The Journal of Antonio Montoya Read online

  “Ramona,” he said.

  “Hijo,” Rosa said, “you look so good. Did I tell you?”

  Flavio smiled. “Yes, Grandmother.” He looked at his sister. “Ramona, will you call Martha?”

  “And tell her what?”

  “Tell her we will be eating here and to stop making tortillas.” Flavio looked back at his grandmother. “If that is all right.”

  “How can you ask such a thing?” Rosa said. “And I will call Martha. It’s been too long since I talked with her.”

  Flavio hesitated for a second, and then he said, “Thank you, Grandmother. Well . . .” and after standing there for a moment, he turned and walked away.

  “He’s a good boy,” Rosa said, smiling.

  “Yes,” Ramona said, but what she thought was that her life was being completely disrupted by her grandmother. She also thought that there were not enough chairs in her house to seat Flavio and Martha and José, her grandparents, and herself.

  “Alfonso Vigil and his son will be coming for dinner, también,” Rosa said.

  “You are having a party here, Grandmother?” Ramona asked.

  “A little party, hija. We spent this morning with Alfonso. It will be good for him to get out of his house.”

  Ramona remembered Alfonso Vigil as a large man who, when drinking, would often dance by himself in small circles and smile down at his feet. He had been a close friend of her grandfather’s and would sometimes walk to their home on summer evenings with his own grandchildren.

  “I didn’t think Alfonso was still alive,” Ramona said.

  “That’s because all you do, Ramona, is sit here by yourself.” Rosa leaned over the table and lowered her voice nearly to a whisper. “He is so old, hija. One hundred and four. You remember his face, which was always so full and round? Well, now it is nothing but ears and bone. Not even his hair grows anymore. There is something like dust on the top of his head. And I swear to you, he is smaller even than I.”

  Ramona looked down at her grandmother’s hands, which were folded together on top of the table. She saw how the knuckles were swollen and slightly discolored, how some of the fingers did not bend with the others. “Alfonso Vigil is coming here for dinner,” Ramona said, more to herself than to her grandmother.

  “Yes,” Rosa said. “With his son, Albert, who will drive him.”

  Ramona looked back up at her grandmother. “You saw his son?”

  “Only in leaving and then from the truck. I don’t think he recognized us.”

  “And Alfonso,” Ramona said, “was he surprised to see you?”

  Rosa leaned a little closer to her granddaughter. “When the poor man breathes, you cannot see his chest move. It is like he is the walking dead.” Here Rosa crossed herself.

  Ramona stared at her grandmother. “Grandmother,” she said, “you and Grandfather are dead.”

  Rosa sat up straight in her chair. “You think,” she said, “that I don’t know that?”

  “But if you know, then you must realize that this is not where you belong.”

  “I don’t belong here? In my own house? How can you say such a thing, Ramona?”

  Ramona tried to keep her voice calm. “Grandmother, why are you here? Why is Grandfather out irrigating with Flavio and José? Why does Loretta suddenly appear as if from nowhere?”

  “Loretta?” Rosa said, looking to each side of her. “I haven’t seen Loretta. When have you seen Loretta?”

  Ramona thought that she should run from the kitchen. She thought it unfair that someone like herself, who seldom spoke to anyone, should have a conversation such as this.

  “Grandmother,” she said, “please.”

  Rosa placed her hand on her chest. “You think I can answer these things?”

  “If you can’t,” Ramona said, “who can?”

  “How do I know that, Ramona?” Rosa said, and she dropped her hand to her lap. “Why are we having such a stupid talk? There are people coming here today, and I sit wasting time. There’s Martha to call. Flavio married well. There are no children, but one cannot ask for everything. But you, Ramona, alone here.”

