I rode into Las Floritas one afternoon, looking forward to washing off the road dust and taking a long nap when Maria Theresa Santiago hailed me from her front porch.
"Eduardo Bartzaga Ezekiel," she said sternly. "Why haven't you visited me lately?" Although Doņa Maria is only four and a half feet tall, she has the regal bearing of a queen and the iron will of a tsar. The silvery braid pinned in a circle on top of her head only enhanced her imperious demeanor.
I stopped my horse and pulled the hat from my head. "Forgive me, Doņa Maria," I apologized. "I haven't been home much these past six months." Since my mother died last spring, I'd been breaking in a new partner and had been home to Las Floritas only twice.
Pursing her lips in dismay, Maria shook a bony finger at me. "Come over this evening for dinner," she said imperiously. "I have something I wish to discuss with you."
"Yes, ma'am," I answered. Even if she didn't have anything to discuss, I'd come for the food. Doņa Maria was a wonderful cook.
As if she'd read my mind, Maria eyes twinkled and a small smile appeared. "Men," she said gruffly. "Walking stomachs, the lot of you. Be here at six."
"Yes, ma'am."
I was on her doorstep at precisely six o'clock. Doņa Maria served tamales, which she knew I loved. We spoke in Spanish, because Maria refuses to speak English. Lately, I've become more and more certain that she understands English quite well. She asked me polite questions about my work and my new partner as we ate. As Maria pushed the last serving of tamales onto my plate, I got the distinct impression that she was buttering me up for something.
"Leave those until later," she said as I moved to collect the plates and carry them to the kitchen. "Let's talk outside on the porch." Maria poured two cups of coffee and I carried them to the porch on a tray.
"Do you still smoke Regalitas?" she asked.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Bring two," she said imperiously. "We'll smoke them together."
I lifted my eyebrows in surprise, but went back into the house and pulled two cigars from my coat pocket. I gave Maria one and lit it for her. I watched her out of the corner of my eye as I lit my own cigar to see if she'd cough. She took a deep pull and blew a stream of smoke towards the porch roof. Maria caught me looking and said, "I've been smoking since before you were born, young Eduardo."
"Yes, ma'am," I smiled. She smiled too.
"Consuela thinks I shouldn't smoke at my age," Maria said gruffly, nodding her head towards her daughter's house across the street. "But I decided that at my age, I would do anything I damn well pleased." Doņa Maria turned eighty last April. I know; I attended the party in her honor.
"You resemble your grandfather," Maria said quietly. "Especially with that beard."
I stroked the moustache and goatee that encircled my mouth. I'd grown them when I first became a bounty hunter because they made me look older. Then it hit me that she said grandfather, not father.
"My grandfather?" I stammered. I'd been told all my life how much I resembled my father. Many people in Las Floritas still called me, 'Nathaniel Segundo'. But I had little knowledge of either grandfather. My father had never known his own father. My maternal grandfather had come to Las Floritas from Spain to paint a commission work for the abbey. He'd covered the ceiling and the altar wall of the Church of Santa Maria las Floritas with images of Our Lord, the Holy Mother, saints and angels. All were life-size and so life-like that you'd swear they would step out of the fresco at any time.
"You knew he painted the church, no?" Maria asked.
"Yes, ma'am," I replied. "But Mamá would never talk about him." My dad told me once when I was young that my grandfather had painted the church, but my mother had hissed at him to be quiet and he never spoke of it again to me.
"Ah, well," Doņa Maria settled in for her story. "Carlos Bartzaga was an arrogant man, used to having his way. The commission to paint the church came to him from the archbishop we had at the time, a man from Seville who knew of your grandfather's work there. Carlos had recently lost his wife to childbirth and had two small children to support."
Two children? I thought, but she silenced my unspoken question with a stern look.
"Such a stupid man!" Maria rolled her eyes heavenward. "Dragging two small children half-way around the world with him!" She reached over and patted my arm. "Your mother was about ten years old when I first met her, and already she was shouldering the responsibilities of caring for her father and brother. Her brother, Antonio, was a few years younger. He was an imbecile. He would always have the mind of a small child. Oh, he could follow simple directions, but he had to be helped to dress and to take care of himself. Antonio helped your grandfather in his work, mixing paint, cleaning brushes, sometimes spreading the plaster for the painting. Your mother adored him."
"Poor little Sofia would come home from school, cook the food, clean the house and wash the clothes---all without one word of thanks from her father. I used to give Cecelia packages of food to take to Sofia so the poor child wouldn't have to work so hard."
