CHAPTER 4: "Unwelcome News"
"Mommy!" Felipe screamed. "Don't die, Mommy! Por favor, don't die!" He shook uncontrollably.
"I'm not, hijo mio." Consuela's voice soothed his terror. Her arms clasped him to her bosom. "Shhh, I'm here. I'm not goin' to die. There, there."
His mother's soft, soothing voice broke the little boy's panic. As he gradually woke up, a new fear welled up in his heart. Suppose his father whipped him for being bad and disrupting his sleep?
"Mommy!" Felipe whispered. "Where--where's Papá?"
"He's gone outside. He couldn't sleep." Consuela brushed his hair out of his eyes and kissed his forehead.
Relieved, Felipe nestled against her. "I've been havin' bad dreams for days and days." He snuffled. "When's it gonna stop?"
Consuela hugged him tightly. "Soon, I pray."
Me, too, Felipe thought. Remembering the priest's advice, he silently prayed that God would help him to not be afraid, and to make his nightmares stop. Consuela rocked him in her arms and sang lullabies to him. Gradually, sleep overcame Felipe.
Suddenly, he felt a rough hand shaking him. "Felipe, wake up!" It was Juan. "We got chores to do."
"Si, Papá." Yawning, Felipe rose to his feet and got dressed. He donned his white, homespun, oversized cotton shirt, his matching baggy trousers, his brown wool sash, and his woven leather sandals. When he had buttoned his shirt and combed his brown hair, he rolled up his sleeping mat. He then followed his father outside to the barn. Juan, the little boy noticed, had put on his brown homespun trousers, his white cotton shirt, and a faded gray cotton vest. His brown woolen sash encircled his waist.
In the east, the reddish-orange sun had just risen above the horizon. A cool breeze caressed Felipe's face until he trotted into the barn.
"Milk Bala," Juan ordered, as he picked up the rake.
Felipe grasped the wooden bucket and set it under the she-goat's teats. "Be still, Bala," the boy ordered.
As Felipe squatted next to the she-goat and milked her, he thought of the bad dreams he had been having lately. He pondered his mother's vision of disaster. Consuela had been having that vision from time to time, she'd said.
Did his nightmares and his mother's visions mean that something terrible was going to happen to them? Were he and his parents going to die? The mere thought made him feel queasy.
Suddenly, the goat took a step backward, making Felipe miss his aim when he squeezed the teats and yanked them downward. The stream of milk hit the bare earth.
"Felipe!" Juan roared. "You stupid, careless idiot! Can't you do nothin' right?!"
Enraged, Juan slapped the little boy on the back of his head, hard. The blow stung. "Ow!" Felipe cried.
Juan slapped the boy's face. Felipe threw his arms up to protect himself. "Do that again, and I'll give you a whippin' you'll never forget!" Juan stormed outside.
Felipe rested his head on the rim of the bucket, and wept profusely. For several minutes, he cried and cried. His father had whipped Felipe with a leather strap many times, and had slapped him on countless occasions; he also struck Consuela when he was displeased with her. Juan's slaps and beatings hurt. They hurt terribly.
Why is Papá always mad at me? Felipe wondered. Why? Am I bad, like he says? If I'm good, why do I make him so mad?
Finally, his crying diminished into snuffles. As he sniffed, he wiped his wet face with both hands. Still sniffing and snuffling, he grasped the goat's teats and pulled them again. This time, the goat stood still.
Several minutes later, when Felipe had filled the bucket, he rubbed his face again, picked up the bucket, and stepped outside. His godfather, he noticed, was striding over the hill that divided the two farms.
"What was he doin' here?" Felipe wondered out loud. "Why didn't he stay and say 'buenos dias' to me?" He trudged toward the hut and handed the bucket to his mother. She was so busy he didn't dare ask her what was going on. After breakfast, Felipe and his father worked in the cornpatch most of the morning. Felipe forgot all about his godfather's unexpected visit.
That afternoon, after siesta, Felipe woke up from his nap. Juan squatted on his sitting mat, drinking a cup of pulque as he regularly did. Consuela was grinding some corn to make tortillas with later. A pile of dried herbs lay next to the firepit. Their bitter scent wafted toward Felipe's nose; he made a face at the smell.
Consuela said, "Felipe, I want you to take these herbs to your godparents. Rafael's got an earache; these herbs will help him. Your godfather came while you and your papá were doin' chores, this mornin', and told me. When you come back, get a load of firewood and bring it here. I'll need it to make supper."
"Si, Mommy." Felipe rose to his feet, grabbed the bundle of herbs, and trotted outside. As he approached the Lopez farm, he saw his godfather chopping wood outside.
"Buenos tardes, Felipe." Paco leaned on his ax and wiped his perspiring face. Sweat stains dotted his shirt, Felipe noticed.
"Hola, Godfather Lopez. Mamá said to bring you these herbs."
Godfather Lopez smiled gratefully. "Gracias, Felipe. Just what we need! My poor nephew's been hurtin' all mornin' with that earache."
"Will these herbs make him better?" Felipe set the bundle down on the trunk.
