Chapter Forty-Nine

The sun was low in the sky before they had Jimmy and his rickety wagon back on the road. Carina had checked the mule and pronounced him healthy but dehydrated and undernourished. This led her to stuff every empty nook in the wagon with animal feed, much to Amalia's annoyance. Carina thought Jimmy should spend the night, but he swore he was expected home that evening and Amalia and Donovan supported him in this. "He's a big boy. He'll be safe enough out there and it's not like the mule doesn't know the way."

They sent him off with a wagon loaded down with water, hay and corn. Will and Tasha begged to know when they would see him again. "Why don't you come to the water-witching?" he said. "You can see Doña Alma do her ceremony and there will be a well digging and a feast after."

The children turned eager eyes upon the grownups. "Can we?"

The adults exchanged glances. "Sure," Carina said. "We really should go and help with the work."

"Neighbors help each other," Amalia said, although there was a timbre to her voice that suggested she wasn't thrilled about it. "Let us know when Doña Alma is coming and we'll be there with food and shovels."

Jimmy grinned. "I'll tell Papá. I knew you'd want to help." He reached his arms toward Carina for a hug. "You may be the farthest away, but you're my favorite neighbors."

He flapped the reins on the mule's back and started the slow, plodding way toward home. The jugs and canisters didn't rattle this time, full of water and bolstered as they were by bundled hay. Will and Tasha ran a little way down the road, shouting their good-byes, and then they were alone again and everyone trooped back inside for dinner.

* * *

A few days later, Jimmy was back, this time on a pony. He had only enough time to relay the news that Alma would be doing her witching ceremony on Sunday, and then he was off to give the news to other neighbors.

Sunday morning everyone got up before dawn, fed the animals, milked the goats and had a cold breakfast of cornbread and milk. Amalia hitched Goneril and Regan to the large market cart and Donovan loaded all the tools they could think of.

Everyone was dressed for a festival, Carina in her usual blue, Donovan in his nicest summer slacks and shirt, the children in their only summer finery. Even Amalia had bowed to necessity and put on a yellow shift with a swirling hem that showed off her neat calves. The adults tucked bundles of work clothes into the wagon, in case they should be called upon to help dig the new well. They loaded the children in, then headed out as the sun streaked orange across the morning sky. The children soon fell back to sleep, nestled on grain sacks. The adults rode up front, saying little as they watched the valley come to life with the dawn.

It was a long way to the other side of the valley, past the expanse of the Peterson ranch, past the Garza estate, and onto another road through a neighborhood of abandoned homes, the remains of a trailer park and a gutted gas station. Then there was a pasture dotted with anemic-looking sheep, and finally some larger estates once again. Unlike the ranchos on the creek side of the valley, these were in dire straits, but only the Montoya's, near the end of the road, was on the brink of ruin. Everywhere the fields were parched and dusty, the animals thin and few in number.

Will and Tasha woke up, and on seeing their friend Jimmy, scrambled out of the wagon. After a quick introduction to his brother Carlitos, the children were off to parts unknown.

The adults smiled indulgently as the kids ran off, then Carina hurried to embrace each of the Montoya women in turn while Amalia and Donovan shook hands with the men and made inquiries about the nature of the well-digging and the tools that would be required.

"We'll know when Doña Alma gets here and finds our water," said José, the patriarch. "She'll not only tell us where it is, but how far down we'll have to dig to find it. Then we'll go a little lower than that as insurance against the next drought."

"We have an auger, so it won't be all shovels and sledgehammers," added Pete, the oldest son, who was in his teens and lived in terror of the military draft. "It's hand-powered, but the Garza boys think they can find a way to hitch the mule to it and save us all some sweat."

The Garza "boys" were all men in their forties, bachelor sons of petite Chata Garza, widow of Simón, killed years ago during the fighting in Tehran. Emotionally shredded by the war, the men were all on one form of medical discharge or another and lived in their childhood home. Their stated reason for not having married was that they wanted to help their mother with the ranch, and they were so helpful in times of need that no one dared hint that there could be any other reason for it, even as local daughters grew up and pined for husbands.

The Garzas were busying themselves with the drill, a pole and a set of harness straps when the Montoyas led Amalia and Donovan over. The men greeted Amalia, then welcomed Donovan and shook his hand. "Always nice to have another man in the valley.”

"Is Doña Alma here yet?" Amalia asked.

"No," José said. "She should be here soon, though. It's what, a little after eight?"

Amalia looked at her watch. "Past eight-thirty. Closer to eight forty-five."

Pete shrugged. "She said she'll come, so she'll come."

"We're forgetting our manners," José said. "My wife and daughter have made coffee and breakfast. Please go have some."

Knowing the Montoyas' poverty, Amalia and Donovan demurred, but when he insisted, they agreed that maybe some coffee would be good. As they walked toward the house, Donovan asked, "Can they really afford coffee for everyone?"

"It doesn't matter if they can afford it or not. It's part of their hospitality. They've asked us for a favor and this is the favor they're doing for us in return. Even if this is the last coffee they'll ever see, they'll give it to us because it's good manners."

"Are all country people like this?"

"Like what?"

"You know, generous."

"Of course, if it's their neighbors. When these are the only people you can count on in times of need, you make sure to treat them right." She gave Donovan a quizzical look. "Aren't people that way in the city? I mean, not total strangers, but don't people in gangs help each other?"

"Not really. We're sort of feral, actually.”

"Well, out here we make sure to let our neighbors know we appreciate them, even when it's inconvenient or just a big pain in the ass."

Donovan laughed and suddenly Amalia laughed, too. "Yes, it is a pain in the ass sometimes. There. I've said it."

"Sounds like it needed saying."

Amalia stopped and sniffed the air. "But sometimes a little inconvenience pays off. That smells like real coffee, not the kind that's made out of chicory and dandelions."

"I wonder where they got it. Coffee’s getting hard to find in town."

"Maybe they have a stash of beans they roast up on special occasions. Let's hurry and get some. Everyone here is insatiable for good coffee, and there might not be enough to go around."

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