A Ballad of Love and Glory(25)

A few months before, while returning from a day of fishing at the river, they’d been overtaken by a sudden thunderstorm. The crashing got louder and lightning struck nearer as they held on to their horses, spurring them hard across the fields. Moments later, lightning struck in front of Joaquín with such force it knocked him off his saddle, and he fell to the ground. In the flickering lightning, she saw him lying there, unmoving, and she thought that he’d left her to the mercy of the world. But then, illuminated by another flash above her, she saw him open his eyes and smile at her. He was unhurt, just slightly stunned and disoriented.

Now, as she gazed at him lying motionless on the table, she willed him to move, to open his eyes and smile at her once more.

“Let me do it, mijita,” Nana Hortencia said, placing a warm hand over Ximena’s. “I can finish.”

Ximena shook her head. “Gracias, Nana. I want to do this.” She took a deep breath and plunged the bloody towel into the warm water. Watching the blood swirl in the bucket, she began to have trouble breathing, as though she were sinking under an unbearable weight that would crush her. She resolved to remain strong, to not allow the mounting pressure inside her to prevent her from performing this sacred act. She squeezed the towel and continued washing her husband’s body, then she gently patted him dry. Nana Hortencia had washed, mended, and pressed his bloodied shirt and now handed it to her. His body was stiffening, and it was difficult to put clothes on him. She wished she could have dressed him in his favorite outfit—buckskin pantaloons and a jacket embroidered with silk thread and ornamented with silver buttons. She would have tied the silk bow around his neck in the shape of a butterfly, just as she’d done the day he’d married her in that suit. But it was ashes now. Only the blackened limestone and adobe walls and the caved-in roof of the main house remained.

When they were done, Nana Hortencia gathered the soiled towels and the bucket of tainted water and then excused herself. Ximena was alone now with Joaquín to sit vigil beside him until he was buried out in the consecrated plot in the grove of pecans, next to their son. She was grateful for the time she could spend with him, to honor his body, to pray for his spirit. Here, she could let the tears she had been holding back flow freely. But they didn’t come.

She placed a pillow under his head and ran her fingers through his wavy hair. She caressed his cold cheek and leaned over him, resting her head on his unmoving chest.

“Do you remember that yearling calf after the gulf storm swept across the prairie?” she asked him. “Remember how she fell into a mudhole and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get out?”

The animal’s bellowing could be heard all the way to the house, and Joaquín and the vaqueros had spent an entire day freeing her.

“Now I know how that calf felt,” she said. Alone, frightened, trapped. And the more she struggled, the more her grief sucked her into its suffocating darkness.

There was a knock on the door and Juan Cortina came in, out of breath. “I came as soon as I got your message. I’m so sorry, Ximena.”

At the sight of Cortina, her grief turned to anger. He’d gotten Joaquín into this mess, turned him into a murderer. Gotten him killed. Cortina tried to comfort her, but she turned away. Then, she heard his sobs and saw his body convulsing with his own sorrow.

“?Maldita sea!” he said. “?Esos malditos diablos! God damn their souls! I’ll make them pay for this!”

She motioned for him to come closer so that he could pay his respects to Joaquín. He stood beside his friend’s body and shook his head. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have encouraged him to join us.”

Hearing him echo her thoughts, Ximena wondered if she was wrong to blame him. She thought of what Nana Hortencia had repeatedly said to her, and she finally understood. “No, Cheno. Joaquín did what he felt was his duty, to defend his home and country against the invaders. He knew the risks.”

Cortina was silent, contemplating her words. He nodded and said, “He was a good son of the frontier who offered his country his blood, and it will not be in vain.” Then he turned to her and added: “But we have to think about you now. Come with me to Matamoros. I hear Joaquín’s sister will be leaving in a few days for Saltillo, away from the impending battle. It’ll be safe there for you too.”

“I won’t leave, Cheno,” Ximena said. “This is where Joaquín would want to be buried.”

“And here he will remain, but not you. Not now.”

As she looked at her dead husband lying on the table, she felt a dull ache in her heart, and she felt tired, so tired. She wanted to curl up against Joaquín and go to sleep. “I wish they’d killed me too,” she whispered, realizing too late that she’d spoken aloud. She’d not meant to confess to Cortina the yearning of her soul. To admit that it hurt too much to live.

“No digas eso. No, never think that. When the battle is over and we have won, you can return to your home and begin a new life. In the meantime, I promise I’ll do my best to protect you—”

“The way you protected my husband?” The accusation was out of her mouth before she could stop it. Her anger returned and swirled inside her, and she wanted to let it grow, let it turn dark and menacing, like the howling blue norte that lays waste to everything in its path. The hailstones that beat the tallgrasses into the ground. The raging wind that strips the bark off the mesquites and leaves them naked and exposed. The lightning whose fury gouges holes in the earth. She wanted to hurt something. Someone.