I looked at her in surprise. "Thank you for your generosity," I said, wondering how a widow with eleven children could have spared food for three more mouths.
Doņa Maria made a dismissive gesture with her hand. "Your mother and father have repaid me tenfold," she said.
"When your parents fell in love and decided to marry, Carlos flew into a rage. He wanted Sofia to stay with him, to care for his needs. Nathaniel tried to reason with him, saying that it would be easy to enlarge his house to make rooms for both Carlos and Antonio, but Carlos would have none of it. Antonio liked your father, probably because Nathaniel treated him like a normal person." Maria gave a short laugh. "Antonio would imitate your father's laugh."
That was one of the things I missed the most about my father: his laugh. A deep bass laugh that made you smile to hear it. It ached even now to know that it had been silenced forever. Doņa Maria stopped for a moment, watching my face in concern.
"I'm afraid to ask what happened," I finally managed to whisper, not meeting her sharp eyes.
"Carlos felt that Sofia was betraying him. He was nearly done with the church and had been looking for another commission. He wanted Sofia to come with him to care for him and for Antonio. Your father, bless his soul, even offered to move with them, just to be with Sofia. He said that cowhands could always find work. But Carlos was adamant. Sofia was to follow him."
"Poor Sofia had to choose between her family and the man she loved. When she chose to stay with Nathaniel, Carlos flew into a rage and disowned her."
No wonder Mamá never wanted to talk about it, I thought. To drag up all that pain and guilt.
Doņa Maria grimaced. "The morning of the wedding, Carlos and Antonio could not be found. Carlos' paints and what few clothes and things they possessed were gone. Sofia was frantic. Nathaniel wanted to postpone the wedding and go after them, but when Sofia looked in the church for signs of her father, she saw that Carlos had truly disowned her. You see, Carlos would always finish his paintings by putting the names of his family somewhere in the design. You know the vines in the corner of the altar wall, behind the pulpit?"
I nodded.
"Look closely at the tendrils. They spell out Carlos, Alejandra, who was his wife, and Antonio. Before he left, Carlos painted over Sofia's name. To erase her from his family."
"It's finally starting to make sense," I murmured.
Doņa Maria's sharp eyes pierced me. "You had guessed this?"
"No," I replied. "I had it wrong. Almost two years ago, I was riding through a town called Caledonia. It's about two hundred and fifty miles north of here. As I rode past the cemetery on the edge of town, I saw a tombstone with the name, Antonio Bartzaga." I shrugged. "I was curious. I had never met anyone else with Mamá's maiden name. I stopped at the church to look at the burial records." I took a final drag on my cigar and ground it out on my boot heel.
"The church in Caledonia was painted like the church here. The figures were different, but the style was the same. That's where Grandfather Carlos must have gone when he left here. I asked the padre about the painter, but he said that the church had been painted many years before he arrived. He suggested that I talk to the owner of the livery, an old man who'd lived in Caledonia all his life."
"The liveryman told me that a man and his son painted the church. It took them the better part of ten years to finish it. He said that the son was simple, but was such a happy fellow that everyone in town liked him and looked out for him."
"When the painting was nearly finished, the son, who must have been Antonio, collapsed in a violent seizure."
"He used to have them here," Doņa Maria said quietly. "Seizures. Frightening to behold. Sofia would rush to his side and talk to him, hold his hand and rub the small of his back as he lay on his side. It had to have been terrifying to have the seizures without Sofia there to comfort him."
"Antonio didn't survive that seizure. The liveryman said that the father was frantic, out of his mind with grief. He went into the church and painted the last corner in a frenzy. The priest at the time didn't have the heart to shoo him out when it got dark, just left Carlos there with a few candles. The next morning, when they looked for Carlos to attend the funeral, he was gone. He'd taken his things and left. No one knew where to look for him. So they buried Antonio in the town cemetery. He was young, not yet twenty-five."
"And you and your mother visited Caledonia?"
I nodded. "When I returned home from that trip, I told Mamá about what I'd seen. She didn't say anything at the time, but later that night I heard her crying in her room. She wouldn't unlock the door or tell me what was wrong." I grimaced at the memory of how helpless I felt, how left out. My mother loved to talk, and loved to listen to my stories when I got home. It hurt to have her shut me out like that.
Doņa Maria patted my arm again. "Eduardo, listen to me. You don't know how it is to be cut off from your family. You were the center of your parent's life, the essence of their love. It's one thing to lose them to Death. That you eventually accept. But to be cut off from a family that is still alive is worse than death. You wonder, and you worry, but you can do nothing for those you care about. ŋComprendes?"