  At this moment, Ramona felt as if she had never been alone. For the past twelve years, she had spent almost all her time in solitude. She would walk the hills behind her house, often walking beyond them into the valley where the river had gouged out the earth. There, Ramona would sit for hours and watch the water flow hundreds of feet below her. Sometimes she would drive her grandfather’s truck into the mountains on old roads and return home late with the truck bed piled high with branches of piñon and juniper that she burned in her stove in the winter. There were days when Ramona would paint from early in the morning until after dark, as though there were no such thing as time. And now her life had suddenly become crowded. As soon as one person walked out of her house, another walked in. And, she thought, no one even knows to knock. She shook her head a little and then said, “I’ll help you cook, Grandmother.”

  “No,” Rosa said, “Martha can help with that. You take your book.”

  Ramona looked down at the journal, which sat on the table between them. “Who is the man who wrote these things, Grandmother?” she said.

  Rosa got up from her chair with a small grunt and went to the counter. She got an apron from one of the drawers and tied it high around her waist. “He was your grandfather’s first cousin,” she said. “He lived not far from here in the house his father built. It was just a little past our field at the foot of the hill. It was torn down with tractors many years ago when the mine bought all that land. I think there are some posts, but the house is gone.” Rosa crossed her arms and looked at her granddaughter. “His sister died as a young girl, and soon after his mother went crazy and left this village. It was a sad thing, Ramona. She left her son alone with his father, who knew nothing about the welfare of a child. It is easy to forget that even people from here can go crazy.” To Ramona, this was the most sane statement her grandmother had made.

  Rosa leaned toward her granddaughter and, in a whisper, said, “No one knows whatever became of her, hija. She packed her belongings in a carton and came down to the road and stood there by herself, as if waiting for something. And this was many years before there were such things as buses, Ramona. I remember this quite clearly. For three days and three nights this woman stood there waiting for no one knew what and listening to no one. Her husband begged her to return and at night would cover her shoulders with a blanket. We would see her in the morning standing there like an Indian. And then, on the morning of the fourth day, she was gone. On the ground was the small carton full of her things and the blanket.” Rosa leaned back against the counter. “So you see,” she said.

  Two things occurred to Ramona. The first was that things seemed to be expanding around her until everything her grandmother had said was so vast that there was nothing her senses could rest upon. The second was that the response her grandmother had given her didn’t have a thing to do with the question she had asked. She picked up the book from the table. “Grandmother,” she said.

  Rosa looked at her granddaughter for a moment and then said, “His name was Antonio Montoya. He was named after his own grandfather and was of our family. For a little while he kept the records of this village. And, like you, he never married and was careless with himself.” Rosa pushed away from the counter. “Now go, Ramona. There are things to do.”

  Ramona walked to the kitchen door. In the field, she could see her grandfather and Flavio working side by side. Little José was behind them, throwing clumps of mud. She thought that by now he must be filthy.

  “He’s fine,” Rosa said. “He’s with his grandfather.”

  “Yes,” Ramona said.

  “He’s a good boy, isn’t he, hija?”

  “Yes,” Ramona said again. “I think he is.” She stepped outside and walked around to the front yard. Loretta was walking up to the house.

  “Good morning, Ramona,” she said and smiled. Loretta was dressed in blue jeans an
d a light red blouse that was ruffled at the ends of the short sleeves. Ramona could smell the odor of mint on her breath.

  “Good morning, Loretta,” Ramona said.

  “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Ramona said, “it is.”

  “Grandmother is in the house?”

  “Yes. In the kitchen. She’s cooking.”

  “I’ll surprise her. You look so nice this morning, Ramona.” Loretta walked by her into the house.

  Ramona sat down in the wicker chair beneath the cottonwood. From inside the house, she heard Loretta speak her grandmother’s name and then the sound of Rosa’s voice saying loudly, “Loretta, is that you? Ramona said you were here. I’m so glad. Let me look at you.”

