unfamiliar music.
“¡Buenas!” Papá’s wave looked casual, but Mamá’s eyes looked startled, and the children gawked as the sun’s late-morning glare revealed the face of this strangest of strangers.
She’d never seen anyone like him. In addition to his cowboy hat, he wore a cowboy shirt and Levi’s. That wasn’t the unusual part. Papá used to dress like that. Sometimes he still did. What made the teamster unique was he appeared to be neither mestizo nor güero European nor Tarahumara—nor from any local tribe. His eyes squinted more than could be explained by the sun. To her, his nose seemed small, his face round, skin amber. Not ugly, just unexpected. His age, impossible to guess.
“Whoa!” The driver pulled his mule to a halt and leapt down with ease. “Benito Chung at your service.” He smiled but kept his mouth shut firm as a gate as he held out a hand to Papá.
Papá matched his smile and shook his hand without hesitation, as if he’d made this decision during the wagon’s approach. “Eduardo Rivera. May I present my wife, Maria?”
“Señora.” The stranger removed his hat and bowed, looking somewhere near her feet.
Mamá nodded, but with the same wary stare she’d given the rattlesnake. The man didn’t act threatening, but between the desert and the war it must be safer to treat everything as a threat.
“These are my children.” Papá’s gesture embraced his whole unblinking brood.
“Muchachos.” The man’s smile opened to reveal perfect white teeth. City teeth. Then his eyes landed on Feo and he frowned. Still, he said, “What luck to have such a beautiful family.”
“Gracias, Señor Chung, though perhaps less lucky in such troubled times.” Papá’s eyes shifted between Feo and the stranger, who stared at the horse. The man looked angry, but why?
“I’d like to predict you won’t meet trouble,” he said, “unless you meet my friend, Señor Morales of Corralitos.” He circled Feo, who still carried the little ones. Papá’s eyes followed him. The caginess of the two men called to mind Rabbit and Coyote, but which was which? The stranger clapped Feo’s flank, and this gesture of familiarity irritated her. To her, Feo was already family. “Morales owns a horse just like this one. If you run into him, your luck might change.”
Papá picked his next words like individual notes plucked on a guitar. “We won’t be crossing paths with Feo’s previous owner. He was killed when the rebels arrived in Corralitos.”
The stranger looked alarmed. “Rebels? In Corralitos?”
“Yes!” Miguel balled his hands into fists at his sides. “And they’ll keep coming, so you should go back to where you came from before they kill you!”
Papá raised and lowered his arm like a meat cleaver. “¡Basta!” he told Miguel though his eyes remained on the stranger. “Forgive my son. We’ve walked a long way and we’re all tired.”
“No hay problema.” The man chuckled at Miguel the way folks do at babies, though he looked her brother up and down as if he might yet prove dangerous: a baby scorpion maybe. “So, young man, you think I’ll be safer if I go back to Juárez? That’s where I came from.”
Miguel clenched his jaw. “Sorry, señor, I thought you were Chinese.”
Chinese! That was why he looked like that! But why did it make Miguel mad?
“I haven’t lived in China for years,” he told Miguel. “Mexico is my home. My wife is Mexican. My daughter is Mexican.” He turned back to Papá. “So, rebels took Corralitos?”
Papá nodded. “Last night. We left before they came, but we heard the gunfire. Most of it sounded like celebration, but not all of it. Not everyone wants change, Señor Chung.”
“Por favor, call me Benito.”
Papá dipped his chin politely. “We’ve seen no one since then, until you…Benito.”
What was left of Benito’s smile fell apart. “This is bad news. I carry supplies for Chinese miners in the canyon. Villa hates the Chinese. This past week Villistas killed at least a dozen throughout Chihuahua. If rebels hit the mine, I’ll be short a few customers. Only a man with a death-wish would deliver these supplies now.” He removed his hat, slapped it against his thigh. “Who am I kidding? None of Mexico is safe, for me or my family. America doesn’t want us either, now they’ve finished their railroads. What will I do?”
