When the Owl Cries Part 7

"No."

"You look rested," said Gabriel.

"I'm hungry."

"I'll speak to Chavela," said Gabriel, and started to leave the room.

"I came to tell you I have taken charge of the hacienda. People are hungry and sick. They can't wait any longer." Raul realized that Gabriel had halted abruptly, to listen. He had spoken distinctly but not loudly. He was not disturbed. He felt ashamed of himself for not declaring himself long ago.

His father's eyes flashed with wild anger; his mouth twitched; his jaw dropped; his decayed teeth showed. He raised one hand but it shook, and he shoved it underneath his sheet and tried to sit up. His Adam's apple rose and fell; he gulped and rolled on his pillow. He tried to get one leg out of bed but could not. Patches scabbed his sight; he shook his head but saw his father riding a white range horse. With great difficulty, Fernando made out that Gabriel had returned to his bedside.

"Get out," Fernando managed. "Get out!" he shrilled.

"It's time Raul managed Petaca," said Gabriel kindly. "You must see it his way. You need to rest." He was alarmed by the man's tortured face.

"I am dismissing Pedro Chavez," said Raul. "There will be no more killings on my hacienda."

Fernando's eyes were bloodshot; they flicked from left to right; tears oozed at the corners.

"G.o.d d.a.m.n you!" he said hoa.r.s.ely. He puckered his lips to spit, wanting to catch them both.

"It's time our sick were cared for, Don Fernando," said Gabriel.

"Shut up," said the old man.

They waited a few moments longer by his bed. A burro screeched and hollered in a field. A cloud pa.s.sed over the sun. The old man coughed and faced the ceiling, one hand clenched; the other, beneath the sheet, trembled.

Raul tapped Gabriel's arm and they went out.

In the patio, Raul said, "It's done now."

"He took it hard," said Gabriel.

"When it came time to tell him, I couldn't spare him," said Raul.

"Such hate," said Gabriel,

"He tried to spit on us. Did you see his lips?" asked Raul, resenting the scene, feeling he would never be able to forget it.

"Ssst, Raul. It's bad enough."

"It won't be bad for our people."

"I know ... I know," said Gabriel.

"Tomorrow our people will have grain."

"Tomorrow, yes ... tomorrow," said Gabriel. He brushed flies from his bald spot and scanned the sky, his gold rims twinkling. "It has gotten cloudy. It may rain. The corn needs rain. I must go, Raul. I must talk to others."

Walking away, he felt for the small bronze cross he wore on a neck chain. The cross was buried in the hairs of his throat. He prayed as he walked, fingers enclosing the metal. He prayed for the hacienda people; he asked help for the old man; wisdom for Raul; let good come of this transition, no additional anguish.

In his room, the door closed, a candle lit, he knelt on the bare tiles before the mountain crucifix: as he knelt, a lovely bone figurine appeared on the barren wood: the figure had hung in his mother's house in Padua, very old, very yellow, very fragile. A women knelt beside him, in this illusion, wrapped in a threadbare shawl. It was cloudy and sultry and the Italian light filmed the room; the woman was speaking.

Strange he could not recall her face, only the form, wrapped in blue cloth. The sound of her voice was also lost.

"Mother," he said aloud; then he pushed aside his longing for Italy and his home and family and began to pray:

"Jesus, help us. We are many here. Bless us with a special mercy.

Take us to your sacred heart; we are your children ... the haciendas are headed for troubled times. Help us to be decent to one another."

4

Sitting in his living room, Raul tried to rationalize his own actions.

It still seemed illogical he had waited so long before a.s.suming authority. Slouched in a red plush chair, he regarded his son, writing at the desk, doing an a.s.signment given him by his school. Vicente would return to his school in Colima on Monday. A bra.s.s candlestick, holding five candles, burned beside the boy; the back of his blond head was toward Raul. Raul listened to the scratch of pencil on paper. Now and then Vicente sighed. He was ten, attractive, sweet-mannered, bright, and kind. He said he wanted to become a priest--"like Father Gabriel." Raul hoped he would change his mind and administer Petaca someday. How quiet Vicente had become since Raul had taken over the hacienda! It was as if he understood the gravity of the changes; the responsibilities. Yesterday at breakfast, Chavela had spouted, as she served: "Is it true? What will happen? Is that why Don Fernando won't eat? You know he won't eat anything at all. Why, he won't talk to me!"

Vicente had dug impulsively at his sliced pineapple. "You leave things to Papa," he had said.

Raul went over his decision, blaming the delay on his character. He saw the old Christ face and knew Alberto had sprung the latch, though other things had contributed their influence. He had been too slow, like so many Mexicans--willing to see men suffer. Afraid to stop their suffering. Afraid to be myself, he thought. When have I been myself?

At school, abroad? No, I was a foreigner there, reticent, shy. This is home--Petaca--with its evasions, its ignorance. That's it. Perhaps I'm ignorant, ignorant of life's meaning and my own purpose!

A week or more before in Colima, the fat, ignorant _licenciado_ Don Pascual had had something to say: "Mark my words, Raul, we're in for trouble. Far off, lost as we are in Colima, men are angry. When men grow angry, they're like bees, and when they swarm anything can happen.

Mark my words!"

The Don Pascuals can be right. I must watch my step. I must reform old ways slowly. And he remembered that he had done nothing slowly as yet. Could he learn to work slowly? He brushed his hands restlessly over the arms of his chair.

True, Fernando had refused to eat. He had not summoned Pedro. He talked to no one.

Vicente had gone to him and given him water. He had lingered around his bed and talked; discouraged and embarra.s.sed by his grandfather's silence, he had wandered out of the room.

"Why is he like that, Papa?"

"He'll be all right in a day or two," Raul had a.s.sured him.

Caterina came into the living room, took a book from the corner bookcase, and strode out, unaware of her father and brother. She was slender, dark, olive skinned. She liked to parade about with her wavy hair loose over her shoulders. She loved scarlet dresses and had one on. Only thirteen, she was a rare sight on an hacienda. Raul wondered if she had chosen a book to read to her grandfather. She was fond of him--blind to his cruelties, oblivious of his ugliness. She found in him something no one else could find.

If he continued his starvation, he would soon die.... Fernando Medina, El Clarin, starving himself! It didn't make sense. Perhaps Caterina would induce him to eat. She could coax better than anyone.

Raul was tempted to follow her, but instead he got up and paced the room, walking noiselessly. In front of the fireplace he lit his pipe, flaring the head of the match with his thumb-nail. Vicente smiled at him and he grinned back.

"How are you doing, boy?"

"Almost done."

"Good for you. Is it hard?"