Santa Olivia
Page 11

“You sure?” Tommy jingled the change in his pocket.
She smiled. “Yeah.”
The bell rang for the first round. It was an ugly mismatch and it was obvious from the beginning, but Roberto refused to go down. He stayed on his feet and took the punishment, absorbing blow after blow, going to a clinch at every chance, swaying, but still upright. Halfway through the match, Loup turned her gaze toward the bleachers where the VIPs sat. For the first time, she saw the general. He was leaning forward in his seat, his jaw working.
In the tenth round, Roberto rallied.
He was bleeding from a cut under one eye and he’d taken a lot of body blows. But the army champion was fading, breathing hard. Roberto pressed him. The champion went on the defensive and rode out the last three rounds, content to win on points.
Loup watched the general make his way from the stands and offer cursory congratulations to the winner. He clapped Roberto’s shoulder, praising his effort. His white hair gleamed in the lights. Once, he glanced her way. She lowered her head and stared at the dusty ground.
“How’d you know?” Tommy asked curiously.
“The army guy was too sweaty,” she said.
“Huh.”
Tommy took his chit to get paid and stood in line. Salamanca’s eldest daughter, Rosa, was dispensing the cash with painful slowness, the old man peering over her shoulder. A handful of Garza’s men stood around, providing security for a cut of the profits.
“Hey, kid!” Miguel Garza mimed a punch at Tommy’s head. Tommy’s hands rose automatically to a guard position. Miguel laughed and ruffled his hair. “I’m kidding, eh?” He looked at Tommy’s chit and whistled. “You picked Berto to go the distance?”
“Loup did.” The words were out before he thought.
“Oh, Loup did.” Miguel stooped in front of her. She looked away. “Lucky, lucky little girl.” He smelled like beer. “Sooner or later, that old fucker Floyd’s gonna have to give me a prize match,” he said conversationally. “He’s gonna run out of fighters. You gonna bet on me, Lucky Lou?” When she didn’t answer, he took her chin in his hand and turned her face toward him. “Huh?”
Her eyes glittered.
“Loup,” Tommy murmured.
She summoned a smile of surprising sweetness. “Sure.”
It startled Miguel. He released her and took a step backward. “Yeah? Okay, here.” He snapped his fingers at Salamanca’s daughter and claimed Tommy’s winnings, peeling a few dollars off the top before handing it over. “Security fee.” He tousled Tommy’s hair again. “Knock yourself out, kid.”
They went.
Loup trailed behind Tommy, watching his tight, hunched shoulders. “Tommy?”
He rounded on her. “What?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
He sighed and led her to a quiet corner of the square. “I’m angry, Loup. Okay? Because Miguel’s an asshole, and I’m not big enough to stand up to him. I wish I was, but I’m not. Not yet, anyway.”
Loup blinked at him. “But that’s not your fault.”
“No.” Tommy regarded her ruefully. “You don’t really understand, do you, loup-garou? Being mad and scared all at once?” She shook her head. “That’s okay.” He hugged her. “Hey! What are we gonna do with all this money? You want an ice cream?”
Loup looked around. She pointed at a street vendor whose wares were spread out on a rough blanket. There were only a few soldiers there, haggling over gifts for their temporary Outpost sweethearts. A black plastic comb adorned with red fabric flowers caught her eye. “Let’s buy a present for Mommy.”
“Something pretty?” Tommy asked.
She nodded. “Yeah.”
“Okay, let’s.” Tommy hesitated. “Loup?” She cocked her head at him. “You won’t ever bet on Miguel, will you? Promise?”
Loup smiled. “Promise.”
Tommy sighed. “Thanks.”
TEN
Three years later, Carmen Garron was buried with the comb in her hair.
She had never fully recovered from the last bout of flu. The winter that Loup was ten and Tommy seventeen, it finally took its toll. It started as a chest cold and turned worse.
“Pneumonia,” the army doctor at the clinic said.
He gave her medicine, but it wasn’t enough. At the age of thirty-eight, Carmen had seen a lot of people die. When Death called her name, she knew the sound of his voice.
She spoke to Grady alone and the big man left her room in tears. She sent for Father Ramon and Sister Martha. One gave her extreme unction and the other made her promises. When that was done, she sent for Tommy.
“Mijo.” Carmen gazed at her tall son with his blond hair and blue eyes. “You’re going to be alone soon.”
He knelt beside her bed. “Don’t say that!”
