10

Sonny awoke very late the following day. His head hurt and his face was bruised, but not as badly as he had anticipated. His stomach growled; he was hungry. He got up, put the coffee on, and looked across the way to don Eliseo’s place. Sunday afternoon and the October sun shone bright and warm.

The old man sat in his chair. Concha and don Toto sat nearby. On the grill sat the coffeepot. Even from here Sonny could smell the fragrant aroma. They were frying eggs with potatoes and chorizo, warming the red chile con carne, cooking tortillas on the comal.

Don Eliseo was probably telling them how he had saved Sonny’s life last night. His old shotgun was propped against the cottonwood tree. The two compas listened attentively. They were good friends, and he would never forgive himself if one of them got hurt because of him. Yet don Eliseo had faced Raven and his crony with only one barrel loaded. Damn!

Sonny sipped the hot coffee and felt better. He swallowed a couple of aspirin and leaned back to let the pain clear. He pushed the button on his message machine. Rita’s voice reminded him he had promised to take her to the South Valley Autumn Festival that afternoon. She wanted to go, and she wanted to know where he was last night. His mother was also on the tape. Max had driven her home from the hospital. Not to worry; she was feeling great.

Finally Howard’s message. He was taking his daughter to the balloon fiesta and later to the Museum of Natural History in Old Town. Did Sonny and Rita want to join them? Nothing new on the Veronica murder. The police were as anxious as anyone to believe the Fiora story, he added.

Sonny dialed his mother. “Hi, Mom, I’m sorry I didn’t get there last—”

“Sonny, mi’jo, how are you? Don’t apologize. You knew Max was coming for me.”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts. I know you’re busy. The woman’s murder, I heard. I hope you don’t get mixed up.”

“Pues, you know—”

“I was afraid of that. Ay, Dios, since you were little, I could feel something pulling you into danger. Why? Is it the Baca blood? Like your bisabuelo? Maybe if you married, settled down—”

“Maybe.”

“No maybes. You’re thirty, almost thirty-one. Hijo, I want to plan a party.”

“Yeah, that would be great. Have you heard from Mando?”

“He came to see me. Dios mío, but he has no sense. Now it’s a new girlfriend. His ‘lady,’ he called her. Bunny. She used to work at one of those clubs I won’t mention. And she paints herself up like a—well, you know. But nice. What can I say, your brother likes flashy women. And he’s got a new car lot.”

“I heard,” Sonny said.

“But he tries, and I love him. I love you both.”

“Listen, I promised Rita to take her to the fiesta. Do you want to come? Can you?”

“No, thank you, hijo. I have to stay quiet for a few days. Max is coming over, and we’re going to string a ristra. He found some wonderful red chile in Belén. I think that’s enough excitement.”

She laughed. She was feeling well, she liked Max, and the two would spend a quiet day together. Sonny, too, smiled, but he felt a loss. He wanted to do more for his mother, visit her more often, but the life he led got in the way.

“Listen, jefa, if there’s anything I can do …”

“Just take care of yourself,” she replied. “These people you follow can be dangerous. I worry about you.”

“I’ll be careful. You, too.”

“Que Dios te bendiga.”

“Gracias,” he replied.

“Bye. Take care. Bring Rita over when you can.”

“I will. Bye.”

Sonny finished his fourth cup of coffee and headed for the shower. He stopped at the mirror. The dark around his eye sockets surprised him. He looked older, worried.

How quickly the worm turns, he thought. Or as Shakespeare would say, swift-footed Time carries an empty wallet.

He shivered, stepped into the shower, and turned the water on as hot as he could stand it, and he stood for a long time, thinking about Raven, knowing he had come to kill. After the very hot shower, he rinsed in cold water, trying to reclaim his body from the aches.