I thought about what my mother must have gone through after her father left so abruptly. She would have worried about Carlos and Antonio just as she had worried about my father and me. At least Dad and I had been there with her, to prove to her with her own eyes that her fears were unfounded. I nodded again.
"What happened in Caledonia?" Maria prompted.
I sighed. "The next time I came home, Mamá asked me to take her to Caledonia. I guess she'd had time to think about it while I was gone. We took the train to Caledonia and went to the church first. I knew from her gasp that she recognized the painting. We walked the entire church, looking up at the frescoes on the wall and ceiling. Then Mamá fainted."
Doņa Maria's snapped to mine. "Fainted?"
"Yes. We were over near a corner, and Mamá suddenly sagged. If I hadn't had her hand tucked under my arm, she would have fallen. I picked her up and carried her to a pew. The priest, who'd been sweeping the floors, fetched some water for her to drink."
"When Mamá came to, she asked me to show her Antonio's grave. When we got to the cemetery, she asked me to leave her alone for a while. I walked down the road a bit, afraid to let her out of my sight. There were all kinds of wild flowers blooming along the road, so I picked some and carried them back for her to lay on the grave."
"She was so quiet on the trip home. When I tried to ask her questions, she just shook her head and said, 'Not now.' And then when she was dying, I didn't think to ask her."
"You had enough on your mind already," Maria said with surprising softness in her voice. "And I doubt that she would have told you if you had thought to ask. Have you visited Caledonia since then?"
"No," I said. "Although I should. Now that it all makes sense. Do you suppose I should arrange to have Antonio's body brought here? To be buried next to Mamá?"
"I'm certain they are together now," Maria said. "It doesn't matter where their bodies are buried."
We sat quietly together in the dark for a while. I felt better and, surprisingly, worse. If only I'd known, then I could have helped my mother somehow.
"There wasn't a thing you could have done differently," Doņa Maria said, as if reading my mind. "You were a good son, Eduardo, and your parents were so dear to us all. Don't ruin it by thinking about what could have been."
I covered the bony fingers that rested on my arm with my hand. "How did you learn to read minds?" I asked cautiously.
Doņa Maria cackled. "Eleven children. And you boys are all so alike." She looked out across the street. "It's a shame Carlos left. I think you would have been an excellent pupil."
"Me? I'm no artist." I laughed uneasily. "And aren't artists supposed to have fiery tempers or something?"
"I see you when you return from your work," Doņa Maria commented. "Hard-eyed and hating all men. That Ned Ezekiel person you become when you're working." She spat my English name like a curse. "But you go home and bathe, and sleep, and you are Eduardo again."
I blinked. I hoped no one else in Las Floritas was as observant as Maria Theresa Santiago. She'd tagged me exactly.
"You worry that others have seen you as I have seen you," she said, again as if reading my mind. "But they are too busy with their own lives to look closely."
"It's how I've survived doing my job for so long," I admitted. "I didn't want to taint my life here with the evilness I deal with out there."
"Then that is the way it should be," Doņa Maria said, as regally as a queen giving a decree.
I patted her hand. "Thank you," I said. "For easing my mind."
It was nearly six weeks before I could visit Caledonia again. I'd promised to help Maria's son-in-law, Domingo, build a stable. Then I spent the better part of ten days hunting deer. Maria's daughter Cecelia lives next to me and feeds me every chance she gets, so I feel compelled to hunt or fish whenever I could.
I took the train again, and walked over to the cemetery first.
"I wish I could have met you, Tiķ Antonio," I said to the grave. "And I wish things in your family hadn't ended as they did. My mother loved you so very much." I laid the flowers that I'd brought at the foot of the tombstone. I'd picked them in the garden behind my house. I'm certain people on the train thought I was visiting a lady friend. They would have been shocked to learn that the flowers were for an uncle I'd never met, who'd been dead nearly twenty-five years.
I walked to the church and looked at my grandfather's work again. Now that I knew what to look for, I scanned the frescoes for Carlos' signature. I started at the door and moved to my left, inspecting the images ingrained into the plaster. I was almost finished with the first wall when I thought of my mother fainting. What if?
I crossed the floor to the corner where Mamá had fallen. I'd been so preoccupied with her at the time that I failed to look at the paintings there. What I saw brought tears to my eyes. Two young angels were depicted in the corner, holding hands. One had the face of my mother, and the other had the face of a smiling, simple boy. Painted in the tendrils of my mother's hair were the names: Carlos, Alejandra, Sofia, Antonio. Along Antonio's halo were the words: perdone me.
Forgive me.
