FROM
A NOVEL BY MANDY KEIFETZ
CHAPTER ONE Only Five Daughters
Doll,
my plan is this: Get what I need and get the hell out of town. It's not
a great plan, I know. It's even, I guess, an old-fashioned plan. But my
head feels a thousand years old and it's the only plan I can think of.
This is a two-fold plan, Doll. It also involves you. Get what I need.
Get the hell out of town. And then get my ass over to your bedroom.
That can even be the new address for my ass: Flan's Ass, c/o the Doll's
bedroom, NYC. It's got a ring to it, you have to admit. New York City.
Molly's bedroom. Be still my sour old heart. You said in your last
letter that you missed me upside down and backwards, wanted me there.
You also said I was not to take your letter as bait for consoling words.
So, Doll, I hope these words don't console you. Or something. Please
pick up my trunk -- big black leather sucker -- at Kennedy Airport around
3:30 pm, Thursday, the 20th, and I'll meet you at Fee's that night.
Love, Flan.
I wrote that exactly two weeks before my probation was up. I rolled it out
of the typewriter, folded it into an envelope addressed to Molly and slipped
the whole thing into the back pocket of my jeans. It was broiling in Mapache.
The driest Fall New Mexico'd ever seen and even so I had to wipe the sweat
off my chest with a clean towel before putting my shirt back on.
I opened the door to my shack. The endless rows of ugly cotton shimmered wetly
in the huge sun and the Organ Mountains made a bruised green shadow across
the farm, a rising shelf of darkness against the glare. The Organ Mountains
are really just the foothills of the Rockies. They do look like pipe organs,
though. Great purple cylinders as if the whole farming community in this God-forsaken
southern tip of New Mexico was one huge Catholic church. Fucking poets these
Mexicans are.
Nary Totonac, old and bent, deep red lines etched into his face, was struggling
with his pecan trees, of course, and I started across the field to give him
notice. Nary'd been good to me. He'd given me the job and the brown adobe
shack to live in when I got out of prison, claiming that my grandmother, the
madam, had done as much and then some for him.
I hated to let Nary down. He'd kept me on even after the pecan weevil and
the drought had come up from Juarez, destroying half his winter crop. I felt
terrible about leaving him in the lurch, especially after the fine meals I'd
shared with his family, but the truth was, there wasn't much I could do to
help him save his farm. It was out of our hands.
If I stuck around, it'd just be me salivating after his beautiful sixteen-hand
gray appaloosa, and shooting longing glances at his youngest daughter, Sonia.
She was fucking gorgeous. Nary himself called her his red hot tamale. She
had those eyes you read about in crummy pulp books, Spanish Eyes, flashing
black eyes, and bleached white hair down to her ass.
I'd been trying to get her into the sack for close to three years now and
every time she'd bat those glittering eyes at me and giggle prettily, "mañana,
mañana." Of course mañana never came which was the thing I hated
most about the Southwest. It's always mañana with Mexicans and they
almost never come across.
Thinking about it, I felt the bile rise in my throat. My black boots were
cracked with three years of hard farm labor. They were just about ruined.
All the cracks were a dusty tan brown from the bone-dry dirt. I felt the sun
on the back of my neck and I knew I looked almost as red as a Mexican myself.
Yeah, I had to get out of Mapache, away from this burnt-up culture. I figured
a few years in clammy, brutal New York were just what I needed. The whole
time I worked at Nary's, and even more when I was in the slam, I'd hallucinated
about going back East. In fact, my whole damn life has been one long struggle
to get to a place like New York and stay there; but somehow or other I always
find myself back in the Southwest, sweating and choking, my mouth full of
gritty dry dirt.
New York made me think of Molly and I took the letter out of my pocket and
reread it as I made my way toward old Nary, who was throwing dead pecans for
his german shepherd, Vulf. I knew Vulf was going to eat about a thousand pecan
weevils and then get sick and shit green all over the farm; and Nary's wife
would beat him with a beaded belt. But I'd had that fight with them hundreds
of times and my face hurt from the glare, so I kept my eyes on the letter.
