The Creed of Violence

THIRTY-THREE

STORM BLEW IN from the Gulf that night. By the next morning the tide swept over the breakers and sandbars and the river turned too rough for traffic. Down from the Southern, along the Panuco wharfs, was an open-air market that went on for blocks. Many of the stalls were covered with corrugated roofs. Rawbone stood out of the rain by a vendor who sold coffees and teas that could be laced with home-brewed mescal. He was waiting on Doctor Stallings, who now approached down that muddy causeway.

He wore a long black slicker and his umbrella was angled against the sheeting rain. Rawbone was leaning against a post and sipping from a steamy cup when Doctor Stallings joined him. Neither man spoke. Stallings shook the wet from his umbrella and then closed it up. He asked, "Are you going to tell me about last night?"

Rawbone drank but did not answer.

The rain came down in sheets across the corrugated roof, creating that hard drum echo, and from the fires to heat the coffee and fight the damp the air was misty and flueish.

Rawbone finally answered Doctor Stallings. "Back at the train you said something that stayed with me."

"We're here to talk about-"

"Grandeur and finality," said Rawbone. "That was it. Yeah. We'll cover last night. But first ... let's talk finality."

JOHN LOURDES SAT at his hotel room desk and folded up a letter for the man who was his father. He looked out upon the riled waters of the Panuco as he awaited Rawbone's return. That morning he had taken to the motorcycle, challenging the rains. He'd driven the oil fields with their soaking and grime-stained laborers, and their women in tarpaper cafeterias and stifling warehouses, and Indians on rickety carretas and junker wagons relegated to the lowest scraps of work. They existed under the guidon of imposed fealty. A stranglehold of the futile and the feudal that was, in fact, what had brought his mother to America. It was why she'd ridden boxcars and walked bleached wastes to cross the Rio Grande and stand naked in that fumigation shed all to reach the promise of freedom and opportunity.

He was thinking of his mother as he sat on that idling motorcycle in the rain atop the same rise where Diaz and his surrogates stood in that film, and used it to lie to the world about the state of their nation. And John Lourdes, under a rolling thunder, came to see how much he was his mother's journey. He was not only the agent of her hopes but the eternal argument of her trials toward that freedom and opportunity.

Lightning flashed across the window as John Lourdes slipped his notes into the envelope with the letter, then set it down on the desk. He drank a beer and smoked and watched the harbored storm until the door lock turned.

Rawbone took his sodden hat and put it on the bureau. He hung his coat on the closet door. He went and sat in a cushioned chair in the far corner, all without a word.

"Is it the mayor?" said John Lourdes.

The father answered in a guarded tone, aware of the effect what he was about to say would have. "We are to pick up the munitions at dusk. We are to deliver them to the appointed place at the appointed time. We are to kill the men who come for them. We are then to go to the mayor's house. I am told there is a carriage barn on the property. We are to put the munitions there-"

"What?"

"We are to put the munitions there. The mayor will be at home. We are to kill him. We are to kill anyone and everyone in the house, to leave no witness to that fact."

They sat now with the knowing. Rain spattered across the window. Drops that seemed to carry the weight of time.

"I believe Doctor Stallings sent those women to work at the house knowing full well what he had in mind. Their actions in the desert marked them. And you also. Our friend the doctor asked if I could fully trust you."

John Lourdes sat back. "And what did you say?"

"That I could only fully trust myself."

John Lourdes thought through the situation. "You were giving him clearance to put a bullet through my head."

"Would you have handled it any differently?"

John Lourdes shook his head no. It was, after all, a practical application of strategy.

"If the girl's welfare means something to you, get her out. Then strike it from here, Mr. Lourdes. You've exceeded what's expected."

John Lourdes stood. He took the envelope and walked across the room and set it on the bed against the father's bindle.

"What is that?"

"A letter to justice Knox. I had it notarized so there'd be no question as to its authenticity. My notes are in there also."

The father took a long breath. He eyed the letter.

"I put the film I took from the funeraria in your bindle."

"My bindle?"

The father leaned out from the chair and took the envelope but hesitated opening it. Rather, he looked up at the son with a frank stare.

"The letter says you've earned your immunity. I need to make sure my notes get back. I'm leaving that to you."

The father tried to absorb and understand. "Last night in the bar. I get it now."

John Lourdes walked back to the desk. He reached for the open beer and drank.

"Mr. Lourdes, why are you doing it?"

John Lourdes took to looking out the window. "You've earned it. And I'm staying."

"That's not what I asked. And you know it, Mr. Lourdes."

How does he explain without explaining himself? Or a deaf girl who in a few simple phrases spoke to a pure forgiveness. How does he open up about the woman that man across the room abandoned, for whom there was no grievance so great that she could not forgive, because the eternal, not the ephemeral, was her preeminent star? And how does he explain that place inside him where the common assassin who sat amongst the dead listening to a lullaby and the rogue who kidnapped alligators to keep them from freezing in the Texas cold held out in the absence of everything, refusing to die?

"Mr. Lourdes ... why are you doing it?"

Turning, John Lourdes, his face and voice resolute, answered, "As long as you live, don't ever ask me that. Now ... take the letter and leave."

The father looked down at the envelope. He had been fundamentally emptied, having now in his hands exactly what was necessary, but nothing else. The son was right. He had hurt him in a way the father never imagined.

"As you say, Mr. Lourdes."

ONCE ALONE, JOHN Lourdes leveled his focus on the force of dark tides he was about to confront. He left the room to make sure the truck was right, with enough gasoline and extra parts for an escape. After nightfall he drove in the rain to the mayor's house and waited amongst the dripping trees. When Sister Alicia went from the kitchen to a smokehouse by that rusting truck, he made a stealthy approach. Coming upon the unsuspecting woman, he put a hand to her mouth to keep hush. He had a note for her and Teresa and made her swear they tell no one. They must believe and wait.

Sleep was impossible. He went from one black scenario to another, planning out a strategy for survival, and all the while the shadow of the father was with him in thought, word and deed.

There was no dawn, only rain. There was no sun, only a gravel sky. There was no dusk, only a spreading mist.

The truck was parked in an alley behind the Southern. John Lourdes set his carryall on the cab floor, his shotgun and rifle within reach. He kicked the engine over and tossed his cigarette, then shifted into gear and started up the alley through a runny fog toward the street. His mind was at gunsight level when the man who was his father stepped from a last doorway.

Rawbone stood before the truck in silhouette. John Lourdes braked and draped his arms over the wheel. The father came around to the driver's side of the cab and in a quiet voice said, "Mr. Lourdes, I know who I am ... and I know who you are. I am asking ... save a seat in the truck for me."

The muscles along the son's cheeks made a sudden and unexpected flinch. He knew, without exception, this moment would never be again. It would flee every chance, escape any wish, if he did not grasp it now. Without a word John Lourdes slid across the seat. The father tossed his worldly goods on the cab floor and climbed in behind the wheel and drove.