Chapter 9
On a shelf near the window there was a wooden horse, and it was carved of dark wood with a mane made of real horsehair and a saddle painted red and silver. Carlos looked at it every morning when he woke up and he looked at it every night before his mother blew out the candle.
But he did not touch it because his mother had told him in the first week that they were guests in this house and guests did not touch things that did not belong to them.
He had said, "Yes, Mama." He had meant it.
He was six years old and he was a boy who kept his word because his father had taught him that a good man kept his word.
The room was a nice one. It had thick walls that stayed cool in the afternoon and a high ceiling with dark beams and a bed big enough for him and his mother both, which was how they slept now, because Carlos did not want to sleep alone in the room next door that the servants had first shown him.
His mother had not argued. She had brought his things into her room, and she had made a place for him on the left side of the bed, and that was where he slept.
He had been there a long time. He did not know how long exactly. He had stopped counting after a while, and now he only knew he'd been there a lot of days, and he was bored a good part of the time. His mother told him stories and played games with him, but outside of that, he was bored.
The man who owned the house was named Don Rodrigo.
He was thin and had gray hair and a short beard and eyes that looked at things for a long time without moving.
He did not live in this part of the house.
He lived in the other part across the courtyard.
Carlos had seen him three times. Each time Don Rodrigo had looked at him from across the courtyard and had not come over, and each time Carlos' mother had put her hand on Carlos' shoulder and had turned him a little, so that he was facing the other way, though she had not pulled him away.
"Why does he look at me, Mamá?"
"Because you are a handsome boy."
"But why does he look?"
"Some men look. You do not need to look back."
"I didn't look back."
"That's right. You didn't."
The second time Don Rodrigo had come into the room in the afternoon where they took their meals.
Carlos had been eating a piece of bread with honey and his mother had been sitting across from him not eating.
Don Rodrigo had come in and had sat down in the chair at the head of the table, not near them, and he had spoken to Carlos' mother in Spanish that was too fast for Carlos to follow.
Carlos had sat very still. He had understood one thing clearly, which was his own name. Don Rodrigo had said his name three times.
His mother had answered in Spanish that was not fast. She had answered slowly, the way she did when she was angry and did not want her anger to make her say the wrong words. Carlos had watched her answer. She had not looked at Don Rodrigo. She had looked at her own hands on the table.
Don Rodrigo had said something else. Carlos had caught the word hijo. Son. He had said it the way a man said a word when he was trying it out.
His mother had said, in Spanish, very quietly, "He has a father, and he's a good man and good husband."
Don Rodrigo had stood up and he had gone out.
Carlos's mother had come around the table and had sat down beside him and had put her arm around his shoulders.
She had not cried. Carlos had known she wanted to.
He could tell when his mother wanted to cry because her breath went a certain way, short through her nose.
But she had not cried, and he had taken her hand under the table and had held it.
"Mi amor," she had said. "You are a good boy."
"Yes, Mamá."
"You do not answer him. You do not call him anything. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mamá."
"If he asks you a question, you look at me. You do not answer him. You look at me."
"Yes, Mamá."
"You are my son. You are your father's son. That's all you are."
"Yes, Mamá."
That had been the second time.
The third time was in the courtyard and Carlos had been with his Tía Lupita and Don Rodrigo had passed by on his way to the stables and had stopped. He had looked at Carlos a long moment and then he had held out his hand to touch Carlos' shoulder.
Carlos had taken a step back. He had not run.
He had not turned. He had taken one step back, the way his father had taught him to step back from a horse that was acting wrong.
Don Rodrigo's hand had stayed in the air a moment.
Then Don Rodrigo had lowered it and had said something in Spanish that Lupita had answered for Carlos, and then Don Rodrigo had gone on to the stables.
Lupita had knelt down and had put her hands on Carlos' face.
"Good," she had said. "That was good, mi amor. That was very good."
"So I did right?"
"You did exactly right."
"Papa would have done that."
"Yes, your Papa would have done that."
That had been the third time, and there had not been a fourth, because after that day Don Rodrigo had not come to their side of the courtyard again, though Carlos saw him sometimes through the window of their room, walking on the far side in the evenings with his hands behind his back.
Carlos kept his boots right by his bed, exactly the way his mother kept hers.
They slept ready to leave, and his mother had told him they didn't want to be looking around for their boots when the time came to leave.
Carlos did not know where they would go if they left.
He did not think about that part. He only thought about the part where he had his boots ready to leave.
"Why do we keep our boots close, Mamá?"
"Because when Pa comes we will not want to be looking for them."
"Pa is coming?"
"Pa is coming."
"When?"
"When he can."
"He can do anything."
"He can, mi amor. But some things take time."
"How much time?"
"I don't know. Not long now."
"How do you know not long now?"
His mother had thought about that question. She had been brushing her hair. She had stopped brushing for a moment and had put the brush down.
"Because he loves us," she had said. "And a man who loves his family does not stop until he has them."
"Marshal Will loves us too."
"He does."
"Is Marshal Will coming?"
"I think he is, mi amor. I think he is."
"Good," Carlos had said. "Because Marshal Will is very tall."
His mother laughed for the first time in a week.
The laugh had come out of her before she could stop it, and she had put her hand over her mouth afterward, but the laugh had come.
Carlos had stared at his mother, wondering what he'd said that made her laugh.
He wished he could say such things more often because he enjoyed the sound of his mother's laugh, which he hadn't heard for a long time and he suddenly realized he had missed it.
"Yes," she had said while still laughing. "Marshal Will is very tall."
"Taller than Don Rodrigo?"
"Yes, much taller, mi amor."
"I knew it."