  Octaviana Esquibel was an old woman when Ramona was a young girl, and before dawn each day, Octaviana would walk the long distance to the church. She always wore a black shawl that wrapped around her head and face and covered her shoulders, and for a woman whose body was bent with age, Octaviana walked with quick, sure steps. In the empty church, she would sit at the back and argue loudly with herself. If the church door was open, her voice would carry in the morning air like the crow of a rooster. One Sunday, Ramona had been late for mass, and she had sat beside Octaviana, who was always loudest when people were around. Ramona had gone through this mass with her eyes closed, praying that Octaviana would not be disruptive and embarrass her. Near the end of the service, Octaviana had suddenly leaned close to Ramona and, with her breath on Ramona’s face, had said loudly, “Do you see them, hija? Above the priest’s head are forty-seven babies, and none of them are happy.” Then she had leaned back. “Eee,” she had said, “that one on the end looks like trouble.” Ramona had spent the remainder of the mass staring at the air above the priest’s head. As Ramona sat beneath the cottonwood listening to her grandmother and Loretta visit in her kitchen, she thought that Octaviana would have enjoyed being at her house, that she would not have been out of place in the present company.

  Ramona stretched out her legs and looked across the road at the old village office. It looked no different to her than it ever had, a neglected building of mud and boards that was of no use to anyone. Someday soon, it would collapse in on itself. Ramona thought that if she closed her eyes, she would see the structure without the sag in the roof and with the walls newly mudded. She would see snow drifted against the walls, trails of footsteps, and the dim glow of a kerosene lamp. Past the building, she could see much of the village of Guadalupe. She could see how the village was settled in a small valley at the base of the Sangre de Cristo mountains, how the creek, lined with full growth, meandered through the center of the valley, and how the maze of smaller ditches, like arteries, branched off from it through fields of alfalfa. She could see the roof of Flavio’s house, where she was born, where her parents had lived. From far behind her in the field, she heard the sound of her brother’s voice. The sun was shining through the branches of the cottonwood, and she could feel its heat upon her face.

  FEBRUARY 17:

  The wind blows bitterly from the north, and it is too cold for this month. This morning, Melquiades Cortéz shot the windows out of his house from the inside. He told me he shot in such a way as not to harm his children. He was not drunk, and when I asked him why he would do such a thing, he did not answer. He is a tall, thin man who looks only at the ground when he walks and speaks seldom to anyone. As he has four young children, and his wife died bearing the last, I feel that I will speak to his brother, Tomás, about their care. I and Melquiades’s oldest son, Andrés, boarded up the windows and covered them with cloth to keep out the wind. I have taken his rifle and will give it to his brother.

  FEBRUARY 18:

  On the evening of this day, Father Joseph came to my house. He walked with a lantern, as there is no moon, and upon arriving spent much time complaining of the wind and how this winter seemed an eternity. We spoke of the trouble at the home of Melquiades Cortéz, and he agreed it would be wise to talk to Tomás now rather than after a tragedy. We spoke little after that, and as it was becoming late, I asked if he wished to see Our Lady. He sat without speaking for some time and then rose from his chair and stood by the stove. He said he had walked to my house at such a late hour with a purpose, and now that he was here it was a difficult thing to speak of. I reminded him that he had been priest in this village for thirty years, that he had baptized and wed and buried so many from here that there should be little the two of us could not discuss. He agreed that our relationship has always been one of respect and that we had always worked together for the well-being of the people of Guadalupe. He said that there was no reason for this situation to change, but he had given much thought to the nature of my work with santos and, although he held my craftsmanship in the highest esteem, he felt that the keeping of santos had begun to resemble idolatry and that it would be best for all if I ceased to create such things.

  He said that he knew from talks with other priests that other parishes had put a stop to this behavior many years ago and that it was time for Guadalupe to follow their example. He said that in the summer he would order from a city in the east a number of plaster saints to replace those I had made. I did not respond, and he said that it would be best if the Lady I had completed were to remain with me, and also that it would ease his mind if I would no longer present these things to the people of this village. He said that at mass the following day he would speak of these matters to all. We spoke no more after this.

  FEBRUARY 19:

  The wind has left but has brought clouds that do not move and sit low on the mountains.

  FEBRUARY 20:

  On this day my mother was born. She was christened Carmela Ramírez, and she would be fifty-seven years of age.