While he dressed, Sonny thought of the little girl sleeping peacefully in Diego and Marta’s tent. Cristina. He hadn’t met her, but she haunted his thoughts. What kind of chance did a kid like that have? On this Sunday morning, all over the city, parents had gotten up to take their kids to church, or the balloon fiesta, or to soccer practice, or a football game, or just for a drive to buy red chile ristras and apples in the valley. Autumn was the most pleasant season in the Río Grande valley, the most mellow and bewitching in New Mexico.

But what did Cristina awaken to? A tent in the river bosque as home, and another day spent at the river camp. Perhaps a walk to a shelter where they received meager supplies of food and clothes.

It wasn’t right, he thought, as he stepped outside. Too many kids like Cristina needed help. The first thing he had to do was get Diego’s family out of the river bottom. Hide them. Raven knew they had witnessed the murder. Even if they moved their camp, they could still be in danger.

“Sonny, mi amor!” Concha called. “Come and eat with us.”

“Can’t,” Sonny replied. “I slept late and I promised to take Rita to the South Valley fiesta. Want to go?”

“We have our own fiesta here,” don Eliseo answered. “But come by later and have some coffee.”

“You still need workers to clean your place?” Sonny asked. “I’ve got some friends that need a place to stay.”

“Bring them,” don Eliseo said. “I’ve plenty of room.”

“Gracias.” Sonny waved and got into his truck.

He had taken Diego aside last night and told him he thought they should leave the river camp.

“But where do we go?” Diego had asked.

The words were still ringing in Sonny’s mind when he drove up to Rita’s home. The last bloom of roses was luxuriant on the bushes around her porch. The trees were still green, but a few began to show a tinge of soft gold.

A magnificent row of marigolds lined one wall, thick and luxurious, a commotion of tall cosmos lined the other. There had been no hard frost yet, so the plants thrived in their last burst of energy.

“Poetry,” Sonny thought, “flowers are poetry.” Like the words he sometimes desired to utter when he made love to Rita. He wanted to tell her how much he loved her, to speak like a poet, but the words escaped him.

In the backyard Rita’s small garden was loaded with the last produce of summer. The herbal garden was ready to be picked and dried. Rita worked hard at her restaurant, but she always had time for gardening.

“The earth mother prepares for sleep,” she told Sonny. “Time of harvest.”

“Time to eat piñon and tell stories,” don Eliseo would say.

Sonny paused to enjoy the brilliance of the flowers. I’m a lucky man, he thought, to have Rita’s love. She was very sure of her inner strength, and when Sonny came to her, she shared that inner resource with him. She accepted, took him in, opened her arms, and he entered to be renewed.

I gotta marry her, he thought, and wondered if the contract of marriage would affect the love between them. A lot of people his age lived a few years together before tying the knot. But nowadays marriages didn’t seem to last.

Children. He knew he wanted children, and so did Rita. Children would make a familia. His seed coming to fruition in the Río Grande valley.

“The seed comes to the earth when the time is right,” Rita had said. A gardener’s words; a woman of the valley. She knew the ways of the earth. No wonder she got along so well with don Eliseo and his friends, and with Lorenza Villa.

Rita called hello from the door, appeared dressed in a white blouse and a colorful Mexican skirt. Sonny kissed her bare shoulder. “You look beautiful, morenita.”

“Thank you, señor.” She smiled; then her smile changed to concern. “Your face! Qué pasó?” She reached out and touched his bruise.

They sat on the porch in the sunlight, and he told her about Raven’s attack and about finding Diego’s family.

“Anyway, I’m okay now. But what do I do about Diego and his familia?” he said at the end.

“Do you still feel like going to the fiesta?” she asked.

“I’d like to, but I keep thinking of Diego and his family.”

“Let’s take them with us,” Rita suggested. “It sounds like they might enjoy the burning of the Kookoóee.”

Ben Chávez had initiated the building of a giant effigy of el Coco, and now Federico Armijo and a group of artists built it every autumn. El Coco was the bogeyman of many cuentos. Parents warned their children to behave or the Coco might get them. When the kids went out to play, they were told to get home on time or the Coco Man, the Cucúi, might get them.

