The rain was coming down. It was running off the roof in a waterfall and down the trail that led to Los Angeles and down the trail to San Diego. It was running everywhere.
"The way the rain looks now," my grandmother said, "it may last for a week. Perhaps two weeks. It is coming from the sea. From the sea the rain has much endurance."
My grandmother took her eyes off me and began to rock slowly. Then she rocked faster and looked out the window for a while.
"If the rain falls for two weeks," she said, "creek beds dry for years will swell. Rocks as big as houses will block the trails; the Los Angeles river that you can jump without wetting a shoe will run from bank to bank. The Santa Ana on its way to the sea will take forests with it. Then we can postpone the thing until spring comes. God, Who is on my side, can do much by spring."
The "thing" my grandmother referred to was the wedding of my sister, Yris, to Don Roberto Peralta.
"Perhaps He can think of something bigger than a flood," Dona Dolores went on. "Like an earthquake, where the countryside opens and scares the wits out of everyone. The last time the earth opened up was nine years ago. It is time for another, like the one that shook all of Helena Yorba's china out of her cupboard. The set she bought from a Yankee trader, and bragged that she had paid one hundred cows for, fell right out on the floor and broke into a thousand small pieces."
"Perhaps Don Roberto will change his mind," I said. "He has changed it before."
"He has no mind to change," my grandmother replied. "Don Roberto is a worm. But it is not his fault. His father is also a worm. Roberto has been told that it is for the de Zubaráns and the Peraltas to join in marriage. Two of the great families of California to be made one. Don Roberto believes what he is told."
"It may be a good marriage," I said, though I didn't think so.
"If the marriage will be so good," my grandmother quickly answered, "why did you not think of marrying Don Roberto yourself? It is you who are the older. Yris is two years younger than you. Who in this life ever heard of a younger sister marrying first? It is wrong. It is never done. It is likewise a scandal."
Rosario started to sneeze and Doña Dolores lifted her feet until he had sneezed three times and stopped.
"Do you wish to do your grandmother a great service?" Doña Dolores said.
"Yes," I said without warmth. "I wish to."
"Wishes are very cheap. Muy barato. Will you?"
"What is it that you wish?"
"I wish for you to marry Don Roberto."
I thought my grandmother was going to ask me to give up my stallion. I was not ready for an answer about Don Roberto.
"I will think about it," I said to gain time.
"Good," said my grandmother. "Begin to think about it now, at this moment."
She gave Rosario a prod with her foot.
"Go fetch my son," she said. "Whatever he is doing, fetch him."
Rosario scuttled off and my grandmother and I looked at each other warily and said nothing until my father came.
Don Saturnino was not tall, not so tall as I am, but he was stout-chested. He had small narrow feet and he was very proud of them. In a big chest he had sixteen pairs of boots, all beautifully stitched, of the best leather, and, to suit the way he felt, of many colors.
He bowed to his mother, taking off his sombrero and clicking his heels.
"It rains," he said.
"To good purpose," Grandmother said.
"What is the purpose? We do not require floods and torrents."
"The marriage," Doña Dolores answered. "It gives time to make changes. Roberto can marry Carlota instead of Yris."
"Don César and I have thought of the marriage. We have talked about it for five years."
"It is not proper that the younger daughter marry first."
"Don César and I have given thought to everything. This as well. It is not what is proper, but what is best for Yris and Carlota."
My grandmother puffed away calmly. She shifted her feet, looking for Rosario's back, but Rosario had not returned. He was outside, under the pórtale, feeding the big eagle that belonged to my father.
"Carlota and Don Roberto," Father said scornfully, pulling at his pointed beard. "Have you asked their permission?"
"Permission," Doña Dolores replied, "as you well know, is not required."
"It would be prudent, nonetheless," Don Saturnino said, keeping his temper. "Carlota is not Yris. She is a true de Zubarán."
"The difference is great," my grandmother said. "This I admit. You have seen to that. You have raised Carlota as a vaquero. She thinks of nothing but horses. Gray horses. Bay horses. White horses. Spotted horses. Palominos. Horses! She will not walk fifty steps. Instead, she will get on a horse and ride the distance."
What she said was true. I had been raised as a vaquero. I had been taught to do everything a horseman could do. My father had even named me after his son, Carlos, who had ben killed by the Piutes.
"Yris is a girl of the sala, good at needlework and the viola," Doña Dolores said. "She is not suited to Don Roberto."
"Neither is Carlota," my father said. "Nobody is suited to Don Roberto. That he is Don César's only son is a misfortune."
"The hairy worm," my grandmother said. "It is your fault. You might have found one of the Bandinis for her. Or even a Yorba. All else failing, one of the numerous Palomareses."
Doña Dolores bounced up from the chair and hobbled to the window and gazed out at the rain falling. I saw her cross herself and I knew that she was praying for the rain to last forever. I walked to the door, leaving them to continue their talk, which would grow very fierce before it ended.
It did not trouble me. I had no intention of marrying Don Roberto, with his fat cheeks and fat little hands. And whatever Dona Dolores threatened—she sometimes said during these fights that she, and she alone, was the owner of the forty-seven-thousand-acre Rancho de los Dos Hermanos—but whatever she threatened, my father would never consent to such a marriage.
Furthermore, he would try to keep me at his side, as long as ever he could. And I did not mind the thought. I liked to ride with the vaqueros. I liked to go with my father and do the things he did. The truth was, as my grandmother often said, I thought little of anything except horses, all kinds and colors of horses. Nothing pleased me more than to be in my cordovan saddle with the big silver spurs on my heels.