Dorothea Dreams (Heirloom Books) (27 page)

The house was so quiet. No faint, lively music from a late-night party down the street, no traffic, no sirens. Just the hissing of the tv.

The goddamn tv news. He’d expected them at least to talk with his mother. How do you feel, Mrs. Cantu, about what your son is doing? They always asked about feelings, like feelings were news. You’d see a lady with tears all over her face because of a dead kid or something, and some jerk would stick a microphone in her face and ask how she felt.

He looked at the black window panes, thinking apprehensively, I should go out and have a look around. I should get the hell out of here anyhow. This place. Silent, like under a spell. So where was this ghost that had her so rattled?

The old lady was weird, all right; her and the Englishman. Maybe he was here for a cure, because she had secret witch powers.

Well, wasn’t everything working out just like a witch would plan it? Blanca sick, Bobbie as good as out cold, Roberto himself dozed off in front of the tv while the cops sneaked up? For all he knew, those kids were getting away right now, through some secret door or something. Shit, if she wasn’t a witch, wouldn’t he have bashed her one when she called him a bastard?

That was what he knew his teachers in school had always wanted to say to him, you could see it in their faces: bastard, bum, all the rest, what did she say? He didn’t remember, that’s how much it meant to him, man. She’d said it all out loud and right to his face, and only a witch would have the nerve to do that. But here he still was, guns and all. So big deal.

They were lucky that Angie and fat Paul had ducked out of their stupid class trip — less people to handle. Not too many for himself and Bobbie. Bobbie the wimp — well, he was doing okay for a wimp. Maybe he’d remember how to be a man before this was all over, maybe he’d turn out okay after all, instead of just a whiner you only kept with you to point a gun at people. Too bad Blanca was a girl and stuck in that cast or she’d be great to have along. But Bobbie would do. Things could be worse. A guy could be completely on his own in this thing.

He got up and moved around the room, carrying the shotgun. Broken glass crunched under his boot sole. Busted the old lady’s place up for her a little; she’d remember him, all right.

He shouldn’t even be thinking about her and her stupid ghost. He should be thinking about taking off for Canada in the morning. Man, there would be some scene with Blanca, she was so set on going the whole way with him. As if he could take a little crip like her along! She’d fuss and scream, maybe even pretend to have an attack, but she’d be all right. Bobbie might catch some shit, but Blanca would go home, back to Pinto Street. Nobody would dare to do a damn thing to her, because she was so delicate and all.

Tomorrow. I couldn’t leave before, not with her sick like that. But tomorrow morning I’ll go. Be great to get out of this witchy old house, too.

Meantime, to take his mind off how weird it was, why not go get something going with one of those chicks locked up in the studio? Cindy and Sarah in their tight clothes. They kept hanging on each other and staring, man, you could tell they were interested: watching every move, watching the man in charge. And that other one, the soppy one, Joyce: she was more scared, and she probably thought she was too good for it and would put up a fight. Would that be so bad, to have a little wrestle and then stick it to her? He remembered now that Alex had once told him something about her putting out for a couple of guys from her school. Anglo guys, probably. Well, he could show her something all right.

And they’d come across. They’d have to. They were in a spot where they couldn’t say no, which was hot. You could have one of them if you wanted. More than one. Or have one now and take the other one as your hostage and screw her later.

His mind veered from the complications of taking one of them along. But it wasn’t time for that yet. Stay with now, just go get one for now. No point waking Bobbie and inviting him in. He was too chicken. Tell him in the morning, watch him squirm.

Roberto stepped out into the hallway and stopped, listening.

At least that mother-fucking black dog, that you wouldn’t even see in the dark until it was right on you, wouldn’t be coming around. He was glad it was dead. It was like a witch’s black cat.

Shit. He’d started to have a hard-on, thinking about those chicks, but it was gone now. You wouldn’t get anywhere with them anyhow, not with that old bitch looking on. She’d freeze your balls with her stare.

He remembered going in there earlier, taking Mrs. Howard back inside. Those two girls had some pictures out on the floor. Pictures by the old lady, he guessed. There was one of a wild-looking guy with long hair and a tough, mean face. It had really jolted him. So ugly!! What would you make a picture of a face like that for? Maybe it was part of the magic? Maybe that was what the ghost looked like? Maybe that was why the old lady had no pictures of her own hanging on the walls of her house; maybe her stuff was too strong, it could do things to people, so she kept it locked out of sight in that studio.

He imagined her squatting in the middle of the floor in there while the others slept, making a drawing in blood by moonlight, a picture of Quita, maybe, or of himself: laying a curse. What was the use of heading out of here if there was a curse laid on you by a witch? Shouldn’t have talked to her like that or busted up her living room, but shit, she asked for it, man. She really did.

I can stop her, he thought. Go right over there and blast her. No talk, no time for magic, just step outside and aim in through one of those big windows and let her have it, man. Blam! She’s gone.

Quickly, silently, he went out the back door from the kitchen and stood listening in the night. It was cool and clean-smelling out here. The moon was big and glowing. It felt so good to be outside all alone, in the quiet. Like last year before Mindy used the car all the time, when he used to drive up into the Sandias before going to work. He’d take that old bow of Jimmie Archuletta’s and hunt deer before anybody else was awake, even. He never got any, but man that had been something. He’d been going to do it again this fall, but now he’d be someplace else.

He liked this too, right now: being the only one awake, free, roaming around quiet in the dark in his own kind of country.

