Pistola

    The air beneath the noontime sun and for several hours afterward turned hot beyond the shade of the mesquite and the adobe homes and their awnings. During the night, the clouds that brought vicious storms but little rain had vanished, leaving the small village of Ancihuacuaro to drowse under the heat faded blue sky of a summer sun, which it did, for the boy Ramiro was alone on the street after the morning.

    He had chosen the coolness of morning to make the repairs on the goat and chicken pens in addition to his regular chores, and now, as the day had jumped that invisible fence from morning to afternoon, he could feel the shift of it and could smell the dust rise up to suffocate his nostrils and give him a thirst. Pausing, he pulled a rag from the waistband of his pants and wiped the sweat from his face. It was to be contemplated, that moment of the day where one feels the change and is aware that it is afternoon.

    He stepped underneath a canvas awning to feel the cool ground beneath his naked feet, his black hair falling across his eyes. His sister Ana played in the dirt at the edge of town thirty yards distant, waiting for him to return from his final errand, and he was grateful that God had blessed him with such a pretty little sister. He was proud and protective of her. And it would not be long before they outgrew childhood, for he was almost fifteen, and she was three years younger.

    "Sister, you are terribly dirty," said Ramiro as he came within speaking distance. "If Mama were to see you she would send you to the stream with a pumice to get you clean."

    Ana jumped up with laughter. "Then I won't let her see me! If you are finished with the goats and chickens, I will race you to the mesquite grove."

    "What do you want to do there?"

    "I want to race you to the top of the climbing tree."

    Ramiro shook his head gravely. "Mama wishes you would not climb so high in the trees.

    "I won't tell."

    "Do you intend to get me in trouble again, sister? You are forever finding trouble for me."

    Ana stuck out her chin. "I don't either. But if I do fall and break something, I will tell Mama the truth."

    Ramiro shook his package of nails. "I will put these away and have some water, then we will go. But only if you promise to be good."

    Ana nodded in agreement.

    After they arrived at the trees, Ana climbed instantly into the low branches of the largest mesquite tree. Ramiro followed, but Ana climbed with such determination that he was easily bested to the top.

    "You didn't let me win, did you?" asked Ana.

    "No, Ana. You climbed too well. You won fairly."

    Ana's face became serious then. The smiles had left her, and to take their place was the mature expression common among the sleepy patriarchs dozing under the canvas awnings in town—the musings of old men who remembered war, who spoke of politics, who could talk of better days when life was easier.

    "What troubles you, Ana?"

    "The last time Papa came home he was angry and yelled for me to leave the house. When I didn't move fast enough, he pushed me outside and slammed the door behind me. I could hear Mama crying after me, but then I heard him hit her, not once but many times." Ana looked helplessly at Ramiro her brother, whom she adored, and Ramiro wished she hadn't allowed him to see the tears on her dirty cheeks. It saddened him to know he could do nothing.

    "Do not say these things, Ana."

    "I cannot keep silent. I must say something."

    “It's not your place, Ana, to say such things."

    "I won't marry such a man as Papa," said Ana. "Mama never says anything against him. He beats her because she is afraid of him, like he beats the dog when he is mad, though the dog has done nothing. If he tries to hit me, I will fight him."

    "Please do nothing of the kind, Ana. He will hurt or kill you. We must never speak out against Papa. You must never fight him."

    Silence came between them. Ramiro lowered himself among the branches. "Climb down, Ana. It is not easy to play when I see your thoughts are worried."

    Ana sat down in the shade with Ramiro. "Papa, he will come home tomorrow."

    "Yes. Please do not say anything. I fear what he would do to you if you spoke against him."

    "I brought something from the house during the morning when you were working on the goat pen." Ana rose to her feet. At the base of a mesquite tree she scraped the dirt away from a tin lid. Ramiro moved to his knees as Ana pulled a rectangle box from the soft earth. "Here it is." And she scooted closer to set the box in front of Ramiro for him to see. "Open it."

    Ramiro pried away the lid. The box held an oiled rag, and before going on he knew what lay wrapped in it. "Where did you find this, Ana?"

    "In the house."

    "You were in Papa's room?"

    "Mama told me to gather his dirty clothing for washing."

    Ana was not squeamish about what lay between them or what she had done, yet Ramiro knew he would never have done such a thing. He would be afraid to take it for fear that Papa might find out. His chest tightened with dread when he realized what led Ana to take the pistol from Papa's room.    "What made you take it, Ana?" asked Ramiro, though the answer was plain.