Like la Llorona, Sonny thought. If Tamara’s interpretation of la Llorona holds any water, does the Coco seek little girls? Is he the male spirit of the bosque? Llorona/female, Coco/male, two projections of mythic forces that live in the heart.

Today the giant effigy would be burned at sunset during the South Valley Festival del Otoño, and as it burned, the fears and worries the Kookoóee represented went up in smoke. El Coco was the communal scapegoat. When it burned, the ill luck of the past disappeared, and a new season began.

“The little girl will enjoy it. There are games for the kids, plenty of food, music.”

“Why didn’t I think of it?”

“That’s why you have me.” Rita winked.

They drove to the river, and Sonny walked to Diego’s camp. When he emerged with the family, they were all dressed in their Sunday-best clothes. Sonny introduced them to Rita; then they piled in the back of the truck and drove south. Cristina sat in front with Sonny and Rita. She was shy, but she had taken an instant liking to them. She sat quietly, dressed in a faded pair of jeans and blue blouse. She wore her dark hair in two braids. Her face shone bright.

“I have to get them out of there,” Sonny said.

Rita understood. “I can use Busboy in the restaurant,” she offered. “And I have enough room to keep Marta and Cristina.”

“I can’t ask you to—”

“You’re not asking, I’m volunteering.” She put her arm around Cristina.

“Gracias, amor. That’s a start. Maybe I can get Peter a job at one of the TV stations. Get Diego and Peewee to help don Eliseo. It’s going to work out.”

The South Valley fiesta was in full swing when they arrived. The day was clear and warm, and hundreds of people swarmed the park. People came from all over the city and from distant parts of the state to enjoy the fiesta. Some came to sell their wares. Students from the South Valley schools showed off their artwork, and in the nearby library they read their stories. At the bandstand PA system, the governor was droning on about how much he had done for the South Valley.

Families had come to enjoy the autumn harvest fiesta. Valley farmers had set up trucks to sell produce. Old friends met. The Festival del Otoño was organized by volunteers, South Valley residents who were proud of their neighborhoods.

Sonny parked and led his newly acquired familia from booth to booth, buying food and drinks for all. He had fallen in love with Cristina, and his happiness made him splurge. While they ate, Sonny told Diego and Marta about Rita’s offer. All agreed it wasn’t safe to go back to the river camp.

When dusk came, they headed for the baseball field where the effigy of the Kookoóee sat. Sonny stopped cold when he saw the giant figure. Its face resembled the face of a raven! The long arms seemed to be two dark wings flapping as they moved back and forth.

Rita sensed Sonny’s hesitation. “Raven,” she whispered.

Sonny nodded. Every year the figure of el Kookoóee was different, constructed by whatever artists happened to show up to help. This year the intimation of a black raven was clear.

Ben Chávez stood by the artists who had built the awesome effigy. He greeted Sonny. “Cómo ’stás.”

“Time off from writing?” Sonny asked.

“Oh, no, this is part of writing,” Chávez replied. “Everything is part of writing!”

The artists around him nodded and laughed. Yeah, everything got thrown into the pot, flavored with creative juices, stirred, and allowed to simmer until the traditions came alive in new form.

“El Coco looks like a raven,” Sonny said.

“Maybe,” Chávez replied. “Could just be an old buzzard.” He laughed.

“No, a raven,” Sonny insisted. Anger rose in him. What the hell was Chávez trying to hide?

Rita heard the tone in his voice and squeezed his hand. She couldn’t figure out why Sonny had suddenly tensed.

“So it’s a raven,” Chávez said, his face growing dark in the dusk. “Don’t you know you need all the help you can get! Watch out for Raven. He’s here tonight!”

Before Sonny could ask him what he meant, the artists pulled Chávez away, like gnomes or imps pulling away Pan, or a brujo. It was time to play, time to announce the burning of the Kookoóee, time to torch the monster. The magic of the evening now centered around the giant effigy, its head turning in the dusk, its arms swinging back and forth.

