CHAPTER NINE
“Hola,” Jorge said.
The man on the left was dressed like one of Mr. Wilcox’s banker friends, although his suit was rumpled, the sleeves ragged and his necktie twisted to one side. He was short, fat, and balding, with thick hands and pasty, wormlike fingers. He was a man who’d never performed manual labor.
The other man was close to the porch steps. Despite the heat, he was dressed in brown coveralls and there were dark blotches along the front.
Blood?
The man in coveralls was tall and lean, his face pocked and stubbled. He looked familiar, with his slicked-back hair, green baseball cap, and thick eyebrows, but Jorge was pretty sure the man wasn’t one of the farmhands. Perhaps he worked on one of the construction crews.
Neither man responded to his greeting. Jorge lifted the machete, which had been dangling along his right thigh. Jorge wasn’t sure whether they were sick like Willard White. They didn’t look dangerous, but their quietness disturbed him.
He pointed the machete at the banker and waved the blade down the driveway, indicating that the man should go.
There is no car. How long has he been here?
Maybe the man had walked from town, but that would have taken a day. Jorge couldn’t imagine the plump man walking the length of the gravel drive, much less the ten miles to town. Not in those fancy leather shoes.
“You,” Jorge said to the man in coveralls. “Move away.”
The man turned his back and started up the steps. The banker finally blinked, the first motion to cross his face since Jorge had emerged from the barn.
Jorge pictured little Marina inside the house, and Rosa frightened of the noises outside and unable to hide it. “Stop,” he said, afraid to shout.
The man in coveralls ignored him, crossing the porch to the front door, his heavy boots drumming the wooden boards. Unlike Willard, the man in coveralls moved with purpose, although his gait was jerky and unbalanced.
He’s trying to get in.
Ignoring the banker, who at one time would have commanded almost as much polite respect as Mr. Wilcox, Jorge ran for the porch. If he moved fast enough, the man in coveralls wouldn’t reach the door.
But as Jorge raised the machete and prepared to launch himself up the steps, he sensed motion to the left. The banker closed in with a speed that belied his girth. He slammed into Jorge, wrapping him in a hug and knocking them both to the ground. The machete flew from Jorge’s fingers.
Jorge rolled, scrabbling for purchase on the lawn. The banker gripped him around one thigh, and Jorge kicked backward, pounding into the man’s shoulder. The man’s face was pink with effort. He appeared to be grinning.
“You blanco culito,” Jorge muttered, not wanting to raise his voice.
The “white little asshole” clung to Jorge, his expensive jacket ripping. Jorge kicked and spider-crawled backwards. The crazy attacker still clung to him.
The man in coveralls reached the door and rattled the knob.
While the banker was definitely afflicted with whatever had contaminated Willard, the man in coveralls acted with intent and intelligence. Jorge considered him as the more dangerous of the two, but first he’d have to deal with the banker.
Jorge used a trick he’d learned while wrestling the boars. Mr. Wilcox made them castrate the young male pigs that weren’t needed for breeding. Jorge resented the blood and violence of the act, but now he was grateful for the experience.
Treat the banker like a pig.
The banker didn’t have the strength of a young boar. Jorge straddled the banker’s upper chest with his legs, squeezing him in a scissors grip. The banker bellowed and pushed forward, scraping Jorge’s back but moving them both closer to the machete.
The man in coveralls slammed his fist against the front door.
If you make Marina cry, I will castrate you.
And that was when Jorge recognized him. He was the farrier who visited once a month and trimmed the horses’ hooves and replaced their metal shoes. While the banker had been inside the house, probably sipping lemonade or brown liquor in the den, the farrier had no right seeking entry. Workers never went inside the Wilcox house.
The machete lay five feet out of reach, and the banker wasn’t letting Jorge gain any traction. Jorge squeezed the man harder between his knees. His thighs trembled with fear, rage, and exertion.