  Ramona’s mother died in her sleep. Her father had awakened beside his wife and spoken her name, and she lay there with her eyes half open and a soft smile on her mouth as if she had gone to a place she wished to be. She had always been a woman whom life could wear down. Even when Ramona was young, when her mother would laugh or sometimes dance or there was sweat on her face from some excitement, Ramona knew in her heart that her mother would never be old. She was often ill and would take to bed for long periods of time, and the activities in the house would continue about her, although hushed, as if a spirit lived amongst them. Although it was true that her mother was not strong, Ramona was aware that she preferred to spend much of her life away from others. During these times, Ramona would bring her meals and would sit beside her mother on the bed. Across the room was a large window, and out it you could see the mountains and all of the sky. Her mother would eat slowly, and she would talk.

  “See there, mi hija. That deep canyon where the aspens are like cloth and there are rocks with the faces of lions. There is a spring in that place that empties into a pool that is dark with shadows from the trees. You can walk a trail only animals use and sit beside this pool of water, and the trees around it will tell you things. They will tell stories of young girls who were so brave, and foolish too, that they left this place and wandered into the mountains and became lost. In places, the creeks would run uphill and in circles and up waterfalls, and it was impossible for these young girls to find their way out. They would walk and walk until they finally came to this pool of water, and they would sit beside it, and through the branches of the aspens they could see this valley and how far they had come. If they drank from this water, and they always did, mi hija, they would sleep forever and only dream of quiet things. In the winter, this pool would never freeze, but green things would grow beside it and there would be steam. And nothing there would ever be forgotten. . . .”

  Ramona would lie close beside her mother and look out the window at the mountains, and she would see herself walking the paths only animals used. Sometimes she would fall asleep to the sound of her mother’s voice.

  Ramona’s eyes were still on the journal, though she was no longer reading. She moved her hand slowly and turned th
e page.

  FEBRUARY 21:

  There is six inches of new snow, and already I believe there to be more snow than all of last season. In the spring, the ditches will run full.

  February 22:

  This morning, upon arriving at the village office, I found a santo that had been left standing outside the door. Two inches of fresh snow lay upon her head and her shoulders, and laid beneath her feet was a small piece of cloth. I had made her two summers ago and given her to Andamo Santistevan, as he and his wife, Estelle, were greatly concerned about their infant daughter, Alicia, who was four months old and who would no longer take nourishment. Soon afterward, Andamo had returned to my house to tell me that he and his wife had placed the santo beside the bed of their daughter, and within days she began to take milk from her mother and in a week gained three pounds. I remember the santo well, as I cut myself deeply in carving the bend of her right elbow and could not entirely remove the stain of blood from the wood. She stands to just above my knee and smiles slightly, with her head bowed. Other than a small chip on her chin, she appears to have been well cared for.

  FEBRUARY 23:

  On this day I spoke with Tomás Cortéz about the care of his brother’s children. He told me that although there is little room in his house, he has already spoken with his wife, and they plan to bring the children to live with them. He agreed that this is for the best. I have begun work on a new Lady, which goes poorly. In my house now is the santo once belonging to Andamo and Estelle Santistevan and the santo which bears the likeness of my sister. Both stand side by side.

  FEBRUARY 24:

  Epolito Montoya came to the office as I was leaving and walked with me to my home. I had not seen his son, Lito, for some days, and when I mentioned this, he told me that Lito had climbed the ladder that rests against the side of their house and crawled through the small trapdoor that leads into the attic space, in which there is nothing but cobwebs and the dirt that covers the wood ceiling. From there, he had jumped into a snowbank in which was buried a large pile of stones that Epolito had gathered last autumn. Lito had not broken any bones in this leap but had hit his head and now asks the same question over and over again and has been unsteady on his feet for four days. Upon arriving at my house, Epolito told me that his wife, Rosa, has recently been troubled and that he wished for me to speak with her. I told him that I would do this and that the following day I would come to his house.