Chávez brought el Coco to life, Sonny thought, like he brings his characters to life. The writer was a brujo.

Sonny felt a tingling along the back of his neck. What did Chávez mean, Raven was here tonight? He looked at the huge crowd gathered around the effigy. Families with children, all smiling, all ready to enjoy the torching of el Coco. He turned and looked at the effigy. Did Chávez mean the evil spirit really resided in the figure? Is that why its look was so fierce and ominous?

Cristina tugged at Sonny.

“My father told me stories about the Kookoóee,” she said. “When my father was little, they called Kookoóee ‘el Coco.’ He scared the naughty kids. Now the Coco is the police. If they find us, they make us leave our home. Sometimes they tear down our home. Once they arrested my father.”

“Why?” Sonny asked.

“He stole some food for us,” she whispered. “Then my father made a Kookoóee, like that one.” She pointed at the effigy that rose in the dusk, head turning, jaws with big teeth opening and closing, long arms swaying. “But he wasn’t as big. He put it in the path that leads to our home.”

“I saw it,” Sonny said.

“I’m not afraid of it,” Cristina said. “It’s supposed to keep out the people who don’t like us. I guess you weren’t afraid,” she said to Sonny.

“No, I wasn’t afraid,” Sonny said. “I knew I was going to meet you, and we were going to be good friends.”

“Yes,” she said, and for the first time she drew close to Sonny and Rita.

At the bandstand someone was singing, “Todos me dicen Llorona, Llorona …”

Then Ben Chávez interrupted; the burning was about to begin. The children were asked to write their worries on pieces of paper, and the papers were gathered and placed in the Kookoóee’s bag to be burned. Rita held the paper and Cristina wrote: My big fear is not to be with my family.

“So let’s burn that fear,” Rita said, and they tossed the note in the bag.

“Señores y señoras!” Ben Chávez called. “Time to burn el Coco! Time to burn the Kookoóee!”

An exuberant cheer went up from the crowd.

“Look!” Cristina cried, pointing to el Coco.

A young man with flowing black hair climbed up a ladder and struck the flares in the effigy’s eyes. The Kookoóee seemed to come alive. Flares were started in the Kookoóee’s fingers, so when he swung his arms, the red glow startled the crowd.

The other artists placed matches to a bundle of grass at the foot of the monster, and the flames rose quickly. The Kookoóee’s head kept turning back and forth, and a voice boomed, “No me quemen! No me quemen!”

The children shouted with laughter, the parents smiled and remembered all the times their parents had warned them to be good or the Coco would get them.

The arms of the tall effigy moved back and forth, as if he was trying to escape the fire, and his head turned frantically, but the flames were already licking at his fancy costume. The bogeyman of the Nuevo Mexicanos of the valley went up in flames while the crowd roared its approval. The wood popped as it burned, and a shower of sparks rose into the evening sky. The burning flares lent the Kookoóee a wild appearance. He swung his arms as if in agony. The crowd cheered.

“Burn, Coco! Burn!”

Bad news and poverty could be put aside for the moment. It was a time of communal joy. The fears in the bag of the Kookoóee also went up in flames.

The burning lasted no more than half an hour, but in that time a cleansing took place. Joy spread throughout the crowd. And when the last of the Kookoóee fell into the hot embers, a cheer went up. Families headed home, the young stayed to enjoy an evening dance.

Sonny drove his newly acquired family back to don Eliseo’s.

“Entren, entren,” don Eliseo welcomed them. “Just in time for coffee.” He smiled.

“Y pasteles de manzana,” Concha said.

“She makes the best pasteles in the West,” don Toto announced, beaming.

“Toto, you say the nicest things. If you weren’t my best friend, I’d marry you and bake you a pie every day.”

“For your hot pastelito, I’d marry you tomorrow,” don Toto teased.

