The Cemetery Man and Other Darkside Tales

Toiling in the Fields of the Lord

The harvest was almost done. One more week, maybe only a few days, and all the lettuce would be picked, the fields would be bare earth again.

It had been very hot this day, the hottest of the long season, and the air had cooled little since nightfall. I sat resting beneath the lamplit front window of my trailer. An old man’s bones ache in weather like this, from all the stooping and straightening and the slashing strokes of the lettuce knife. I was still strong enough to toil in the fields, do the Lord’s work, but for how much longer?

This was not a good thought and I put it out of my mind.

From the other end of the camp, the loud pagan music of the young people rose and fell and there were shouts and laughter. Angry voices, too, from both men and women. Nerves fray, tempers grow short, passions flare in the heat of summer. There had been two fights and much growling and name-calling in the fields today. Tonight, more of the same.

The camp sounds were of no interest to me. I listened to the throb of the crickets, the call of nightbirds in the willows that lined the river bank below. Here alone beneath the star-bright sky, I was at peace.

But I was not alone for long. Soon Rosa Caldera appeared, as she did almost every night, in one of her thin, tight dresses with nothing beneath it. Young, wild, filled with sin and mischief. Another like Corrine. She might have been Corrine, forty years ago. I knew them so well, the Corrines and Rosas, the other wicked ones in the fields and camps.

Rosa stopped, as she always did, and said in her teasing voice, “Hello, grandfather. Hot night, eh?”

“Yes. Very hot.”

“Cooler down by the river. Cooler in the river.”

I said nothing.

“I think I’ll go swimming. Will you come down later and watch me?”

“No.”

“Ah, but you will. I’ve seen you watching me before.”

I said nothing.

“Why don’t you come swimming with me tonight? No one else will be there. We’ll swim naked together.”

“No.”

“You’re too old, eh? Too old to do anything but watch.”

I said nothing.

“Well, abuelo?” she said, and laughed, and winked at me. “What do you say?”

“God will punish you for your sins.”

She laughed again. “That’s what you always say. Why don’t you think up something new?”

She walked away, laughing, swinging her hips. Once, she looked back over her shoulder and stuck her tongue out at me. More laughter flowed back from her as she disappeared into the darkness.

I sat listening to the crickets and the nightbirds, wishing for a cool breeze. None came. What came were the two boys, Pete Simms and Miguel Santos, as they, too, did almost every night. Young like Rosa, their backs strong but their minds small and mean, their hearts cold. One was fat, the other thin, and both were ugly of face. They took much pleasure in deviling me because it gave them a sense of power. The young ones like Rosa would have nothing to do with them.

“Hey, there, Harry,” Pete said. “How’s it hanging tonight?”

I said nothing.

“It don’t hang on Harry no more,” Miguel said. “You get to be his age, it shrivels up and hides. Ain’t that right, old man?”

I said nothing.

“Oh, Christ, it’s hot. Don’t the heat never bother you?”

“No.”

“Nothing much bothers you, seems like.”

“A man lives long enough,” I said, “he learns patience.”

“Don’t worry, be happy. Right?”

“Yes. Don’t worry, be happy. Do what has to be done.”

“Like what? Picking lettuce for crappy wages?”

“Yes. Working in the fields.”

“You always been a farm worker, Harry? I mean, you ever do anything else?”

“No. Nothing else.”

Miguel laughed. “So you was born to it. Born migrant worker, born bracero.”

“Every man is born to do one good thing with his life,” I said.

“And you think picking lettuce is yours?”

“Toiling in the fields is honest work. The Lord’s work.”

They both laughed this time, like donkeys braying. “You hear that, Pete? The Lord’s work, he calls it. Toiling in the fields of the Lord!”

“You’re funny as hell, Harry, you know that? A freakin’ laugh riot.”

“Man, you really believe what you just said?”

“Yes,” I said. “I believe it.”

“Then you’re crazy. You been working in the hot sun too long.”

“Way too long,” Pete said. “His brain’s been fried.”

I said nothing. I reached behind my chair, lifted the full quart bottle, broke the seal, and took a small sip. They both watched me with their eyes opened wide.

“Hey,” Miguel said, “look at that. The holy roller’s got a jug of tequila.”

“Yeah. Good stuff, too.”

