Miquihuana
Six days ago, in Miquihuana, Atilano stirred. The roosters, singing their morning song, made him feel guilty somehow. He heard them but didn't have the conviction to respond by rolling out of bed, which was his usual habit. He felt the rough sheets and smelled the freshness that drying in crisp mountain air brings. And he thought of Xochitl, his wife. She had washed the sheets, hung them to dry in the sun and made his bed. He lifted his leg, and a rush of cool air blew under the covers. Xochitl moved toward Atilano, and he felt the warmth of her body next to his.
She slung her arm around him and searched for his ear with her lips, "Are you getting up Ati?"
He shuddered, not sure if it was the crisp air or her voice that made him lose control that way, "I should, but I don't want to. Anyway, I have very little to do."
Xochitl raised up on one elbow, "Then don't go yet, Ati. You're right. There's really nothing to do. Stay with me awhile longer."
There were others stirring now. Atilano could hear the hushed tones of his mother and father as they spoke. Father had already been up for some time. It was his custom to rise long before the sun. Atilano never understood this. Yes, there were things to be done. He shook his head from side to side, "There's never an end."
"What did you say, Ati?"
Atilano swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. His feet touched the cold floor, and it set him to shivering. "It's nothing. I'm just . . . I don't know. . . . It just seems like there's no end to things to do, yet we never get anywhere."
Xochitl, wide awake but under the covers, touched his back. "Ati. . . . Why can't you be happy? We have everything we need. We . . ."
"Sure we do! Everything! Don't you see?" He reached for a pair of stockings and pulled them over his feet. "I work . . . I want you to have things, but we've been married almost a year, and still we must live here . . . here in the same pinche room as my parents. I do what I can, but where's the reward?"
Xochitl was up now and stepped into a dress. She edged forward in the dark until she bumped a chair with her legs, reached out instinctively for the sweater she had left there the night before and pulled it over her head. "We have each other, Atilano. That's my reward. We live here, and we have what we need. Our people have always been here, and we will always be here. God provides . . ."
Atilano turned to face her in the dark. "God? I don't know, Xoch. . . . I don't know. We work, but we do not prosper. Today we prepare to leave . . . I've thought . . . we must go."
"But, Ati, we . . ."
"Don't, Xoch. Don't start. We've discussed it, and I've decided to do what God won't do for us."
Atilano slipped into an old jacket and grabbed his hat off a peg near the door. The hinges creaked and he was gone. Xochitl fell back into the bed and lay staring at the ceiling. The roosters continued their songs.
Atilano walked quickly, and a heavy vapor flowed from his pursed lips each time he exhaled. He beat his hands together and blew into them. He went directly to the outhouse, for on cold mornings it seemed more urgent to relieve himself immediately. The door swung open just as he reached for it, and a small man stepped out.
"Buenos dias, papa."
"Hijo."
Nothing else was said, and Atilano stepped into the outhouse. His father's gait was quick although it was evident his cane kept him from toppling from time to time. Within moments he made himself comfortable in a chair near the kitchen door. His wife, already inside, had water heating over a fire for the morning coffee. The old man threw corn to the chickens, clucking and scratching near his feet. They pecked and fought savagely among themselves for the kernels falling sparsely to the ground.
Xochitl walked quickly toward the kitchen, slowing only when she neared Atilano's father. "Buenos dias, Señor."
He greeted her with little enthusiasm. His mind was on the chickens now.
She brushed past him and stepped into the smoky kitchen, "Buenos." The adobe walls were covered with dark soot. Near the fire the wall had long ago turned black with a mixture of smoke and grease. The thatched roof was dingy and black above the fire. Xochitl joined her mother-in-law and immediately began preparing tortillas for breakfast.
The water in a tall clay pot began to boil near the fire. Atilano's mother poured a measured amount of coffee into the pot. The grounds danced in the roiling water but as they absorbed moisture began to settle to the bottom. She then added more than enough sugar, much more than they could afford, but that was the way they all liked it. Hot and sweet, almost too sweet.
