“This
will never work,” she says. I do not look at her. There is truth, there, in her
words, but I won’t hear it. “Do you hear me, Jesus? This will never work!” I
wonder if she will ever lose her accent, if the Indian and the Spanish will
always hover over her words like smoke. She does not think we will make it
here; she does not think we will make it anywhere. The world’s a mess.
“It
doesn't have to. God knows what is best,” I say. Takansy, this beautiful wife
of mine, will not hear me.
“Bah!”
she throws up her hands. “You are a foolish man, Jesus! Why do you listen to your god and not your
wife? These people, they will never stand for this. For us.”
“We are
the richest family in the Big Thompson Valley,” I say. “Money will talk and
they will listen.”
“Money,
money, money! Always money,” she says. Her voice is tired. “We were not meant
for this life.”
“Then
what life?” I ask. “A Spanish one? An American one? A life on the plains with
your people?” I cross the dirt floor, take her hand in mine. It is rough and
callused. The nails are dirty. I press a kiss to her palm. “This life is all we
have.”
“We are
all mixed up.” There are tears in her eyes.
“So is
the world. We are part of it all.” I pull her into my arms.
“Speak
to me in Spanish,” she says, her voice muffled against my chest. “No English;
not for awhile.”
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