Chapter Fourteen

Once they were past the phony road menders, the trading party began passing houses— dirty, tumbledown buildings with peeling paint, cracked walls and weeds in the yards. A few ragged children emerged out of doorways and courtyard gates, and stood at the side of the road to watch the wagons pass.

"They're sizing us up," Amalia said. "They'll be here again when we leave and will beg for money. Right now they figure we probably don't have any, so they'll leave us alone."

Donovan looked around, frowning. "It's hard to believe much trade goes on here. Everyone seems so poor."

"That's the way they like it to look." They were coming closer to the center of town now, where the houses were larger and had once been of better quality. "A lot of these homes are chameleons. On the outside they look like they're falling apart, but they're actually quite nice on the inside."

"Looks like they don't mind keeping the church looking good," Donovan said as they came upon a tall adobe structure with freshly painted plaster all the way up to its bell tower. A shrine out front contained a brightly painted statue of the Virgin Mary and was bedecked in paper flowers.

"The authorities expect Catholics to do that. The government would know they were up to something if they let the church fall apart."

"I guess you're right. Everywhere I went in the Guard, the churches were better taken care of than the homes. We always saw it as a sign the local people weren't going to be a lot of trouble, if they cared about religion so much."

"It's the opiate of the masses."

"The what?"

Amalia shrugged. "Just an old saying. Religion is a good way to keep the people quiet. Make them afraid God will punish them if they don't follow the rules. They're supposed to stay quiet and wait for their reward in Heaven."

"Are you religious?"

"You mean in a church way? We went to church a little when I was a kid. We were Presbyterians. Protestants," she added, seeing the puzzled look on his face. "But I never liked being told how to think. I spent a lot of time reading and it made me ask questions."

"We didn't have any real sort of religion where I grew up," Donovan said. "People in the gangs were into the symbols, though. They wore crosses, prayed to saints, that sort of thing. But they made up most of their saints— dead gang leaders and family members, you know. I've done a little of it myself. It seems more real than a church god."

"When God is just a cruel and distant phantom, it makes better sense to pray to someone who you know will really care.” Amalia turned the wagon onto a broader, busier street. They were now on the town's main thoroughfare, flanked on either side by shops, some open for business, but many boarded up and charred from a long-ago fire.

Horses, carts and bicycles moved up and down the street, churning up dust where there had once been asphalt. People walked down mud-brick sidewalks as if on important business, ducking in and out of shops, stopping to tip a street musician or examine the wares of a street vendor.

"These vendors are locals," Amalia explained. "They often use the same spot over and over. It's free to set up on the street like this, but there's no security and you might get harassed if you're not a townie, which is why we prefer the main market, even though we have to pay for a spot."

The aroma of grilling meat from a sidewalk vendor reminded Donovan that they hadn't eaten since their spartan breakfast of dried apples and parched-corn brew that passed for coffee. When a little girl, clad only in a man’s dirty shirt long enough to pass for a dress, dashed up to their cart shouting "Pepitas!" and waving a little bag, he put a hand on Amalia's arm and asked her to stop.

"Like we don't have perfectly good pumpkin seeds of our own to sell."

"But they're way back there in the wagon somewhere, and this little girl…"

"Was probably made up by her mother to look more like a beggar than she really is. I wouldn't be surprised if she gets three squares and has a comfortable bed to sleep in at night."

Donovan eyed the little girl critically. She shuffled her bare feet and held out the bag again. "Pepitas."

He dug in his pocket where he still carried a little money from when he was in the Guard. "How much?"

"Cinco." She held up her other hand, displaying all five fingers, in case her point wasn't clear.

Donovan held out a nickel, and with practiced agility, the girl snatched it from his fingers and gave him the little bag of roasted pumpkin seeds. Then she dashed back to a ramshackle stand in a driveway where two other children— an older boy and a girl just barely out of diapers, had been watching. "Thank you," Donovan called after her.

Amalia started the team again. "You go buying from every kid that's selling something, there's no point coming to market. We're here to sell as much as we can and spend as little as possible, otherwise we might as well have stayed home."

"It's just a snack," said Donovan in reasonable tones. He opened the bag and popped a few in his mouth. "They're pretty good, too. Want some?"

Amalia shook her head, but held out her hand and let Donovan fill it with chile-roasted pepitas. "They're good," she agreed. "But salty." She looked around at the other street vendors. "I'll lay you odds they've got a father or some kind of older relative out here selling drinks."

"Everyone's got an ulterior motive in your world, don't they?"

"Don't they in yours?"

He considered, briefly distracted by a motor scooter that sputtered past them exhaling the distinctive scent of old cooking oil. "They're just trying to survive, like we are. In general, people have been pretty nice to me, and the ones who have tried to scam me, well, it’s nothing personal, wouldn't you say?"

"I'll say that's a generous way of looking at it."

Donovan was about to elaborate when an old man with flaccid cheeks and an entrepreneurial gleam in his hollow eyes approached their cart. Strapped to his neck was a primitive wooden box full of bottles. "Refrescas!" he shouted. "Cold drinks! You thirsty? I got cold water, cold apple juice, cerveza. . ."

Amalia sneaked a look at Donovan, struggling to restrain a laugh. "I told you this would happen. I wouldn't be surprised if this was that little girl's grandpa. Didn't I tell you?"

Donovan grinned. "Yes, I guess you did."

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