Benito was lazy, and she had not tried to cure him of it. She let him be as he was. Two of her husbands had been killed, and now a third one was sick. She felt oppressed. She did her best, and yet, the knowledge she had was often the wrong knowledge.
'The dentist better not hurt,' Benito said.
'I don't want to ride all the way to Chihuahua City to be hurt.' 'You'll be glad you went,' Maria said.
'You'll feel so much better, that I won't be able to fight you off, even when the children are in bed.' Later, she was to cry and cry over that remark.
When she made it, she did not realize that it would be the last thing she would ever say to Benito, who didn't make it to Chihuahua City, or to the dentist. Less than ten miles from Ojinaga his horse was shot out from under him. Benito tried to run, but the killer roped him and hoisted him up the side of a large boulder. Then the killer cut off his hands and feet, with a machete. The killer loosened the rope and rode away, leaving Benito to bleed to death. Benito crawled almost three hundred yards, back toward Ojinaga, before he died.
The killer was never found. The Federales came, but they didn't look very hard. Benito's mother and sisters were more upset by his mutilation than by the death. They felt it might mean that Benito's soul would be rejected by God. They felt he might never be allowed to rest.
Maria didn't worry about Benito being allowed to rest. He was good at resting. It made her smile, to think of him resting; now he could rest forever. He was not a traveling man; it may have been what she liked best about him. He was always there where she could find him, in the bed.
Benito had been a kind man. Maria knew she would miss his touch. He had been more kind to her than her father, her brothers, her uncles, her other husbands. It was wrong that he should die so cruelly; but at least he had crossed the border, into a land where there was no pain. Maria didn't believe in hell. If there was a hell it came to you in life. The Texans brought it.
They had evil in them and they had exercised their evil on her, when they caught her in her house.
That was hell, and it had happened to her in her own house. Hell was not happening to Benito. He had always liked to rest, and now he was resting.
But he would not be able to put out his hand to her, when she came near the bed; she would not be able to take his hand and guide it to her. Maria felt that the killer might have known what she and Benito did, when she shut the doors, in the morning. Perhaps that was why the hands were taken, she didn't know. Some old ones still made necklaces of fingers; perhaps someone had taken Benito's hands and feet, to be made into necklaces. Maria didn't know, would never know.
Beneath Maria's sorrow was anger. She felt a loyalty to Benito, and though her sorrow was deep, her anger was deeper. Her first two husbands were selfish men. They would have taken younger women, given time. But Benito wanted no one but her--he would never have taken a younger woman. That knowledge fueled her anger. Someday the killer might reveal himself to her. When that happened, she would take her own vengeance, even if it resulted in her death.
She would have liked to sit on the bed and touch Benito's hands, one more time. But it couldn't be.
'Do you think the killer is in Mexico or Texas?' she asked Joey, a day or two after the funeral. He had gone to the place and looked at the ground, but if he reached any conclusions he kept them to himself.
'Texas or Mexico, what's the difference?' Joey asked. He liked to take questions and make them into other questions.
There were times when her son was so insolent that she wanted to slap him. He toyed with her, in a way that made her angry. He was a smart boy, but too good-looking. He thought his looks gave him the right to be disrespectful to his mother. Joey was blond, a g@uero. He would look at Maria insolently, waiting for her next question.
It did not occur to him to be helpful. It would not have occurred to his father, either. He would rather twist her questions, make them into other questions.
'One is Texas and the gringos own it,' Maria said. 'This is Mexico. We own it. That's a difference.' 'It's two names for the same place,' Joey said. 'We should own it all. It was ours once, and we didn't have to smile at gringos when we crossed the river.' 'I don't smile at gringos, but Texas was never mine,' Maria said. 'I'm a woman-- nothing is mine. Not even my children. Not even you.' 'I am nobody's,' Joey said, smugly.
Maria suddenly slapped him. He was too much like all men. He was insolent, and he didn't care that she was sad about Benito, the only kind husband she had ever had.
Joey didn't move, when she slapped him; the cold came into his eyes. He had a hat on when she hit him, a little white sombrero.
Her slap knocked it off. Joey picked it up quickly and examined it carefully, to see if it was smudged. He turned it around and around in his hands.
He was particular about his clothes. The tiniest speck would spoil the hat, for Joey.
'That is the last time you hit me, Mother,' Joey said, carefully setting the hat back on his head.
Maria slapped him again, harder, and again the spotless white hat got knocked to the floor.
'You're my son,' she said. 'I'll slap you when you need it.' Joey picked up his hat and took it outside, to dust it off. He left, and was gone for a week. When he returned he didn't speak to Maria. He took his dirty clothes out of his saddlebags, and handed them to her, to clean. He was riding a black horse. Maria had never seen the horse before, or the saddle. He was also wearing silver spurs.
Maria didn't ask Joey about the horse.
She went outside, to Rafael and Teresa. They were sitting with their chickens and goats, under a little tree. Rafael was chanting one of his melancholy songs. Rafael was a big boy, and much nicer than Joey, only Rafael was lost in his mind.
Maria grew sad, thinking about it. She gathered her washing and started to walk to the river.
Rafael followed, with two of his goats.