Paco nodded. "Si. It should."
"I had an earache once. It hurt!" Wincing at the memory, Felipe rubbed his ear.
Paco patted his shoulder. "I know. They sure do, don't they?"
Felipe hesitated. "Gotta go. I have to get firewood for Mommy."
His godfather nodded. "Si, and I got to finish choppin'. Maybe when Rafael's feelin' better, we can get together and I can tell you some stories."
Felipe smiled broadly. "Gracias! Adios." He waved and ran home.
As the little boy approached his own farm, he saw a horse tethered in front of the hut. With a start, Felipe realized that either the foreman who worked for his father's patrón or one of the alcalde's soldiers must have stopped by.
That could only mean trouble.
Felipe halted. For a long moment, he just stood there, uncertain. He longed to rush inside and find out what was going on. A blue uniform passed inside the doorway. It's a soldier! Felipe thought, as his palms grew sweaty. Please, God, don't let him hurt Mommy! Swallowing hard, he made the sign of the cross.
He wondered what on earth a soldier was doing at their farm. Was his mother in trouble? Was his father going to be arrested again? With all his heart, Felipe yearned to find out why the soldier was there before he did anything else. He meant to protect his mother if she was in any danger.
My mommy's the best mamá in the whole world, Felipe thought, clenching his fists. No one better hurt her!
Felipe glanced at the horse, then at the woodpile. Twice, he looked from the horse or doorway to the woodpile, biting his lower lip. Overhead, gray clouds drifted in clusters.
"Mommy says I gotta get some wood," Felipe finally reminded himself. With a sigh, he approached the woodpile and started picking up twigs. As he slowly picked up stick after stick and laid it in the crook of his left arm, he tried to hear what his mother and the soldier were saying. Maybe Papá's gonna go to jail again, he thought. Like he did, last spring.
Suddenly, hoofbeats startled him. He barely managed to hang onto the bundle of twigs in his arms. Whirling around, he saw the soldier galloping away on his horse.
Now Felipe could go inside, and none too soon, either! He was worried about his mother. What if the soldier had hurt her?
He carried the bundle of twigs toward the hut and entered. To his relief, his mother was kneeling before the firepit in the right-hand corner of the hut, grinding corn, as she did every day. His father, the little boy noticed, had left. Relief flooded Felipe's heart at his father's departure.
"Put 'em in the firepit, son," Consuela said. With a nod, Felipe knelt on the hard-packed dirt floor in front of the firepit. His mother's eyes looked tense, and she had her lips pressed tightly together.
As Felipe carefully arranged the twigs in the firepit, he asked, "Mommy, where's Papá? Why was that soldier here?"
"He's gone to town to get some pulque." Consuela rolled the stone metate back and forth across the crushed corn kernels, as she spoke. Beads of sweat rolled down her face; she paused to wipe them off. "It won't be long, the alcalde said, before we'll have to leave San Miguel, and your papá wants as much pulque to take with him as he can."
Felipe paused and straightened his back. For a long moment, he gaped at his mother as her announcement slowly sank in. "But, Mommy. Why do we have to leave San Miguel?"
Consuela laid the metate on the hard-packed dirt floor. "Because the government soldiers are comin'. There's goin' to be a battle. That's what the soldier said." Consuela stretched her arms above her head and took a deep breath. "Remember the soldier who almost ran you down, yesterday?" Felipe nodded. "Well, the soldier who came here saw it. He told us that the soldier who almost hurt you was in such a hurry because he had to tell the alcalde right then. He couldn't wait."
Felipe frowned. "Are we ever comin' back?"
"Someday. When it's safe."
"When do we have to go?"
"Very soon. Now, get those twigs ready, son." She grasped the metate as she spoke and pounded the limestone water-soaked corn kernels. As usual, the smell of sweat emanated from her clothes.
When Felipe had arranged the twigs to his mother's satisfaction, he rose to his feet and leaned against the rough wattle-and-daub wall. For a moment, he gazed at the rafters overhead, and at the thick thatch of straw they supported.
"Mommy, why is Papá always mad at me? Am I bad?"
His mother laid down the metate. As Felipe lowered his gaze to his mother's careworn face, she just sat there on her knees, looking sad. When Felipe approached her, she rose to her knees to hug him tightly.
"No, son, you're not bad. You're a good boy, and Papá loves you." She touched his cheek with her rough, but gentle, hand.
"Then why does he always shout at me and hit me?"
Tears welled up in Consuela's eyes. "That's just the way he is, Felipe." She sighed. "He treats us both that way. He's just nervous and grumpy; it takes so little to make him mad. You have to be careful around him, son, and so do I. Don't forget, son, your papá hits me, too."
Felipe winced and rubbed his bruised cheeks. A picture of his father striking him for missing the bucket that morning flashed before him.
Another picture soon replaced the one of his punishment of that morning. As he sucked his index finger, Felipe pictured his parents and himself packing their hay cart and riding away. Where were they going, and for how long? Would the Lopezes go with them?
END OF CHAPTER 4