    "He beats you, too," came her answer.

    "I can take his beatings," said Ramiro. "I am older. I will stand up for Mama. But why did he leave his gun?"

    "He does not always take it with him when he leaves. Maybe this woman he sees when he is away won't let him in when he carries it."

    Ramiro jumped up. "Ana, don't talk that way!"

    Ana's eyes pleaded with him.

    She knew of course, she knew many things he blocked from his own thoughts. She would know of the women. She recognized Mama's fear when Papa arrived home from his trips away to leave a few pesos. She listened to the insults from children at school because of Papa's reputation. She knew these things and understood who caused them to happen. She was angered and troubled, but she was afraid of Papa more, and she could do nothing to stop him.

    "We must put the gun back before Papa returns," said Ramiro.

Ana looked at him, then glanced away along the road upon which Papa would return. In the shaded spot of the mesquite grove one could easily see the road to Morelia for a long distance.

* * *

    Dusk came, and it was easier to think clearly. One could sit against the adobe house to watch the reds, oranges and yellows fade against mid sky, and his thoughts could sort out the day's events. This Ramiro did with Mama and his sister Ana beside him on a weathered bench near the door. What of Papa? He might ask. Do you think he has had a good week? What time tomorrow do you think he will arrive? But he did not begin conversation of Papa. He did not begin conversation of the village or of neighbors for the reputation of Papa had made his family undesirable among many of them. He knew that there was nothing his mother or sister, or he himself had done to offend their neighbors. It was Papa who gave offense and made trouble.

    Already it was the end of the week, and like the shift in the day from morning to afternoon, there was the shift also at the middle of the week from a light heart to the grip of dread in Papa's return.

    "Ana, it is time for bed," said Mama wearily. Ramiro stood also. "Ramiro, where are you going?"

    "I must take a walk, Mama. I will not stay late."

    "Be careful, Ramiro." She rose and went through the door behind Ana, her jaded, calloused hands resting on Ana's shoulders.

    Ramiro set out toward the center of the village with his bare feet lingering on the dew settled dirt that was quickly losing the heat of the day. He paused a distance away from the plaza when some men exited the cantina and sat down at an outside table; then he hid at the edge of their shadows cast by the lamp hanging from a beam.

    They cast their furtive glances, heads burrowed deep into their shoulders. There were too many ears in the cantina, only Ramiro outside, close enough to overhear, but he was hidden and would remain so. The voices he knew, and the dimly lit features of their faces. He knew each, and there were three together, and they believed they were alone.

    "I do not care what he does away from Ancihuacuaro," said Manuel.

The second, whose name was Felipe, puffed briefly then and examined his cigarette. "Something must be done."

    The first, who was thin and had the face of a weasel and sharp eyes, asked, "Did you teach your wife a lesson, Ramon?"

    "Si. I did. She did not speak to me for three whole days. But she made for me the best meals I have ever tasted."

    The other two smiled and agreed and drank from their cups. Smoke curled in the light, repelling the insects gathering to the lamp away from the table. It was the third one, Ramon, who voiced the meaning of the small meeting.    "I threatened to kill the man she slept with."

    "He is a bad man," said Manuel.

    "Very bad," agreed Felipe. His cigarette had burned away so that it was too small to smoke, and he built another. "He should be dealt with."

    Manuel's eyes searched quickly but efficiently the plaza. No one spoke. They appeared to take time to enjoy the night and the smoke and the drink, and the warm glow on the table from the lamp, but mostly they seemed to consider where their conversation should lead.

    Ramiro's legs cramped, for he had not moved a muscle during this time. Even the crickets had lost track of him and began to chirp again where he waited.

    "We should all kill him together," said Manuel.

    "No!" said Ramon in protest. "You should not involve yourselves."

    "We each have a wife," answered Felipe. "And Pedro is a dangerous man. It could take the three of us."

    The name was Papas! It startled Ramiro.

    Manuel's sharp eyes were on him, but this man with the weasel face made no move from his position at the table to look around. He shrugged and carried on with his companions.

    "We should wait outside the village for Pedro to return," said Felipe freely.

"He carries a pistol," warned Manuel.

    "We will meet him on the road as if we are traveling it." Felipe's suggestion carried weight among them.

    Ramon nodded. "Tomorrow."

    The lamplight faded for an instant and flared. Felipe dashed his second cigarette on the ground with his foot and the three rose and went back inside.

