hair, dressed unhurriedly and came downstairs assuring herself that nothing was different than yesterday, though a slow-burning fury shook her every step of the way.
Dove appeared to think a number of changes had been made. He was toting a cup of coffee with the look of a daydreaming idiot’s, mild and satisfied. The stump of a cigar burned in his mouth as smugly as if it had been paid for.
‘Come here to me you,’ she told him from the register, ‘I want to show you funny th
ee
ng.’ Her English had no Spanish accent unless she were under emotional stress; he should have taken warning just from that. ‘A funny theeng –
look!
’
She was pointing to a peso note. ‘
See
. Is made by American company – Mexico must have Americans to make even their money!’
He nodded thoughtfully. It didn’t seem quite right at that, and came a step nearer, balancing his coffee carefully.
‘But it is al
right
,’ she reassured him – ‘Mexicans make the money for Chinamens’ – and with an upsweep of her open palm spun coffee and saucer and all; he stood running coffee from eyes to chin, his mouth unhinged for coffee to run in. Saucer and cup crashed at his feet.
Clenching his overall strap in one fist and gripping the seat of his jeans with the other, she rushed him forward so fast his toes touched the floor only twice on the trip – and with a single two-handed shove sent him stumbling into the dust where she’d found him.
Dove knelt on all fours in the road as though looking for something he’d lost. He picked himself up heavily, brushed himself slowly down. To study her sunstriped figure behind the fast-hooked screen.
‘I tell you once,’ she reminded him – ‘
Go
. I tell you now
Go. Go. Go
.’
She watched him out of sight.
Then all her anger drained and died.
Leaving her just a small careworn woman with one stocking fallen under a sign that said—
Bien venidas, todas ustedes
Half that night Dove listened to Byron and Fitz arguing whether the world moved or stood still.
‘Take a butterfly,’ the old man kept insisting, ‘the way it keeps hovering over the ground just above
one patch
. If the earth moved, he’d come down in the next yard, wouldn’t he?’
‘That butterfly got more brains than you have, old man,’ Byron replied. ‘
He
knows the world is round and that’s more than you do. So he moves just fast enough to keep up with the patch. It may look to you like he’s just fluttering, but he’s keeping even all the same.’
‘Did you ever throw a ball in the air and catch it coming down?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Then common sense will tell you that if the earth actually moved you’d be too far away to catch it coming down, wouldn’t you? Now tell me the ball knows the earth is moving.’ The old man had victory within reach.
‘For God’s sake, when they say the earth moves it don’t mean it goes forty miles an hour, old man,’ Byron protested.
‘What’s to keep it from going forty?’ Fitz asked dryly, ‘if it’s round as you claim it ought to be going faster and faster like a snowball down a hill.
I’ll
tell you the reason it don’t move is the same reason it aint round – it got corners to keep it from moving. I’ll prove it by the good book.’
Dove heard him rustling about with the battered Bible, trying to find the passage that proved him right.
‘Don’t bother, old man,’ Byron sounded tired. ‘I know what you’re lookin’ for – “and the winds blew from the four corners of the earth” – so how can anything round have corners? Go to sleep, fool old man.’
The light was turned down. Dove heard the old man creep onto his cot bed. So long as the world was flat he would sleep well upon it. Only round worlds left Fitz sleepless.
As softly as if he’d been saving it Byron asked – ‘On what day of the Creation did God say “Let there be light and there was light”?’
‘The first, of course,’ Fitz answered contentedly.
Dove heard a
Dove appeared to think a number of changes had been made. He was toting a cup of coffee with the look of a daydreaming idiot’s, mild and satisfied. The stump of a cigar burned in his mouth as smugly as if it had been paid for.
‘Come here to me you,’ she told him from the register, ‘I want to show you funny th
ee
ng.’ Her English had no Spanish accent unless she were under emotional stress; he should have taken warning just from that. ‘A funny theeng –
look!
’
She was pointing to a peso note. ‘
See
. Is made by American company – Mexico must have Americans to make even their money!’
He nodded thoughtfully. It didn’t seem quite right at that, and came a step nearer, balancing his coffee carefully.
‘But it is al
right
,’ she reassured him – ‘Mexicans make the money for Chinamens’ – and with an upsweep of her open palm spun coffee and saucer and all; he stood running coffee from eyes to chin, his mouth unhinged for coffee to run in. Saucer and cup crashed at his feet.
Clenching his overall strap in one fist and gripping the seat of his jeans with the other, she rushed him forward so fast his toes touched the floor only twice on the trip – and with a single two-handed shove sent him stumbling into the dust where she’d found him.
Dove knelt on all fours in the road as though looking for something he’d lost. He picked himself up heavily, brushed himself slowly down. To study her sunstriped figure behind the fast-hooked screen.
‘I tell you once,’ she reminded him – ‘
Go
. I tell you now
Go. Go. Go
.’
She watched him out of sight.
Then all her anger drained and died.
Leaving her just a small careworn woman with one stocking fallen under a sign that said—
Bien venidas, todas ustedes
Half that night Dove listened to Byron and Fitz arguing whether the world moved or stood still.
‘Take a butterfly,’ the old man kept insisting, ‘the way it keeps hovering over the ground just above
one patch
. If the earth moved, he’d come down in the next yard, wouldn’t he?’
‘That butterfly got more brains than you have, old man,’ Byron replied. ‘
He
knows the world is round and that’s more than you do. So he moves just fast enough to keep up with the patch. It may look to you like he’s just fluttering, but he’s keeping even all the same.’
‘Did you ever throw a ball in the air and catch it coming down?’
‘Naturally.’
‘Then common sense will tell you that if the earth actually moved you’d be too far away to catch it coming down, wouldn’t you? Now tell me the ball knows the earth is moving.’ The old man had victory within reach.
‘For God’s sake, when they say the earth moves it don’t mean it goes forty miles an hour, old man,’ Byron protested.
‘What’s to keep it from going forty?’ Fitz asked dryly, ‘if it’s round as you claim it ought to be going faster and faster like a snowball down a hill.
I’ll
tell you the reason it don’t move is the same reason it aint round – it got corners to keep it from moving. I’ll prove it by the good book.’
Dove heard him rustling about with the battered Bible, trying to find the passage that proved him right.
‘Don’t bother, old man,’ Byron sounded tired. ‘I know what you’re lookin’ for – “and the winds blew from the four corners of the earth” – so how can anything round have corners? Go to sleep, fool old man.’
The light was turned down. Dove heard the old man creep onto his cot bed. So long as the world was flat he would sleep well upon it. Only round worlds left Fitz sleepless.
As softly as if he’d been saving it Byron asked – ‘On what day of the Creation did God say “Let there be light and there was light”?’
‘The first, of course,’ Fitz answered contentedly.
Dove heard a
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