Something moved, over past the low patio wall, something sniffed and whined. Roberto stared, his scalp creeping. Then he laughed. It was the other dog, of course, the gray one that looked like a clown, what else could it be? Not the dead black one, that he could just make out lying still on the hillside. Now, that would be something, the ghost of a dog!

He let himself out the gate and the gray dog came and sniffed at his hand with its sharp, cold nose. He scratched its curly head and breathed deep.

He should be looking around for cops.

But he knew in his guts there weren’t any out there: no ghosts, no cops. The night felt friendly. When the dog went trotting away down the arroyo behind the house, he followed, moving quietly the way he knew how to do from hunting, happy in the pattern of hard black shadows and bright slaps of chilly moonlight across the sandy ground.

Could just keep walking, he thought, hit a road someplace. Hitch a ride, disappear. Let them all wonder. The invisible man, gone without a trace, no more decisions to make about other people, no hollering and tears from Blanca, write a post-card home from Nome. Home from Nome; that sounded funny.

Something winked and flashed in the moonlight ahead. Some kind of building, one of those metal kind, to shine like that? In front of some sort of a dark hill? More cautiously, he advanced, while the gray dog loped on ahead out of sight.

It was not a building. It was a whole hillside, a rib of rock sticking up out of the ground like a wall and covered with bright and dark veins, sparkling and darkling like the side of some fantastic huge space-ship.

He moved closer, the shotgun a comforting weight in his hands. Like the magnified eyes of a million insects, darkly gleaming rounds of glass peered out of the rock at him, next to a ripply sweep of something satin-silver, not can-tabs from aluminum pop-cans? And wire, rusty wire flowing long like the hair of a woman with snarls in it? He stared and stared, walking slowly along and touching it: pitted glass, rusty metal, slick plastic, all the darks and lights the moon showed him. Old iron washers, velvety dark with rust. Bottle caps, the heads of nails, old ones and new ones clustered together.

His eyes felt like they were pushing wide open in his head trying to take in everything, it was so damn big, all these streamers and waves of brightness and darkness rippling across the rock where someone’s hands had fixed them.

Something brushed his knee. He jumped, swinging the gun, but it was only the curly gray dog. It stood watching him, one paw raised, delicate and nervous.

Her dog. It had led him here.

Small footprints in the sand at the bottom of the wall. Her prints. Her work.

Suddenly the night wasn’t his any more. It was hers. This was her mark on it, on this whole place, night or day. He hunched his shoulders.

But those were just keys there, and little cog-wheels from all kinds of busted old machines. Just any old junk. You can’t make real magic out of junk; nobody could. He was just walking around all wide-eyed in front of a big rock wall covered with pieces of goddamn junk you could pick up any day on the road or in your own back yard!

He uttered a raucous shout of laughter.

There was no ghost, and this great glittering thing like the wing of an intergalactic bird was just a lot of glued-together trash.

He set the shotgun down on the ground — firing at the wall could get him hit by a ricochet — and felt around with both hands till he found a loose rock with some heft to it. But though he hurled it against the gleaming surface, the rock just rebounded and thudded back into the dirt. Cursing, he retrieved it. He walked up to the stupid wall, braced his feet apart, and began pounding, holding the rock with both hands and putting his back into each swing.

Something gave, bits pattered onto the ground between his feet. Splinters of glass flashed in the moonlight. Then his stone hammer split in two and dropped out of his hands.

It was all right; he’d done the job. He stepped back, panting with effort and brushing stone-dust from his palms. Where’s your ghosts and magic now, you crazy old
bruja!

Bobbie woke up alone and scared. The tv was blank and hissing. Roberto was gone.

Bobbie had dreamed that he sneaked up onto the hillside while Roberto wasn’t looking and found the dog still alive; he could save its life.

Just a dream. I wish I’d never come here. Can they put us in jail for killing Mrs. Howard’s dog?

I need somebody to talk to.

He got up and pulled on his boots. Roberto would be out on watch, most likely, but Blanca was probably sitting up, sick, and happy to have company.

Just to be safe, he took the twenty-two.

The room Blanca was supposed to be sleeping in was empty. The air was rich with steam. The bathroom door was open; she wasn’t in there. He retreated quickly, his breath coming fast now. She was probably just in the kitchen looking for a midnight snack.

The next door, the door to the sick man’s room, was wide open. Nobody was in there either, just rucked up sheets on the bed. God, had the old guy been faking? Had he fooled Blanca into unlocking his door, and then grabbed her and hid her someplace?

Bobbie heard a voice over the thunder of his pulse. The tone was conversational, the voice was the skinny man’s with that faggy accent. He was out there, talking, in the little walled patio beyond his empty bedroom.

Bobbie crossed the darkened room as quietly as he could and pressed himself, rifle at the ready, to the wall beside the open door to the patio.

The man lay on a reclining chair in his pajamas, a pillow behind his head. Blanca sat on the edge of a little stone fountain, her back against the central pillar of it, her feet hanging in mid-air.

“— in the South Valley,” she was saying, “and he’s a real radical. I think he used to be a member of the Brown Berets, so he’s pretty militant for a priest.” She opened her blanket and spread it, settling it higher on her shoulders. There was something bat-like in the gesture that made Bobbie’s skin crawl.

Maybe he even made a sound, because suddenly she looked right at him and said, “Bobbie, what are you doing?”