* * *

    Ramiro's thoughts would not let him sleep that night as he lay on his cot. In the morning he lay ill. Mama brought him food but he could not eat. Ana would not see him. Mama was distressed, but he knew it was not because of his illness, for she looked too many times out the windows and the front door, and breathed deeply to calm herself when there was nothing to see. No word of Papa was spoken.

    He felt the shift of the day from morning to afternoon when it came, even inside while lying on his cot, thinking then that he had spent too much time in bed. He got up and dressed. Mama did not notice him, but fretted instead over the condition of the house and the food she was preparing for Papa as soon as he should arrive, and Ramiro went outside undetected, but he did not sneak out. He went to the trees to find Ana.

    "Don't climb too high, Ana," said Ramiro

    Ana craned her neck to look down through the limbs and the leaves. "You worry too much, Ramiro. I will be all right. I want to see when Papa comes home. Then I will tell Mama so she can be ready, for it scares her to know he is coming. Yet I wish I had the courage to take the gun over the ridge into the arroyo and shoot him instead as he rides the horse through the stream."

    Ramiro frowned. "It is terrible, the way you talk. If Papa heard it he would kill you."

    "He might kill Mama, and she does nothing. She is too worried to do anything. It does not look right for her to fight against him so she does nothing."

    "It is dangerous to talk that way, Ana. I fear for you."

    "Is it so much worse for me to be dead?"

    "What do you know about death? You are but a child."

    "I know how my heart feels. It is dead when Papa comes. It is dead like Senor Gomez who was buried last week."

    "Mama needs you, Ana. Please go be with Mama. She is upset."

    "What of you?"

    "I will watch for Papa."

    "Mama and I will wait together. Maybe Papa will feel better today," said Ana.

    "I will speak to him. I will tell him the things Mama has done to please him," said Ramiro.

* * *

    The afternoon was warm and still when he arrived at the edge of the depression and looked down upon the arroyo and the stream Papa must cross to follow the road home from Morelia. A fly whined toward him and away. Birds banked gracefully in the blue sky, catching warm updrafts to soar upon. Behind Ramiro in the distance but before the house where Ana and Mama waited, the mesquite trees stood, and he wished it were the week before, the day before possibly, because he could remember easier times.

    He went down to the creek and rested. He sat at the edge of it. He dozed in the warm sun until Papa rode over the brow of the depression on his sorrel horse with the four white stocking legs. "Papa," said Ramiro. The horse stood in the water and drank.

    "Ramiro. You have come to see me home."

    Papa was not the most handsome man. He rode straight in his saddle though, proud of the mare he owned. When he walked it was with a swagger, and when drunk he boasted of his exploits. People disliked his manner, finding it unpalatable to know he had a family yet was not at home where he should be. It was not his fault, people had heard him say, that he had only two children but could have no more.

    "Some men have plotted to kill you, Papa," said Ramiro.

    "So, maybe I shall teach them a lesson."

    "Look what I have brought." Ramiro unfolded the oiled rag.

    "See, it is your pistol."

    "With my pistol I will surely teach them a lesson," said Papa. "Bring it here, Ramiro. Tell me the names of these conspirators."

    "These men are not very bad. They are upset with you. It is possible they will do nothing," explained Ramiro.

    "Then they must fear me." Papa was pleased. "I will visit them each one when you tell me who they are."

    "I believe they are unimportant, Papa. I believe they will attempt nothing."

    "It is enough they have plotted to kill me."

    "Please, Papa."

    "You seem to wish to protect them, Ramiro." Papa's voice was hard.

    "You haven't asked about Mama or Ana, Papa. Would you like to know how they are?"

    "I wish to know of these conspirators instead," demanded Papa. "Nothing more. I am eager to know in who wants to kill me."

    "Please Papa. It is terrible the thing that I think to do now," said Ramiro, and the rag that had wrapped the pistol fell away to the ground at Ramiro's feet.

* * *

    Later in the day Ramiro sat with Ana and Mama on the weathered bench against the house as the shadows drew long into the evening, and thought only of tomorrow and the days after. Tomorrow he must work harder and longer. He must not climb the trees with Ana. He must go to the plaza and look for work in the afternoon after completing his chores. As the man of the house, he must do this.

    "Ramiro? Ana? Do you think something has happened to Papa?" said Mama.

    Ramiro sat in silence. Tomorrow he might claim the sorrel mare with the four white legs and sell it, he thought.