Chapter Twenty-Six

A clatter of pans and kettles roused Donovan from a deep slumber. The thin walls of the tent where he had collapsed with Gonzales were no protection from the racket of breakfast being made. Wooden chests opened and slammed shut. Spoons pounded furiously against the sides of bowls, and pot lids clanged into place.

He cringed, rolled over and tried putting his pillow over his head, but that was no good. And now that he was awake enough to think in a limping sort of way, it occurred to him that maybe all the noise of breakfast-making really did have a motive behind it. Hadn't Melinda and Amalia been quieter all the other mornings?

He sat up and pressed his face with the palms of his hands, wondering what time it was and how long he had slept. There was no light coming in through the walls of the tent, but he guessed dawn was not far off. In that case he had slept, what, three hours? He looked at Gonzales, still snoring and oblivious to the commotion. He had a vague memory of Gonzales being a lot more drunk than he himself had been, singing and shouting during the rickshaw ride back into town and stumbling into seemingly everybody's campsite but his own. He had even blundered into the wrong tent, waking a group of children and causing a big headache for Donovan as he tried to get the man into his own camp, against his protests that he knew where it was and "didn't need no help from no thieving card shark."

Well, that headache was nothing like this one. How long had it been since he had been in the habit of drinking? Too long, his head and queasy stomach told him as he swayed to his feet. He needed coffee and some greasy eggs. He stumbled out of the tent and made his way to the campfire where Amalia and Melinda crouched together near the flames, keeping an eye on breakfast. They were quiet now, seeming to have run out of ways to make noise. They looked up as he approached, but said nothing. "Good morning," he mumbled, sitting on a box near the fire.

Melinda raised her eyebrows but didn't return his greeting, instead bending back over her skillet of eggs. Amalia had been keeping an eye on the coffeepot, but now she scowled and walked away. Donovan looked around, hoping Peterson or Diana could help break the atmosphere of feminine disapproval, but they were gone, their bedding neatly rolled and staged near the tent.

"Where did Diana and your father go?" he asked Melinda.

She had taken the skillet out of the fire, but kept stirring so she wouldn't have to look at him. "They went to get the animals."

Donovan remembered that today was their last trading day, the day they would complete the bigger deals they had made and pick up any last items they needed in the town’s shops. Tonight they would be sleeping in the desert again. Suddenly Donovan longed to get back to the simple rhythms of country life. This trip was an ugly digression from a lifestyle he was beginning to appreciate.

Melinda spooned some eggs onto a plate and set the covered skillet into some warm ashes. Then she removed the coffeepot from the grill over the fire and poured herself a cup. She must have heard Donovan's stomach growl because she gave him a pointed look. "Are you expecting someone to wait on you? Serve yourself."

Donovan moved stiffly as he fixed himself a plate and poured a cup of Amalia's strong coffee. Just when he was beginning to think he would suffocate under Melinda's disapproval, a jangle of harness and creaking of wheels announced the return of Peterson and Diana. They were each driving a cart, with Gonzales' horse, Melinda's pony, and Amalia's jennets tethered behind. Diana pulled her team to a stop, shrieked "Breakfast!" and hopped down off the box. Melinda pressed a plate and cup into her hands, and the girl fell to eating like a starving animal.

"Don't gobble your food, Diana.”

"It's all right," Peterson said, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "That's a fine girl you got there."

"She'd be a bit finer if she minded her manners."

"Mind them for what? For afternoon tea at some fancy New York restaurant, buried under the rubble these past twenty years?" He tousled Diana's hair. "She's a growing girl who did a man's work this morning."

"Yes," Melinda said, "I suppose my poor baby is hungry, having to do work that should've been done by a man." She glared at Donovan as she said this, and he hoped she meant to include Gonzales in her condemnation of the useless men of their party.

"Speaking of men," Peterson said, "Where's Gonzales? Don't tell me he's still sleeping."

"He is." Melinda sipped her coffee, regal in her righteousness.

"Well," the old man scratched the back of his neck. "I hate to do it to the guy, but I guess I’m going to have to wake him up."

Diana jumped up. "Let me!" Before anyone could stop her, she darted over to the tent, opened the flap and poked her head inside. Loudly and off tune she began singing:

Que linda esta mañana
En que vengo a saludarte
Venimos todos con gusto
Y placer a felicitarte!

From inside the tent, the others could hear a shuffling, and then a mumbled, "Madre de Dios, mi hijita, cállate!"

Diana choked back a giggle and launched into the next verse.

"Cállate, Diana! Shut up!"

The girl squealed as a sock hit her in the face. She jumped back from the open tent and ran to hide behind her mother.

Gonzales lumbered out of the tent and looked around. "Damn! It's still dark out." He looked at Diana. "That sun ain't coming up for another hour."

"And there's a lot of work to be done before it does," Peterson said. "We brought your horse around for you."

"There's plenty of eggs," Donovan added. "Have some. You'll feel better."

Muttering under his breath that nothing was going to make him feel better, and how people got no business singing the Mañanitas song at such an ungodly hour, Gonzales stumbled toward the fire, and with trembling hands, poured a cup of coffee.

Melinda eyed him coldly, then turned her attention to her daughter. "What on earth were you singing?"

"I learned it in the market. It's like Happy Birthday."

"Only it ain't my birthday, kid." Gonazles sat down and stared dumbly into his cup.

"Behave yourself," Peterson said, "Or I'll send her to your house to sing it again when it is."

"I need that like a hole in the head. Where's those eggs?"

Sullenly, Melinda ladled a spoonful onto a plate and handed it to him.

"That's it?"

"You want more, get it yourself."

Next>>
<<Previous