been evicted, defrauded, gypped, swindled, deceived, fucked up and down by the amorphous, considerable them.
—These people murdered my wife and to add insult to injury they murdered her after they’d already killed her. How many times is a soul supposed to die?
His nephew sat still.
—First they made it so she couldn’t have a baby, with all their radiation drifting over the mountain. Then they made it so the only thing that could grow inside her was cancer.
Marcos placed a tentative hand on his uncle’s shoulder.
—I hope they’re happy.
Astounding, thought Marcos, that the tune “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head” should be piped through the sound system as his uncle spoke, but there it was. He watched Delfino lay his fork on the plate of uneaten food. But that doesn’t mean my eyes will soon be turning red —
—As if Communist socialism ever stood a snowball’s chance.
Sarah Montoya had been eavesdropping on her brother-in-law while she engaged with others in the funeral party. —Delfino, I’m sure you’re right, but don’t you think Agnes would want us to leave them out of the discussion on this day of all days? Her voice was demure, even tranquil, and her hand found Delfino’s where it lay like some wounded animal on the white tablecloth.
—I’m sorry, he nodded.
—No need for apology. I just want you to be all right.
He lifted a piece of bread to his mouth but couldn’t eat it so put it down again beside his plate before telling Marcos, quietly, —Fact is, they probably are. Happy about it, I mean—proud of themselves.
—How could anybody be proud of pushing folks off their land and then slowly depriving them of life?
—That’s how it works. That’s how it was. And the more they do nothing, more they just keep good and tight-lipped and leave us dangling, the more all that’s left of us die off. One day it’ll come to pass that nothing will have happened. I’ll be with Agnes. The Onsruds’ll be gone, like the Harmans, the Wards, the Stearns, the McDonalds, everybody. Every one of the other ranchers down here’ll be dead and gone and that’ll mean they were right and we weren’t. Why wouldn’t they be proud of being right?
Sarah overheard, despite his whispering. —Maybe you’d like some coffee, Delf.
—He’s okay, Marcos said, and rose, after his uncle did, to follow him to the men’s room where the widower wept quietly in one of the stalls. Marcos washed his face and dried it with a paper towel. He left the echoing room, then waited outside in the corridor for some while before his uncle emerged, stonefaced, to take his nephew by the elbow and ask him to accompany him to the parking lot. Would he mind making the necessary excuses for an old man who had to get back home, and who truly appreciated everybody’s concern and the effort they’d all gone to, coming from such distances to be with Agnes today?
The air outside was sere and smarting with gypsum sand carried on the breeze from the white dunes west of town, past the gargantuan air force base. —Tell Sarah and your father I’m fine, just tired is all. Need to be by myself.
Marcos asked if he might drive Delfino up the road to Tularosa. His uncle was grateful but climbed into the pickup with no further comment, turned over the engine, and pulled out onto the highway that bisected Alamogordo, paralleling the old El Paso—to—White Oaks railroad line, which had, before drought settled in a century before, falsely promised this catastrophic basin fruits and wealth beyond dreaming.
When he got home, the widower folded his necktie into a kind of crunched coil, like some burned and flattened sidewinder, then placed it ceremoniously in Agnes’s rags drawer. He changed out of his suit into a flannel workshirt and khaki trousers, then set himself the task of laundering his wife’s clothing—her seersucker robe, her cotton nightshirts, her thin white ankle socks. He had it in mind that on the following morning
—These people murdered my wife and to add insult to injury they murdered her after they’d already killed her. How many times is a soul supposed to die?
His nephew sat still.
—First they made it so she couldn’t have a baby, with all their radiation drifting over the mountain. Then they made it so the only thing that could grow inside her was cancer.
Marcos placed a tentative hand on his uncle’s shoulder.
—I hope they’re happy.
Astounding, thought Marcos, that the tune “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head” should be piped through the sound system as his uncle spoke, but there it was. He watched Delfino lay his fork on the plate of uneaten food. But that doesn’t mean my eyes will soon be turning red —
—As if Communist socialism ever stood a snowball’s chance.
Sarah Montoya had been eavesdropping on her brother-in-law while she engaged with others in the funeral party. —Delfino, I’m sure you’re right, but don’t you think Agnes would want us to leave them out of the discussion on this day of all days? Her voice was demure, even tranquil, and her hand found Delfino’s where it lay like some wounded animal on the white tablecloth.
—I’m sorry, he nodded.
—No need for apology. I just want you to be all right.
He lifted a piece of bread to his mouth but couldn’t eat it so put it down again beside his plate before telling Marcos, quietly, —Fact is, they probably are. Happy about it, I mean—proud of themselves.
—How could anybody be proud of pushing folks off their land and then slowly depriving them of life?
—That’s how it works. That’s how it was. And the more they do nothing, more they just keep good and tight-lipped and leave us dangling, the more all that’s left of us die off. One day it’ll come to pass that nothing will have happened. I’ll be with Agnes. The Onsruds’ll be gone, like the Harmans, the Wards, the Stearns, the McDonalds, everybody. Every one of the other ranchers down here’ll be dead and gone and that’ll mean they were right and we weren’t. Why wouldn’t they be proud of being right?
Sarah overheard, despite his whispering. —Maybe you’d like some coffee, Delf.
—He’s okay, Marcos said, and rose, after his uncle did, to follow him to the men’s room where the widower wept quietly in one of the stalls. Marcos washed his face and dried it with a paper towel. He left the echoing room, then waited outside in the corridor for some while before his uncle emerged, stonefaced, to take his nephew by the elbow and ask him to accompany him to the parking lot. Would he mind making the necessary excuses for an old man who had to get back home, and who truly appreciated everybody’s concern and the effort they’d all gone to, coming from such distances to be with Agnes today?
The air outside was sere and smarting with gypsum sand carried on the breeze from the white dunes west of town, past the gargantuan air force base. —Tell Sarah and your father I’m fine, just tired is all. Need to be by myself.
Marcos asked if he might drive Delfino up the road to Tularosa. His uncle was grateful but climbed into the pickup with no further comment, turned over the engine, and pulled out onto the highway that bisected Alamogordo, paralleling the old El Paso—to—White Oaks railroad line, which had, before drought settled in a century before, falsely promised this catastrophic basin fruits and wealth beyond dreaming.
When he got home, the widower folded his necktie into a kind of crunched coil, like some burned and flattened sidewinder, then placed it ceremoniously in Agnes’s rags drawer. He changed out of his suit into a flannel workshirt and khaki trousers, then set himself the task of laundering his wife’s clothing—her seersucker robe, her cotton nightshirts, her thin white ankle socks. He had it in mind that on the following morning
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