Papá placed a hand on his arm. “Is there any way we can help?”
Benito looked as if he’d just woken. “Forgive me. These are my problems, not yours. There’s nothing for me to do but return to Juárez.”
Graciela blurted, “We’re going to Juárez! Come with us!”
“¡Cállate!” Miguel said. He cut a look at their father, who scratched his chin. “Papá, no! He’ll put us in danger.”
“Your son’s not wrong,” Benito said. “I’m Chinese, an accused thief of Mexican jobs.”
Papá raised his hands as if surrendering to the air. “We might put you in danger. My family boasts two able men crossing a desert that’s thirsty for war. We could attract attention.”
Benito relaxed into an unguarded smile. “We’re even then.” He snapped his fingers as if he’d thought of something. “Maybe you need supplies?”
Mamá picked at her chapped lips. “We’re sorry, we can’t afford to pay.”
“Good company has its own value.” He shook the mule’s reins. “El Presidente is a faithful friend, but he falls asleep during my stories. Let me repay your company with a meal or two.”
“Do you have cheese? The Riveras like cheese.” Lalo’s grin was charming as ever, though Candelita knew he spoke from hunger.
“Sorry, no cheese. I have salty fish and dried plums…and plenty of rice.”
Mamá crinkled her nose at Lalo. “The Riveras like rice too.”
With that, they agreed to share the journey.
Papá handed her and her sister up to Benito on the buckboard. She studied his face as he sang strange words to his sleepy mule, coaxing El Presidente to turn the wagon. She decided he didn’t look odd after all, almost Apache, except for the nose. He didn’t seem like a thief. He had a wife and daughter. Did thieves have families? Her family had taken a horse. Were they thieves? The rebels who took Corralitos, were they?
Maybe war made thieves of everyone.
She looked down at Papá, leading the horse that now carried Mamá and Lalo. Candelita no longer felt disappointed about not riding Feo. She was more interested in the mystery of this man from a faraway land. Let Miguel scowl.
Still, what if Miguel was right? Even if Benito’s intentions were good, might he get them killed simply by becoming their friend?
8. Feeding the Dead
Ching Ming Day, 1911 – Toisan County, China
Thanks to Yan Chi’s brother in America, 1911 marked the first Ching Ming their father could afford a suckling pig to feed the ancestors. Yan Chi and Cousin Ning Kang lifted the palanquin that carried the piglet: a rosy-cheeked jester splayed on barbecued belly, crispy ears festooned in red ribbon, eyes seared into permanent sleep. Ning Kang held the front poles, Yan Chi the rear—knees bent to keep the pig from sliding into his shorter cousin. He saw no dignity in this procession: three dozen Wong men and boys waddling out of the village, feet caked with mud, clothes dripping, eyes blinking into a blinding rain.
Uncle Fu Ying brandished his black umbrella as if he saw himself a warrior with a sword, though at eighty he could barely hold it aloft. Other elders carried umbrellas too, hanging overhead like judgmental frowns, useless against rain that attacked from all directions. Married men carried baskets of food their wives made: roast goose, barbecue pork buns, sweet green rice balls with red bean paste. Unmarried men carried candles, incense, firecrackers—paper-wrapped against the damp. Elders swung bottles of baak zau to toast the dead.
Women stood in doorways to watch the men pass, though they all avoided eye contact with Yan Chi. Ning Kang turned to grin at his mother and skidded in the mud, sending the pig sliding forward. The tittering Zhu Zhu sisters darted out to push it back into place—any excuse to skip alongside the parade.
“Man Zhu, Ling Zhu, get back here!” their mama scolded. “Girls aren’t allowed.”
Back they ran.
The village faded from view as the men passed under a bower of lychee trees hunched with the weight of round red fruit. On they carried the feast to the far rice paddies. How the dead must envy us, he thought, we who can still eat, drink, and make love. Except Yan Chi had never experienced the pleasure of physical love because his waiting bride had died waiting. How I envy the dead, he thought.