Atilano kicked around the yard before he found himself near the kitchen. Inside he could hear the pat-pat-pat-pat-pat of Xochitl's hands flattening clumps of maza. The aroma of fresh tortillas wafted through the kitchen door but had little effect on Atilano. His mind was elsewhere. A swirl of thoughts seemed to rush him, overpower him and take him away. The lasso in his hands twirled in a wide arc while he thought. He was not consciously aware of what his hands did. His mind was on the mountain peaks that lie to the north of Miquihuana. To the peaks and beyond.
His mother stood in the doorway of the kitchen, deep wrinkles etched in her weather-beaten face. Her eyes were dim, but she could see Atilano or rather feel what he was experiencing. She had seen other young men grow restless in the small villages of the Sierra Madre, and she knew it never came to any good for youngsters to fret so over what they felt they were missing out on. "Atilano," she called forcefully, "help your father into the kitchen. The coffee's ready."
Atilano hung his rope and hat over the back of the chair his father had been sitting on, and they moved into the kitchen. They sat on the rough benches that had been carefully placed around the kitchen table. Atilano rested his elbows on the red and white, checkered, plastic-table-cloth.
Xochitl opened the doors of a cabinet and picked up one glass at a time, wiping each with a dry towel before placing it before the men. From a metal pan, she then poured warm milk into the glasses until they were nearly two-thirds full. She returned in a moment with the clay pot and carefully poured the coffee so as not to disturb the heavy black sediment.
Atilano's mother already had eggs frying in too much oil. Another extravagance they could not afford. Xochitl worked and the mountain of tortillas grew under a towel that kept them steaming hot, hot enough to burn the old man's fingers when he pulled one off the top of the stack. He flipped it from one hand to the other until the heat dissipated somewhat. The old woman placed metal plates in front of the men. Each held a serving of eggs with nopales and beans.
His mother's cooking always satisfied him, and Xochitl was just as talented in the kitchen although she was only nineteen. Atilano popped a chile into his mouth and used a tortilla to scoop a portion of egg and beans. It was good. "I'm leaving, papa," said Atilano before he had swallowed his first mouthful.
The old man threw his tortilla into the plate in front of him, pushed back from the table and stared at Atilano for what seemed an eternity before he spoke. "You know how we feel, hijo. Your 'ama, she does not want you to go, and you know that. Yet you would break her heart and defy me. Why, hijo?"
Atilano, too, had pushed his plate of food away. "Papa, you know there's nothing here for me. . . ."
The old man threw up his arms, "Nothing here? Nothing? Look at your 'ama. Is she nothing? Am I nothing? This is our land and it has always been ours, yet you seem to despise us and our heritage. . . ."
Atilano stood for seconds with his head down, then walked slowly toward the door.
His mother blocked him and stood searching his eyes. "What about us? What about Xochitl?
"I've told you. She comes with me."
Atilano nearly ran through the yard, chickens and dogs scattered to give him a clear path. He had work to do. He climbed into the old pick-up, turned the key and stepped on the starter. The engine coughed to life, sputtered and belched a cloud of thick gray smoke. He glanced into the bed of the truck piled high with wooden crates he had loaded the day before. Near the edge of town he turned down a trail leading to a field owned by his family.
The cacti grew in neatly planted rows, one of the crops they could always count on. Not like corn and beans. They need rain . . . plenty of rain and work to survive, but cacti are self-sufficient. He climbed into the back of the truck, swore and kicked one of the crates. It tumbled to the ground, followed by another. As the mad pile of crates grew, his anger subsided. It was quiet in a way, yet there were many sounds that he became aware of. Not too far off, he could hear people as they began their struggle with daily chores. He heard the ringing of an ax. Children laughing, probably on their way to school. A tractor in the distance. The braying of a donkey. Birds.