The farrier pounded on the door with both fists, the noise like a horse galloping across a wooden bridge.
Jorge thought he heard a scream inside the house.
That would be Rosa. Marina is the calm one. Marina would never break her promise to be good.
He was almost as angry at Rosa as he was the two men. Marina would be an American, not so weak with her emotions.
But the scream fueled him. He grabbed the banker’s head and slammed his face into the ground. A soft merp of surprise flew from the man’s mouth on impact. He hardly seemed to notice the pain.
The banker’s head lifted. Those dry eyes looked right through Jorge and into the Badlands beyond everything.
The man’s pink skull enraged him. The banker became the symbol of all the times he’d had to stand with his hat in his hands, all the nodding and sweating in the immigration offices, all the frowns and smirks in the feed store when Jorge picked up farm supplies. The banker was bacon in a world where Jorge could only afford salted fatback.
Jorge punched at the man, banging against one rubbery ear. He drew back for a second blow, but the banker crawled forward when Jorge’s legs unclenched.
Now the banker was on top of him like a lover, a stench of musky sweat mingled with faint fancy cologne. Jorge swung again but the blow was stunted. It bounced off the man’s shoulder.
“Get off,” Jorge grunted at the man.
The banker wriggled higher onto Jorge’s chest, his bulk making it difficult for Jorge to toss him aside. Then his breath was on Jorge’s face and it stank like a barn stall.
He’s smiling. Like this is American football.
Jorge angled his neck until he could see the farrier at the door. The man had stopped pounding and was fishing in one of the thigh pockets of the coveralls. He emerged with a set of metal pinchers, a tool used to trim hooves. Jorge shoved the banker as the farrier clamped the tool on the door lock and began twisting with a skree of metal.
The banker lunged forward again, his glistening forehead now right at Jorge’s chin, and Jorge had to fight an urge to bite into pink flesh.
Instead, he used the momentum to slide them both forward another foot until his fingers found the machete handle.
He waggled the blade through the air, unable to get a clean arc. The side of the steel blade slapped against the banker’s back with a thwack. The banker, apparently not able to understand that the blade could harm him, ignored it and continued to grind himself against Jorge as if to smother him.
Jorge got a better swing the second time and the blade cleaved through the fancy jacket and struck meat. Blood spouted from the wound.
The banker’s face curdled in confusion. Jorge hewed another opening across the man’s back.
Now the banker relaxed his grip enough for Jorge to kick free and roll to his knees, just in time to see the door open in front of the farrier.
He’s broken in—
Jorge’s heart fluttered in fear. He used the adrenalin to hurtle toward the porch, blood dripping from the machete blade. He was off balance, the bright sun blinding him, and the creaking of the door hinges seemed as loud as an animal’s scream.
He wasn’t going to make it in time. The farrier entered the house, the wicked tool dangling at his side.
He waited for Rosa’s scream. He leaped up the steps and raised the machete.
But before Jorge could enter, a loud ka-doom poured through the doorway. Jorge entered to the acrid smell of gun smoke in the air.
The farrier lay facedown on the floor, a patch of crimson blossoming across the back of his coveralls. Rosa stood by the k
itchen counter, the shotgun in her slender arms.
A blue thread of smoke curled from the barrel as if she’d just burned the toast instead of killing a man.
Not a man. A thing. A pig.
“Marina?” Jorge asked her.
“In the closet.”
Where the guns were. Jorge pictured Rosa shoving Marina in there and grabbing the gun. Maybe he didn’t know his wife at all.
“Who is he?” Rosa asked.
“The horseman.”
“He’s dead?”
Jorge nudged the corpse with his boot. It lay like a sack of rotted potatoes. “Sí.”
“Who are these people?”
“Something has changed.” Jorge laid the bloody machete on the granite countertop, crossed the kitchen, and opened the pantry door. Marina sat hunched on a cardboard case of wine, her hands over her ears, hair trailing over her face.
