Water Rites by Mary Rosenblum

playing in the yard when they drove up. They had carried guns in their hands, had called her father by name.
    Thunder boomed again and Nita sat up with a gasp. Cold wind gusted through the camp, shaking the tent, and the thunder cracked again. Hard drops stung Nita’s arms and face. Rain? She stumbled to her feet, but already the shower had moved on, riding the cold wind down the stream-bed. Lightning glared, searing Nita’s eyes with the stark image of the tent, woodpile, and the pot of cooling honey. Then the darkness rushed in again, thick as dirt on a grave, pressing down on her, smothering her. Shivering, Nita slipped into the tent.
    The air smelled like plastic, honey, and the Bee Man; thick and comforting. He lay on his side, wrapped in a tangled quilt. The soft rasp of his breathing filled the tent, and he stirred, murmuring in his sleep as Nita curled up beside him. The thunder rumbled again, but it didn’t scare her this time. Maybe it was raining, somewhere. Nita closed her eyes and fell asleep to the soft murmur of the Bee Man’s dreams.
    *
    In the morning, Nita woke with the Bee Man’s arms around her. His breath tickled her neck, and the warmth of his body against her back made her breasts feel tight and tender. She wriggled closer against him, felt him wake up.
    He murmured something, still half asleep, and his arms tightened around her. Nita felt the stir of of his desire — like Alberto and Theresa — felt an echo in her own flesh. It took her by surprise, made her skin go cold and then hot. She pressed back against his warmth full of a strange ache that came from everywhere and nowhere, centering between her legs like a second heartbeat.
    The Bee Man’s eyes opened and he sat up, pushing roughly away from her. “What are you doing here?” he asked in a harsh, funny voice.
    Scared. He hadn’t felt scared like that in a long time. Nita scrambled to her feet. He was staring at her, frowning, all muddy and mixed up inside, like a pan of wash water after the whole family has used it.
    “It’s all right.” He forced a laugh. “You just . . . surprised me. That’s all.” He stared at her for the space of several heartbeats, then began to talk again, too fast. “This is market day, remember? We’re almost out of beans, so we’d better get started if we want to get there before the best stuff is gone.” He stopped, looked at her again. “It’s all right,” he said.
    Nita ducked quickly outside.
    It wasn’t all right. The Bee Man’s fear clogged the air as he strung full honey jugs together and loaded cakes of wax into the pack. He didn’t look at her, didn’t talk much. Nita kept her eyes on the ground as they made their way down the riverbed to town, hurt by his feelings, unable to shut them out. She didn’t know what she had done to scare him.
    She felt the market as they climbed out of the riverbed, a babble of feelings like people shouting all at once inside her head. Alberto had never offered to take her along when he went, and Nita was glad. Ramshackle booths roofed with frayed and faded plastic crowded the parking lot of the old high school. The Bee Man’s muddy fear was almost lost in the clamor of so many people. Nita stayed close behind him as they threaded their way between the piles of greens and carrots, old clothes, oily machine parts, and battered electronics that formed the dusty aisles. If she closed her eyes, she would be lost, drowned in the blare of noise.
    They unloaded their packs, set out the cakes of wax and the jugs of honey at a corner of the old gray school building, in a strip of shade. Nita squatted with her back against the wall while the Bee Man traded honey and wax for hard bread, beans, dried fruit, or grimy government scrip that you could trade for water or use in a government store. People called the Bee Man David. They laughed and joked with him, while their eyes slid sideways to look at Nita. They all looked at her. Some of them looked at her body, all