He opened the door on the passenger side of the pick-up and reached under the seat. His fingers wrapped around the blade of a knife. He jerked, "Chingada pinche madre! Why do I do that? I knew it was there!" then thrust his fingers between his knees and squeezed until the pain seemed to fade, and the bleeding stopped.
A few hours later nearly half the crates were filled with prickly pears, the fruit of the cactus. He worked quickly with his razor-sharp knife, slicing the ripe seed-pods from the plants, careful to avoid being pierced by the stickers on the fruit as well as the stems. By mid-morning he began to cut the wide leaf-like pieces of cactus. Atilano, sure that cash from the tunas and nopales would buy tickets to the Rio Grande, worked at a steady pace. The sun rose high into the pristine sky, and Atilano broke out in a sweat long before hoisting the last crate into the bed of the truck. When he reached home he was in no mood for another argument with his family.
Xochitl was leaning against the house when she heard the pick-up come around the corner. She couldn't help but jump and wave; she never liked being away from Atilano.
"Girl, what are you doing in the street?"
She reached for the door before the truck stopped, "Waiting for you!" and Atilano hit the brake. She jumped into the seat beside him and put her hand on his shoulder, "And look at what you've brought. You're a good man, Ati."
The truck shuddered as Atilano let out the clutch and spun the steering wheel to make the sharp turn through the narrow gate. He motioned toward the back of the truck, "We'll take most of this to Palmillas, day-after-tomorrow. It's worth something." Atilano swung open the door and stepped into the bed of the pick-up. "Here, Xoch."
Xochitl slid across the seat and out the door behind him, "The day-after-tomorrow?"
He held a crate of nopales out to her and acted as though he hadn't heard her question "Take this for my mother and father, Xoch."
She stood with a hand on her hip and brushed the hair out of her face with the other, "Did you hear me?"
He shoved the crate forward, "YES. And did you hear me? Take the nopales! We're going- -that's it!"
Xochitl easily handled the twenty-some-odd-kilos of produce. She stomped off toward the kitchen and muttered under her breath that she must have the most stubborn cabron in the world.
Atilano set a crate on the edge of the truck, steadied the tunas with one hand and leapt to the ground. He pulled the box down and followed Xochitl to the kitchen. "Fix me some tacos, I'm not staying here tonight."
"What do you mean?"
"Just what I said. And you don't have any reason to question me. I do what I want."
Xochitl's eyes began to water, "I try, Ati. Why scold me?" She began to rub her face and turned so he wouldn't see the tears, "You know I do everything for you." And in obedience to his last command she pulled an apron over her dress and tried to concentrate on the preparation of a meal for her husband.
Atilano stood for a moment, wanting to say something more. He knew he had hurt her feelings, but he wasn't equipped emotionally to deal with her when she cried. He felt bad, but he didn't know what to say, "I'll be back," and he turned to leave, "later." He kicked the dirt as he made his way toward the gate, slammed the door of the pick-up, then reached through the open window and grabbed his lariat and knife. He hurried down the street, an un-lit cigarette between his lips and beat his leg with the coil of rope.
Across from the plaza several men sat on a bench. Behind them, a sign proclaimed "Coca Cola, Y Ya!" They talked in low tones when women passed; their conversation was not for them. Atilano and the men greeted one another. It was apparent that several of them were older than he. He was full-grown, of that there was no doubt, but his slight mustache made him look even younger than his twenty-two years. He tipped his hat to the grocer, "Give me some cookies," he dug into his pocket, then slapped down a five-hundred peso bill, "and a mineral water, flavored." The man behind the counter wrapped a few cookies in brown paper and handed Atilano an open bottle of orange water.
Atilano suddenly became aware of an altercation in the plaza. He squinted in the bright light when he turned to look beyond the door of the dark little shop. A scuffle had broken out and turned a children's soccer game into a shouting-match. Not long ago Atilano had played soccer as a child in the plaza. His eyes watered, and he told himself it was the blinding sun. . . . Of one thing he was sure; he would never play as a child again.