“Never seen you take a drink before, hombre viejo. You been holding out on us.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Every now and then, a sip or two, when the harvest is almost done.”

“A sip or two. Shit. One bottle prob’Iy lasts you the whole season.”

“Wouldn’t last me one night,” Pete said.

“How about letting us have a taste?”

“No. You boys are too young.”

They thought this, too, was funny.

“Come on, don’t be stingy. Just a quick one for each of us, hah?”

“No.”

“You better change that to yes,” Miguel said. “You wouldn’t want to make us mad at you.”

“Why should you be mad at me?”

“For holding out on us. For not sharing. If we got mad, why then maybe we’d just have to take that bottle away from you.”

“You would do that?”

“What would you do if we did, an old fart like you? Holler for help?”

“No.”

“Fight us, try to take the bottle back?”

“No.”

“So you see? Share and make us all happy.”

“Why are you picking on an old man?”

“You’re a funny dude, that’s why,” Pete said. “You make us laugh.”

I said nothing.

“Nobody’s looking, nobody’s around. Give us the bottle, let us have a couple of swallows.”

“That’s all we want,” Miguel said, “just a couple of swallows.”

I hesitated, but only for a moment. Then I sighed and held out the bottle. Miguel grabbed it first, drank long and deep until Pete took it away from him. He, too, drank long and deep, smacked his lips and wiped a fat hand across his mouth.

“Man, that’s good!”

“Strong as goat piss. Whoo.”

“I feel like having another one.”

“Yeah. Gimme that bottle.”

“You boys better not drink too much,” I said.

“No? Why’s that?”

“Too much tequila does bad things to a man on a hot night.”

“What bad things?”

I said nothing.

“He means it makes you horny,” Pete said. He punched me on the shoulder. “Isn’t that what you mean, Harry?”

I said nothing.

“Bad things,” Miguel said, and laughed. “Bet tequila don’t do nothing bad to the holy roller except get him a little borracho.”

“Hey, old man, we never seen you with a woman. You ever been married?”

“Yes.”

“No shit? What was her name?”

“Corrine.”

“What happened to her? She die or something?”

I said nothing.

“Maybe she dumped him,” Pete said. “That what happened? She dump your ass?”

I said nothing.

“Maybe she run off with somebody else,” Miguel said. “How about it, hombre viejo? That the way it was?”

“Yes.”

“Hah! So she did run off. When was that?”

“Long time ago.”

“How long?”

“Forty years.”

Pete drank more tequila. “Man, that’s just about forever.”

“What’d you do?” Miguel asked. “After she run off.”

“Nothing. There was nothing to do.”

“I know what I’d’ve done. I’d’ve gone after her and kicked her ass and busted the dude’s head. That’s what I’d’ve done.”

I said nothing.

“Forty years,” Pete said. “But you ain’t been without a woman since, right? You had plenty in your day, huh?”

“No.”

“No? What you mean, no?”

“Sins of the flesh,” I said.

They both laughed. “Sins of the flesh,” Miguel said. He took the bottle from Pete, drank deeply. “That’s a hot one, that is. That’s funny as hell.”

“You trying to tell us you ain’t had a woman in forty years? You ain’t been laid in all that time?”

“It’s the truth.”

“What kind of man don’t want to get laid for forty years? Huh?”

I said nothing.

“So what you been doing all that time?” Pete said. “Choking your lizard?”

I said nothing.

“He don’t even do that,” Miguel said. “All he does is pick crops and sit here by himself at night, all tired out from the Lord’s work.”

“Toiling in the fields of the Lord. Right, Harry?”

“Yes.”

They laughed and drank. I listened to the crickets and the nightbirds and wished for a small breeze. It was very hot.

“Damn,” Miguel said, “I’m getting a heat on.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Getting a hard-on, too. How about we go over to Salinas, pick up a couple of putas?”

“We ain’t been paid yet, remember? We ain’t got no money, remember?”

“Hey, Harry, you got any money?”

“No,” I said.

“Twenty bucks, that’s all we’d need. How about it?”

“I don’t have twenty dollars.”

“No, huh? No stash in your trailer?”

“No.”

“Maybe he’s lying,” Miguel said. “Maybe we oughta go in, have a look around.”

“Go ahead,” I said. “You won’t find any money.”