It was pretty good. Picturing Molly reading it, her long black hair falling
into her eyes, I got hard. I had a much better plan than the one I'd described
to her, of course. One that involved a load of peyote and season tickets to
the Mets; but I was afraid Molly wouldn't help me unless she thought I was
finally gonna settle down and become some kind of fat, pipe-smoking philosopher.
See, Molly's a strange girl. If you saw her walking down some street in New
York, struggling under a ton of books and papers, patiently addressing invisible
demons, hair in her face, tight black jeans, blue sweater over perfect breasts,
you'd never think she could know someone like me. And God knows no one I come
across would ever dream there was a person like Molly. An Easterner? A Hungarian?
A professor plagued by an entourage of ghosts? It's like we pull a fast one
on God every time we kiss.
But I met her in a bar. And, well, bars are like that. Everybody's got to
drink. And two very different people can end up with the exact same thirst
for the slick burn of tequila. Molly's eyes are gray-blue, huge, the color
of an old black-and-white TV purring all night in the corner of darkened trailer.
She's tall, taller than me, about 5'10" or 11", taller in the black boots
she wears.
Black hair. Blue eyes. Black jeans. Blue sweater. Black boots. Blue smoke
curling around her fingers. Black and blue and black again. A guy could look
at her and get the idea that bruising's gonna enter into this soon, and in
a big way. But it isn't like that. At the college where Molly teaches, they
call her Doctor Silence.
When I stepped up close to Nary he was bent over Vulf, showing him a handful
of rotten pecans. Black weevils squirmed in his palm.
"You see this, Vulfito? Is terrible. Just terrible."
He stood up, shaking his head and closing his hand around the infested pecans,
crushing them. I hoped he would say "terrible" again. I liked the way he said
it. He rolled the R's out into a low long growl. He sounded just like Vulf,
in fact. He dropped the nut fragments into the dust and wiped his hands on
the sides of jeans. I saw a couple of half-dead weevils clinging to the seams.
He clapped a great red hand on my shoulder and I set my face hard so I wouldn't
grimace. I felt sorry for Nary about the weevils but I didn't want the bugs
on my shirt. I was going into town. "Nary," I said. "Flanagan.
You see these wee-bowls? It is terrible."
Vulf barked and I grinned. Of course Nary didn't know that was the name of
a kid's toy and I didn't want to tell him. It would be embarrassing. Nary
was sensitive about his accent, a crazy mixture of Mexican, German, and Vera
Cruz Indian. I knew the suits at Molly's office would probably eat him up;
but he didn't like to talk about it, and that was okay with me.
I picked up a pecan and threw it for Vulf. It was a good throw. He leapt up
and caught it right at the peak of the arc, his tan legs at least three feet
off the ground, then trotted back to us, dropping the nut between Nary's legs.
"You going into town, Flanagan?"
"Yeah, Nary, I..."
"Af, you leave us soon, Flanagan. So, don' look surprised. I know you.
Your probation almost up. Now you move on. This is good. Now you been with
Nary. Now you stay out of trouble. For your beautiful grandmother, God rest
her soul, I never do less. Tonight you eat with us, hokay? We drink the tequila
we brought up from Juarez. Very good. Sauza Blanco. Special. Special night.
Vulf he 'ave some too. Dogs love the tequila."
He squatted down on his dead farm land and scratched his ratty dog behind
the ears. Vulf thumped his tail, his mouth hanging half open in a big stupid
grin. Nary looked up at me, squinting in the sun.
"You take Arturo
into town, Flanagan?"
"I was thinkin' about it."
"Af."
He spit and stretched. "I don't know which you love more, Señor Flanagan,
my horse, or my daughter."
