Chavela looked at me without speaking. She did not ask the obvious, though.
“Where did you come from?” Navarro asked.
“Empalme. You heard of it?”
He nodded. “From the south. Not so far as Hermosillo, pero … eso es muy lejos.”
“Why so far, Xochitl?” Chavela asked. When I lifted my eyebrows at her, she held a hand up. “I heard Emilia say your name.”
“Are you visiting Emilia’s home?” Navarro said.
I knew I couldn’t tell them the truth. They were still strangers to me. So I pushed away the urge to let it all come forth, to finally be true with someone.
“Something like that,” I said.
Chavela took the broom from me. “You’ll be in good hands,” she said. “She’s a good soul, that Emilia. You can trust her.”
I frowned and opened my mouth to respond.
“I can only say this,” she continued, raising a hand up. “We met once, me and Emilia. And I could tell from her stories that he was not good to her, that something horrible had happened. She will need to deal with this, Xochitl, and she’s going to need someone to help.” She paused. “Even if that means giving her some space.”
I nodded. That made sense, but …
Why did it have to be me?
I cleaned off the ground as best as I could, and Navarro threw another bucket of water over the stain, which had dulled in vibrancy. He told me to let it sit awhile, so the three of us gathered in the shade on the eastern side of the building, and we talked for hours. They told me more about how they had come to Obregán, why they stayed, what the world was like outside the desert. “I’ve never been to Solado,” Chavela admitted, running her fingers through her long gray hair. “But I’ve heard it’s beautiful, in a terrible sort of way.”
“We’ve been losing a lot of people to that place,” said Navarro. “It’s opened up some work here, which is good for a lot of us.”
“Do you think you’ll ever go to Solado?” I asked, drinking down more water, thankful that my headache had finally subsided.
Chavela shook her head. “I love it here too much. Look at what we have! This place is so alive, so vibrant, so interesting.” She laughed then. “Además, soy una vieja. I don’t think I could make a journey like that. You’re young. You seem like you can handle your own.”
But could Emilia? Or would she continue to rely on me?
When night fell, las estrellas above Obregán had to compete with the lights of la ciudad. We were still in the same spot, our backs against the wall of the abandoned building, the building of el olvidado, and I leaned my head back, took in the twinkling starlight. They had never quite looked like this, because I had never seen them from this place.
It was new. And I appreciated that.
Emilia came back as we stared at the sky above us, trying to find the brightest star. I almost missed her, but she paused before she darted around the edge of the building.
“Go,” Chavela said. “Talk to her. If she needs it.”
Inside, most of the people were curled up on their sleeping rolls, and a few of them were quietly talking to one another. Emilia stood next to her own bag, which Chavela had moved to the eastern wall. I approached her carefully, as her back was to me. “Emilia…,” I said, trying the name out on my tongue again.
She didn’t react. I stepped closer.
“How are you?”
It was such a weak, ineffective question, but I didn’t know what else to say, what else could break through the wall between us.
She had on different clothing: camisa and breeches, both of them the color of wet dirt, a shade or so lighter than her own skin. But those elegant boots were still on her feet, and I wanted to laugh. They seemed so impractical.
I took a risk. I lifted my hand, let it graze her shoulder. She let me lay it there for a bit before she twisted away and focused on unpacking. “We should get some sleep,” she said. “Since we need to leave in the morning.”
She wasn’t wrong, but the way she said it brought all my anger back. “Bueno,” I said. “We’ll leave just after dawn.”
Emilia didn’t look at me. She stretched out on her roll, then turned to face the other wall.
I wanted to know more. I had so many questions about her, her lies, her need for me. But as I unrolled the thick cloth on the ground, the memory of what she said prickled my skin.
I don’t owe you anything, Xochitl.
I had lied to her, too. I was overflowing with secrets. And Julio would have gone after her even if she hadn’t lied to me. Why had I said otherwise? Why had I been so cruel? My stomach rumbled at the memory, and I feel asleep to a deep shame. I was not who Emilia thought I was.
I was worse.
Chavela woke me up the next morning with a gentle nudge in the side with her foot. I had slept soundlessly: no restless tossing and turning, no sueños. When I sat up, I looked to my left.
Emilia and her things were gone.
Disappointment ripped through me.
Images filled my mind:
Alegría leaving.
Omar on his bed, staring at his husband asleep next to him.
Manolito standing over the burning remains of Julio’s shipment.
They were so vivid, Solís. Is this what happened when a cuentista kept stories? Could I now recall these events as if I had actually experienced them?
I rolled onto my back, stretched out my sore muscles. I faced a whole day of travel with Emilia, and I had no idea where we were going. I lay there, unmoving, unmotivated. Should I do this? Should I venture out into the horrible unknown with someone who was basically a stranger?
“There are some warm tortillas and frijoles by the fire,” Chavela said, and I looked in her direction. “Relieve yourself out back,
