someone so old.”
We go miles and miles before Miguel answers.
“Love,” he says. And that’s all. That’s all he has to say, and miles more go by, and then I ask him if it’s true.
“True what?”
“About Esteban’s father and the bull?”
Miguel turns to me with his one good eye. “There are things we cannot change,” he says.
He leaves me at the arch, drives Gloria around back, and shuts her down; I hear her choking. Except for the cats and the lizards and Arcadio, fast asleep on the weathered-up love seat, the courtyard is a blank, empty place. Where the Gypsies have gone, I could not tell you. They live and breathe and move through the shadows of this house—all the time, they are here, they are present.
Estela’s not in the kitchen. She’s not in the bull room or the bedroom, and the doors to the guest rooms are shut tight, and I don’t care what the rules are here: I need somebody to talk to. I head back toward Esteban’s courtyard and open the door to the outside, where Esteban is currycombing Tierra, moving the brush in half circles, his hat pushed back from his face. The sky is the color of spoons.
So, he says.
She’s a Brit, I say.
And?
I don’t know. I don’t.
He stands and strokes Tierra’s back, says something into her ear. She pulls her lips against her teeth and tosses her head. Now he talks her into picking up one hoof, to putting it down, to standing straight. He comes toward me, lifts my hand in his, slips it onto the bones of Tierra’s nose, straight through her halter. His hand is soft and cool; it’s gentle. I feel something turn inside me.
Wait here, he tells me, disappearing inside the stall and returning with a bag of carrots. She’s hungry, he says. Keep her happy. She works the first carrot like some old harmonica, and Esteban goes back to what he was doing—crouching and scrubbing, talking and settling, the horse quivering with every stroke. When I offer Tierra another carrot, she takes it, the juice running down past her lip.
So you know her? I say, and my voice sounds funny. You know Adair? I mean, do you know her well?
Of course. She’s here all the time, with Javier. Javier and Miguel—they’re in bulls together.
I think she’s young to be a mother.
You’re younger, he says. Aren’t you? He stares at me as he works the brush through the long knot of Tierra’s tail.
But this just—to me this just happened. To her—it’s what she wants.
It wasn’t always.
What?
What she wanted.
What do you mean?
Miguel got a phone call from your mom’s friend, Mari. She said there was a problem with a baby. Miguel knew what to do, who to ask. Adair was always talking about babies. Javier was always letting her go on.
I try to imagine the conversations. I can’t. I say nothing, and Esteban continues.
At first you were going to stay with Adair, but Estela wouldn’t hear of it. “I’ll keep her well,” is what Estela said. Estela insisted. The rest of them said yes.
Estela insisted, I think. Miguel said yes. Adair was always talking about babies.
Here, Esteban says, before I have a chance to ask him questions, before there’s time to sort it out. Help me with this. He takes the bag of carrots and hangs it on a hook outside the stall. Hands me a brush and shows me how to work the thick white yarn of Tierra’s mane. He stands behind me, his hand over mine, his breath in my ear, his skin smelling like leather and hay, and I think about Adair at the shop, in the church, walking thirty-four ramps to show me the view.
Why would Estela do that for someone she hadn’t even met? I turn and ask him. Why would any of you?
Maybe because you’re having a baby.
Obviously I’m having a baby.
Maybe because Estela could imagine the baby, even if she couldn’t imagine you. He shrugs his shoulders, then looks undecided. I don’t really know, he says. I guess you’d have to ask her.
The air is changing, the clouds above us. There’s a low rumble in the far
We go miles and miles before Miguel answers.
“Love,” he says. And that’s all. That’s all he has to say, and miles more go by, and then I ask him if it’s true.
“True what?”
“About Esteban’s father and the bull?”
Miguel turns to me with his one good eye. “There are things we cannot change,” he says.
He leaves me at the arch, drives Gloria around back, and shuts her down; I hear her choking. Except for the cats and the lizards and Arcadio, fast asleep on the weathered-up love seat, the courtyard is a blank, empty place. Where the Gypsies have gone, I could not tell you. They live and breathe and move through the shadows of this house—all the time, they are here, they are present.
Estela’s not in the kitchen. She’s not in the bull room or the bedroom, and the doors to the guest rooms are shut tight, and I don’t care what the rules are here: I need somebody to talk to. I head back toward Esteban’s courtyard and open the door to the outside, where Esteban is currycombing Tierra, moving the brush in half circles, his hat pushed back from his face. The sky is the color of spoons.
So, he says.
She’s a Brit, I say.
And?
I don’t know. I don’t.
He stands and strokes Tierra’s back, says something into her ear. She pulls her lips against her teeth and tosses her head. Now he talks her into picking up one hoof, to putting it down, to standing straight. He comes toward me, lifts my hand in his, slips it onto the bones of Tierra’s nose, straight through her halter. His hand is soft and cool; it’s gentle. I feel something turn inside me.
Wait here, he tells me, disappearing inside the stall and returning with a bag of carrots. She’s hungry, he says. Keep her happy. She works the first carrot like some old harmonica, and Esteban goes back to what he was doing—crouching and scrubbing, talking and settling, the horse quivering with every stroke. When I offer Tierra another carrot, she takes it, the juice running down past her lip.
So you know her? I say, and my voice sounds funny. You know Adair? I mean, do you know her well?
Of course. She’s here all the time, with Javier. Javier and Miguel—they’re in bulls together.
I think she’s young to be a mother.
You’re younger, he says. Aren’t you? He stares at me as he works the brush through the long knot of Tierra’s tail.
But this just—to me this just happened. To her—it’s what she wants.
It wasn’t always.
What?
What she wanted.
What do you mean?
Miguel got a phone call from your mom’s friend, Mari. She said there was a problem with a baby. Miguel knew what to do, who to ask. Adair was always talking about babies. Javier was always letting her go on.
I try to imagine the conversations. I can’t. I say nothing, and Esteban continues.
At first you were going to stay with Adair, but Estela wouldn’t hear of it. “I’ll keep her well,” is what Estela said. Estela insisted. The rest of them said yes.
Estela insisted, I think. Miguel said yes. Adair was always talking about babies.
Here, Esteban says, before I have a chance to ask him questions, before there’s time to sort it out. Help me with this. He takes the bag of carrots and hangs it on a hook outside the stall. Hands me a brush and shows me how to work the thick white yarn of Tierra’s mane. He stands behind me, his hand over mine, his breath in my ear, his skin smelling like leather and hay, and I think about Adair at the shop, in the church, walking thirty-four ramps to show me the view.
Why would Estela do that for someone she hadn’t even met? I turn and ask him. Why would any of you?
Maybe because you’re having a baby.
Obviously I’m having a baby.
Maybe because Estela could imagine the baby, even if she couldn’t imagine you. He shrugs his shoulders, then looks undecided. I don’t really know, he says. I guess you’d have to ask her.
The air is changing, the clouds above us. There’s a low rumble in the far
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