I wasn't sure what to say. He'd never talked like this before and I didn't
really want to get into it. I was anxious to get to town. It was true I loved
them both, but probably not as much as Nary would've liked to think.
"They're much the same, you know?"
I laughed.
"Sonia and Arturo?" "You laugh, Flanagan, but
it is true. Arturo, he is very pretty, is he no, with his spots?"
"He is, Nary. The best Appi in the county."
"Yet I ride him into town, sitting up there sixteen one, maybe two high, and what do the ranchers
say as I pass? Go on, you tell Nary. I heard before."
"They say
he's an idiot horse, brains in his spots." "But you know Arturo
is very smart, gentle, one in a thousand, a million." "Sure, but
what's the point?" "Sonia, she is a very pretty girl, so people
think she is not so bright, hah? Her brains in her," he carved the figure
of a woman in the hot dusty air. "Okay, Nary, I get the point."
He sighed, picking weevils off of Vulf's coat, then shook his head, swivelling
to take in the entire sight of his ravaged farm. "Af. I'm not sure
you do, Flanagan. But anyway it don't matter. Not you I worry about, truly.
This land, my family. I worry what will ‘appen. I wish I could sell this land,
take Mrs. Totonac to Atlantic City. Always she wanted to live classy like
that, back East. You think I care who I sell to? Another farmer? The Church?
The Army? Af. They talk in town about these greedy developers but I don't
care. I would sell to anyone. No one want this terrible land. Not in five
acre lots like it must be. And little Sonia, she need her mother. Sixteen
and still with no real prospects? Af."
At the sound of Nary saying "terrible," Vulf started barking. Nary shook his
head, unscrambling his tired old brains, and smiled.
"Never mind this, Flanagan. You go to town, never mind the crazy talk of a crazy old man."
I stood from my crouch, waiting for the old farmer to spill it, watching him
trace patterns in Vulf's mangy ruff. He was quiet a few minutes and when he
finally spoke his voice was hushed and level.
"You do something
for me, Flanagan, now you are leaving?" "Yeah, Nary, anything. Shoot."
Extending his thumb and forefinger, he pulled a silent trigger at me.
"You must stop to tease my Sonia, hah? She like you but no can 'ave.
Hay un chingo piche de putas hembras en este puta mundo, pero solo hay cinco
hijas, many girls, you understand, but only five daughters. I rest easier
on this terrible farm knowing that my Sonia, she 'ave nothing to fear from
you."
His face was all smile but I knew he was dead serious. Anyway, it was no
problem. Sonia was a pretty little girl but I was thinking about Molly again.
Iíd need that tequila. Even though Sauza Blanco is just about the worst
shit ever squeezed out of a cactus. It tastes like liquid candy corn.
"Sure, Nary, no problem."
"Good," he said, and smiled at me, full of teeth and mirth this time. "Stop
by hacienda on the way to town, Flanagan. Ask Mrs. Totonac if she need anything."
Nary always called his wife Mrs. Totonac. I didnít bother to stop by the
hacienda, though. I knew his asking was just a formality, a way of including
me in the family, and I figured Iíd already done my part with the oath of
chastity to their young daughter. After all, what could Mrs. Totonac possibly
want from a tiny town like Mapache? Chintzy turquoise earrings, a boilermaker
from El Cabra, the bar, or maybe I could pick her up a nice cold six of
absolution from the church. Thatís all they have in Mapache.
I suppose I could have borrowed the truck, or even Arturo, Naryís genius
horse, and gone into Las Cruces where they have a Skagg's Alpha-Beta, the
giant Mormon supermarket chain, but I was itchy to get to town. I was working
on a big deal, something that could easily keep me out of the Southwest,
and away from the questionable charms of the Totonac girl, forever. I didnít
want to take any chances.
fleabites press
p.o. box 20229 tompkins square station
new york, ny 10009
Entire contents © Fleabites
Press. All rights reserved.
|