“It’s true.” She closed her eyes briefly. “Don’t worry, baby. I’m not scared.” She opened her eyes and smiled at him. “Maybe I’ll see your father. You know, I really thought I loved that boy. Maybe I did. Him and Martin both. They were good men.” She touched his fine, blond hair. “I know what you’ve been doing, mijo. I found out a couple years ago.”
Tommy flushed red.
“It’s okay.” Carmen smiled again. “You kept Loup safe. You’re a good boy. But I don’t think she ought to grow up in a gym. So when I’m gone, the church will take her.”
“No,” Tommy whispered.
“Yeah.” Carmen coughed, deep and racking. “They’re good people. And you can’t do it on your own, Tommy.”
“I can, too!” he cried. “I’ll get another job—”
“No.” She shook her head. “It’s never gonna be enough. Trust me, I know. You won’t be able to be there. And Grady says he’s heard you’re good. That there’s rumors in three, four years, you might be the one to win a ticket out of here. You gotta live your life too, Tommy.”
“No,” he repeated.
“Tommy.” Carmen took his hand. “You’re not going to be able to stay here. Grady can’t afford it, not without me working. It breaks his heart, but it’s true. And Father Ramon knows about Martin. I told him a long time ago. Sister Martha knows, too. She was there when Loup was born. They’ll keep her safe. Promise me you’ll let them.”
He bowed his head. “I don’t want you to die, Mom.”
She stroked his hand. “Me neither. But tough shit, mijo.”
In the end, he promised.
Carmen sent for Loup, who sat cross-legged on her bed and gazed at her with those wide, unblinking eyes.
“You know, huh, sweetheart?” Carmen asked softly.
Loup nodded. “Tommy told me.”
“Did he tell you about the church?” Carmen asked. Loup nodded again. “Are you mad at me?”
“No,” Loup said simply.
“You don’t get mad often, do you, mija?” Carmen smiled sadly. “I wish to hell I’d been able to make a better life for you and Tommy. And I wish to hell I could stay long enough to see you grow up.”
Tears gathered in Loup’s eyes and shone there without falling. Even when she’d cried as a baby, there were never tears. There was something strange and pure about the quality of her unleavened sorrow; strange and pure and oddly comforting, as though a child-saint or a fearless, untamed creature had come to keep a vigil over Carmen’s death. Carmen lifted one hand and traced the curve of her daughter’s cheek.
“Mija,” she whispered. “You know you’re special, right?”
Loup nodded.
“Special and wonderful. Don’t let the world break you.” Carmen closed her eyes. “It wasn’t always like this.”
“What was it like?” Loup asked. “When you were little?”
“Oh!” Carmen smiled, her eyes still closed. “Like nothing you would believe, baby. Everything was so nice. I used to ride the school bus with Inez. It was big and yellow, and the driver knew everyone’s name. Sometimes he would honk the horn. Every day, after school, we would go to her house and Tia Lucia would make us peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. Inez’s big sister Julia was still alive then. She always had to watch her soap opera that she taped, the one about the doctors. That was when all the TVs still worked. Every time a boy kissed a girl, Inez and I would laugh and shriek until we fell down, and Julia would yell at us to be quiet…”
Her voice soft and drifting, Carmen talked for a long time about a world that seemed distant and unimaginable, where there were no soldiers, where everyone had cars and houses and TVs and music players, and little girls and boys dreamed of growing up to be doctors or lawyers or astronauts.
After a while, her voice fell silent.
Loup smoothed her mother’s hair.
“It went away so fast.” Carmen opened her eyes. “And we just let it happen.”
Tommy crept into the room, opening and closing the door gently.
“Don’t be like us.” Carmen glanced from her dark, quiet daughter to her tall, fair son. She let her eyes close again, creased lids sinking shut. “Don’t.”
Tommy stooped to kiss her careworn brow. “Okay, Mommy.”
Carmen smiled and slept.
Two days later, she died.
There was a funeral at the church. Father Ramon gave the eulogy. Only a handful of people attended. Danny Garza was one of them, stolid and dignified in a three-piece suit. He’d taken over a lot of his father’s business. Miguel was at his side, thick and hulking. It had become a matter of pride with the Garzas over the past ten years that they attended every event of significance in Outpost.
Floyd Roberts was there, too. It was a sense of duty that drove him to attend. He stood beside Tommy, colorless and upright, his hand on the young man’s shoulder.
When the eulogy was done, they carried her casket into the church’s graveyard, past all the old, old markers, past the multitudes of new graves with no markers at all, only sad personal effects moldering on the ground: a tea set, a teddy bear, a ship in a bottle.