“Oh, shit, forget it,” Pete said. “He ain’t lying to us. All he’s got is this jug of the best damn tequila. And he wouldn’t mind if we was to go ahead and finish it, ain’t that right, old man?”

I said nothing.

“I tell you,” Miguel said, slurring his words now, “this tequila makes me horny as hell. Harry here don’t need pussy but I do. Man, real bad!”

“Forget it. Ain’t nobody in the camp gonna give it to you.”

“Rosa Caldera might.”

Pete laughed so hard he choked. “Rosa Caldera! That bitch! She wouldn’t let you screw her if you was the last dude on the planet.”

“Plenty of guys’ve had her.”

“Sure, but not you. Not either of us, man.”

“She came by here a few minutes ago,” I said.

They squinted at me. “Who did?” Pete said.

“Rosa Caldera. On her way to the river.”

“Yeah? Who was with her?”

“No one. She was alone.”

“So she was going to the river,” Miguel said. “What for?”

“To swim naked under the willows by the sandbar.”

“... Naked? How the hell you know that? She tell you that?”

“I know,” I said.

“She wouldn’t tell him nothing like that,” Pete said. “He must’ve seen her. That right, Harry? You seen Rosa swimming naked in the river?”

“Yes.”

Pete laughed. “Hey, he’s a peeper. A peeping holy roller.”

Miguel didn’t laugh. “She goes there alone? Swims alone?”

“Tonight, yes. But not always.”

“Who else swims with her?”

“Men. Different men.”

“They get naked too?”

“Yes. Sometimes.”

“What else they do besides swim, huh?”

I said nothing.

“Screw? Rosa screw guys down there in the river?”

I said nothing.

“Sure she does,” Pete said. “And Harry watches. You like to watch, huh, old man?”

“No.”

“Yeah, sure you do. You keep going back, right? That’s how you know about the guys Rosa screws down there.”

I said nothing.

Miguel drank again, licked his lips. “She went down there alone tonight, you said.”

“Yes. Alone.”

“Maybe she’s meeting some dude later,” Pete said.

“No. Not tonight.”

“How you know that?”

“She asked me to swim with her.”

“The hell she did!”

“She didn’t mean it. She was teasing me.”

“Yeah, Rosa the cockteaser.”

“How long she stay down there in the river?” Miguel asked.

“A long time on hot nights.”

“Under the willows by the sandbar — that’s where she swims?”

“Yes.”

They looked at each other. Again they drank. Their eyes were very bright in the pale light from my trailer window.

“Harry,” Pete said, “you’re too damn old to be drinking tequila on a hot night like this, so we’re gonna do you a favor — we’re gonna take this bottle away so you won’t be tempted. What you say to that?”

I said nothing.

Pete laughed again, but Miguel did not, and together they staggered away into the darkness.

Noises woke me, loud voices close by. I pulled on my pants and went outside. It was very late but the camp was alive with movement and bobbing lights, men and women running past my trailer in the direction of the river. I followed them.

Eladio Sanchez came hobbling up to me, as excited as I have ever seen him. His sun-weathered face was shiny with sweat.

“Harry,” he said, “it’s terrible, Harry — isn’t it terrible?”

“What is? What’s going on?”

“Haven’t you heard? Don’t you know?”

“No,” I said, “I was asleep. What happened?”

“Rosa Caldera’s been killed. Raped and killed.”

“Raped and killed, you say?”

“Down by the river. Jaime Valdez was out for a walk and heard her scream. She was dead when he found her. Naked, raped, her head crushed with a tequila bottle.”

“Do they know who did it?”

“Miguel Santos and Pete Simms,” Eladio said. “Jaime saw them running away. But they won’t get far, the police will catch them. Isn’t it an awful thing, Harry?”

“Yes,” I said, “it’s an awful thing.”

He hobbled away and I went back to my trailer. But I was not sleepy anymore. I walked down to a different part of the river and found a place under one of the willows.

It was cooler there, close to the moon-silvered water. The camp noise was only a low buzzing murmur, all but lost in the throbbing song of the crickets. Peaceful. A man could settle down in a place like this, if he was a settling-down kind of man.

But I was not, and had not been for forty years.

The harvest here in the Salinas Valley had been a good one, but now it was almost finished and soon I would be moving on. To other places, other crops, other fertile fields.

The Lord’s work is never done.