He knelt and brushed her hair away until she peeked at him.
“Is the bad man gone?” she asked. Her voice wasn’t trembling or whiny, just cautious, like she’d done something bad but wasn’t sure what.
“Yes, tomatillo, he’s gone.”
“It’s not like on TV, is it? Where the bad man comes back after you think he’s gone?”
Jorge hugged her, glancing back into the kitchen. From there, he could see the farrier’s feet. “No, this isn’t TV.”
But he’d forgotten about the banker. Jorge had delivered several vicious blows with the blade but probably not enough to kill. “Stay here, okay? Un momento.”
He was slipping, using Spanish. Marina would never become American if he didn’t control himself. She nodded and even gave him a tired smile. He reached behind her and took the hunting rifle with the big scope. He didn’t know what caliber it was, but the shell he’d put in the chamber was nearly as thick as his pinky.
Yes, smile in the face of danger and you will fit in here. Because America is a dangerous land.
He closed the pantry door and Rosa was waiting, still cradling the shotgun. Her eyes were wide and wet with fear, but her jaw was firm.
“Is the other one dead?” she said, quietly so that Marina couldn’t hear, although it seemed as if the boom of the gun still echoed off the kitchen tiles.
“I need to check.”
“I saw through the window. And when he came up on the porch—”
“You did well. Stay while I check on the other one, the banker.”
“Will we be in trouble? For killing these white men?”
Jorge didn’t tell her about Willard. “I don’t know who would cause trouble. Mr. Wilcox is dead. Who would call the police?”
“The phone doesn’t work.”
Jorge took a position near the big window, parting the white curtain with the tip of the rifle barrel. The banker was on all fours, crawling away from the porch. His jacket was shredded and his tie dragged in the dirt. Jorge wondered if he should shoot the man. Was the man in pain, or was he beyond feeling? The anger that Jorge had felt when his family was threatened washed away and left him tired and confused.
“What do we do now?” Rosa said behind him.
“We could stay,” he said, not liking his indecision. He’s always been the patriarch. And now his wife was a protector, a killer, while he let a man crawl away who had attacked him and threatened his family.
“What if there are others? Mr. Wilcox had many friends.”
“He had no friends. He had people who wanted his money.”
And now we have everything he once owned.
Jorge glanced at the giant TV mounted to the wall in the living room, the shadows of the tree branches from outside swaying across the black surface. The high glass cabinet held carved wooden ducks, fish, and turtles, as well as ivory elephants that Mr. Wilcox had boasted were illegal to own. Above the marble fireplace was a painting of black people cutting wheat with hand scythes.
Upstairs, in the dresser beside Mr. Wilcox’s puffy and waxy corpse, Jorge had found eight thousand dollars in a cigar box. He had been afraid to take the money, sure that rich people had a way to track cash.
Everything Mr. Wilcox owned is now worthless, except these guns and the food in the pantry.
Jorge glanced at the farrier’s cooling corpse and the pool of blood that was already coagulating around it.
And horses.
“Get Marina ready,” Jorge said.
“Ready?”
“Load some backpacks with food we can eat on the road.”
“So, we’re not staying here?”
“More people may come. I don’t want to wait.”
Jorge felt a surge of strength as he took control of the situation. He was still masculino. But he kept the rifle, even though he sheathed the machete. Locking the front door behind him, he checked the banker’s progress. The banker was halfway down the drive, flies already circling him in black clouds.
Soon the vultures will have him.
Jorge studied the sky, wondering whether his family would change, would become like them.
But such worries would make him weak, and Marina and Rosa needed him to be strong. Plus he had the rifle. He thought again about Mr. Wilcox’s money and all the useless comforts of his boss’s life. He wasn’t an overly religious man, despite his Catholic upbringing. But perhaps the meek truly did inherit the Earth.
It was as good an explanation as any why the three of them had been unaffected by the sun sickness.
He went to the barn to saddle the horses.