Sonny introduced his new friends, and they were warmly welcomed by the old trio. Concha fussed over Cristina. Everyone received a generous portion of pie topped with slices of cheese. Diego and his family slowly relaxed. It had been a long time since they had been welcomed in a home. They felt safe with Sonny, and now they felt at ease with Sonny’s friends.

As they sat around don Eliseo’s kitchen table, Cristina told them about the burning of the Coco. The storytelling began, and don Toto told the story of a witch who fell in love with a butcher. In the end she was turned into sausage when one day she disguised herself as a pig.

“It’s the season of la Llorona,” Concha said. “The kids call it Halloween, but it’s really her season. Now that the earth is resting, it’s time for telling stories.”

“I remember one my grandfather told me,” Sonny said.

“Tell it to us,” Cristina begged.

“My abuelo was Lorenzo Baca,” Sonny began. “This happened to him and his compadre when they were young men. They had been sent to the Rancho de San Martin to look for stray steers the roundup had left behind. The rancho was a deserted place at the foot of La Mesa de los Ladrones. My abuelo Lorenzo and his compadre came upon a gathering of brujos. They were in the form of giant fireballs, jumping and dancing in a circle.”

“That’s true,” Concha said. “That’s the way they used to gather.”

“The men turned their horses and rode away, but they were pursued by one of the fireballs. It came leaping across the llano. They rode their sweating, lathered horses as fast as they could. They thought the fireball was the devil. They were grown men, tough vaqueros who had worked on the range all their lives. They had seen death, but till that day they had not known fear. Miles ahead of them lay the village of Socorro, and the church. They knew that was the only place on earth safe for them. They rode the poor, tired horses forward, whipping the reins across the horses’ flanks. The sky grew dark, and the fireball stayed right by them.”

“Madre de Dios!” Concha made the sign of the cross.

“They couldn’t outride the fireball. It came bounding across the llano until it was alongside the two vaqueros. My abuelo said the sight made his blood turn cold. He glanced at his compadre. His eyes bulged with fear. They knew they couldn’t outrun the evil that had taken the form of the fireball. My abuelo’s horse, exhausted from the run, finally fell, throwing him. He was bruised, but unhurt. His compadre reined up his horse and called for him to mount. It was no use. Two men on a tired horse would not get far.”

“You can’t outrace the devil,” don Toto said wisely.

“He had a pistol, and when the fireball jumped in front of him, he took it from his holster and fired.”

Concha cringed. As a child she had heard similar stories.

“The bullet hit the fireball. He fired again. Five times he fired.”

“Were the bullets blessed at the church?” Concha asked.

“Quiet, Concha. Let him finish the story,” don Toto whispered.

“The sun had set, the llano was dark. My grandfather could see the ball of fire plainly. He knew his bullets had struck dead center. The fireball seemed to breathe, to moan, and then it jumped away, leaving the two men alone. The pistol fell from my grandfather’s hand. He was trembling. His body was wet with sweat. He turned to his compadre who held out a hand and helped him mount behind him. Together they continued to Socorro.”

Sonny paused. He looked at Cristina. “Scared?”

“No,” she answered. “My dad tells me stories like that all the time.”

Diego smiled. “I was born in Belén. We grew up with all those stories.”

“We have a lot of time for storytelling at our home on the river,” his wife added.

“I’m never afraid,” Cristina said. “My mom and I walk along the river to find firewood. Even at night. As long as we’re together, we’re not afraid.” She held her mother’s hand.

“Well, storytelling time is done, and it’s time to get you to bed.” Sonny picked her up. “How would you like to spend the night with tía Rita?”

Cristina looked at her mother and father.

“Your mom can go with you. Your dad is staying here, because in the morning he’s going to help don Eliseo clean up his garden. Okay?”

“Okay.” She nodded. She gave Sonny a hug. “Thank you for taking us to the fiesta, to see the Kookoóee, and for that scary story. You know what I would have done if I was your grandfather?”

“What?”

“I would have said a prayer. That gets rid of the evil.”

“Yes.” Sonny smiled, lifting her and handing her to her mother. “That would have done it.”