The lifeguard was the first one there. He pushed me aside and he and another high school boy turned Florence on his stomach. He began pushing down on Florence’s back and a sickening white foam flowed from Florence’s mouth.
“Damn! How long was he under?” he asked.
“About five or ten minutes!” Bones growled through his vomit.
“You fucking little bastards!” the lifeguard cursed back. “I’ve told you guys a hundred times not to swim here! Two years I’ve had a perfect record here—now this!” He continued pushing down on Florence’s back and the white froth continued to flow from his mouth.
“Think we should get a priest?” the other high school boy asked worriedly. Quite a few people were already gathered around the body, watching the lifeguard work, asking, “Who is it?”
I wasn’t looking at Florence anymore, I wasn’t looking at anybody. My attention was centered on the northern blue skies. There two hawks circled as they rode the warm air currents of the afternoon. They glided earthward in wide, concentric circles. I knew there was something dead on the road to Tucumcari. I guess it was the sound of the siren or the people pushing around me that shattered my hypnotic gaze. I didn’t know how long I had been concerned with the hawks’ free flight. But now there were many people pushing around me and the sound of the siren grew louder, more urgent. I looked around for Cico, but he was gone. Bones and Horse were eagerly answering questions for the crowd.
“Who is he?”
“Florence.” “He’s our friend.”
“How did he drown? What happened?”
“He dove in and got caught in the wire. We told him not to go swimming here, but he did. We dove in and pulled him out—”
I didn’t want to hear anymore. My stomach turned and made me sick. I pushed my way through the crowd and began to run. I don’t know why I ran, I just knew I had to be free of the crowd. I ran up the hill and through the town’s quiet streets. Tears blinded my eyes, but the running got rid of the sick feeling inside. I made my way down to the river and waded across. The doves that had come to drink at the river cried sadly. The shadows of the brush and the towering cottonwoods were thick and dark.
The lonely river was a sad place to be when one is a small boy who has just seen a friend die. And it grew sadder when the bells of the church began to toll, and the afternoon shadows lengthened.
Veintidós
In my dreams that night I saw three figures. At first I thought the three men were my brothers. I called to them. They answered in unison.
This is the boy who heard our last confession on earth, they chanted as if in prayer. In his innocence he prayed the Act of Final Contrition for us who were the outcasts of the town.
Who is it? I called, and the three figures drew closer.
First I saw Narciso. He held his hands to the gaping, bloody wound at his chest. Behind him came the mangled body of Lupito, jerking crazily to the laughter of the townspeople. And finally I saw the body of Florence, floating motionlessly in the dark water.
These are the men I have seen die! I cried. Who else will my prayers accompany to the land of death?
The mournful wind moved like a shadow down the street, swirling in its path chalky dust and tumbleweeds. Out of the dust I saw the gang arise. They fell upon each other with knives and sticks and fought like animals.
Why must I be witness to so much violence! I cried in fear and protest.
The germ of creation lies in violence, a voice answered.
Florence! I shouted as he appeared before me, is there no God in heaven to bear my burden?
Look! He pointed to the church where the priest desecrated the altar by pouring the blood of dead pigeons into the holy chalice. The old gods are dying, he laughed.
Look! He pointed to the creek where Cico lay in wait for the golden carp. When the golden carp appeared Cico struck with his spear and the water ran blood red.
What is left? I asked in horror.
Nothing, the reply rolled like silent thunder through the mist of my dream.
Is there no heaven or hell?
Nothing.
The magic of Ultima! I insisted.
Look! He pointed to the hills where Tenorio captured the night-spirit of Ultima and murdered it, and Ultima died in agony.
Everything I believed in was destroyed. A painful wrenching in my heart made me cry aloud, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me!”
And as the three figures departed my pesadilla they cried out longingly. We live when you dream, Tony, we live only in your dreams—
“What is it?” Ultima asked. She was at my bedside, holding me in her arms. My body was shaking with choking sobs that filled my throat.
“A nightmare,” I mumbled, “pesadilla—”