Bless Me, Ultima(5)

I collected three eggs in the chicken house and returned for breakfast.

“Antonio,” my mother smiled and took the eggs and milk, “come and eat your breakfast.”

I sat across the table from Deborah and Theresa and ate my atole and the hot tortilla with butter. I said very little. I usually spoke very little to my two sisters. They were older than I and they were very close. They usually spent the entire day in the attic, playing dolls and giggling. I did not concern myself with those things.

“Your father has gone to Las Pasturas,” my mother chattered, “he has gone to bring la Grande.” Her hands were white with the flour of the dough. I watched carefully. “—And when he returns, I want you children to show your manners. You must not shame your father or your mother—”

“Isn’t her real name Ultima?” Deborah asked. She was like that, always asking grown-up questions.

“You will address her as la Grande,” my mother said flatly. I looked at her and wondered if this woman with the black hair and laughing eyes was the woman who gave birth in my dream.

“Grande,” Theresa repeated.

“Is it true she is a witch?” Deborah asked. Oh, she was in for it. I saw my mother whirl then pause and control herself.

“No!” she scolded. “You must not speak of such things! Oh, I don’t know where you learn such ways—” Her eyes flooded with tears. She always cried when she thought we were learning the ways of my father, the ways of the Márez. “She is a woman of learning,” she went on and I knew she didn’t have time to stop and cry, “she had worked hard for all the people of the village. Oh, I would never have survived those hard years if it had not been for her—so show her respect. We are honored that she comes to live with us, understand?”

“Sí, mamá,” Deborah said half willingly.

“Sí, mamá,” Theresa repeated.

“Now run and sweep the room at the end of the hall. Eugene’s room—” I heard her voice choke. She breathed a prayer and crossed her forehead. The flour left white stains on her, the four points of the cross. I knew it was because my three brothers were at war that she was sad, and Eugene was the youngest.

“Mamá.” I wanted to speak to her. I wanted to know who the old woman was who cut the baby’s cord.

“Sí.” She turned and looked at me.

“Was Ultima at my birth?” I asked.

“¡Ay Dios mío!” my mother cried. She came to where I sat and ran her hand through my hair. She smelled warm, like bread. “Where do you get such questions, my son. Yes,” she smiled, “la Grande was there to help me. She was there to help at the birth of all of my children—”

“And my uncles from El Puerto were there?”

“Of course,” she answered, “my brothers have always been at my side when I needed them. They have always prayed that I would bless them with a—”

I did not hear what she said because I was hearing the sounds of the dream, and I was seeing the dream again. The warm cereal in my stomach made me feel sick.

“And my father’s brother was there, the Márez’ and their friends, the vaqueros—”

“Ay!” she cried out. “Don’t speak to me of those worthless Márez and their friends!”

“There was a fight?” I asked.

“No,” she said, “a silly argument. They wanted to start a fight with my brothers—that is all they are good for. Vaqueros, they call themselves, they are worthless drunks! Thieves! Always on the move, like gypsies, always dragging their families around the country like vagabonds—”

As long as I could remember she always raged about the Márez family and their friends. She called the village of Las Pasturas beautiful; she had gotten used to the loneliness, but she had never accepted its people. She was the daughter of farmers.

But the dream was true. It was as I had seen it. Ultima knew.

“But you will not be like them.” She caught her breath and stopped. She kissed my forehead. “You will be like my brothers. You will be a Luna, Antonio. You will be a man of the people, and perhaps a priest.” She smiled.

A priest, I thought, that was her dream. I was to hold mass on Sundays like father Byrnes did in the church in town. I was to hear the confessions of the silent people of the valley, and I was to administer the holy Sacrament to them.

“Perhaps,” I said.

“Yes,” my mother smiled. She held me tenderly. The fragrance of her body was sweet.

“But then,” I whispered, “who will hear my confession?”