In the yard Maria slowly unharnessed Lindo. It was good, she knew, to put off joy, for by doing so, one increased joy. The house was very quiet. There were no vehicles in front to indicate the presence of customers. Maria hung up the old harness, and turned Lindo into the pasture. Then she took out the candy bars and the garters and walked slowly into the house. Rosa sat at one of the little tables, a silent, restrained Rosa, a grim and suffering Rosa. Her eyes seemed glazed and sightless. Her fat, firm hands were clenched on the table in front of her. She did not turn nor give any sign of recognition when Maria entered. Maria stopped and stared at her.
“Rosa,” she said timidly. “I’m back home, Rosa.” Her sister turned slowly. “Yes,” she said.
“Are you sick, Rosa?”
The glazed eyes had turned back to the table again. “No.”
“I have a present, Rosa. Look, Rosa.” She held up the magnificent garters.
Slowly, very slowly, Rosa’s eyes crept up to the brilliant red poppies and then to Maria’s face. Maria was poised to break into squealing enthusiasm. Rosa’s eyes dropped, and two fat tears ran down the furrows beside her nose.
“Rosa, do you see the present? Don’t you like them, Rosa? Won’t you put them on, Rosa?”
“You are my good little sister.”
“Rosa, tell me, what is the matter? You are sick. You must tell your Maria. Did someone come?”
“Yes,” said Rosa hollowly, “the sheriff came.”
Now Maria fairly chattered with excitement. “The sheriff, he came? Now we are on the road. Now we will be rich. How many enchiladas, Rosa? Tell me how many for the sheriff.”
Rosa shook off her apathy. She went to Maria and put motherly arms about her. “My poor little sister,” she said. “Now we cannot ever sell any more enchiladas. Now we must live again in the old way with no new dresses.”
“Rosa, you are crazy. Why you talk this way to me?”
“It is true. It was the sheriff. ‘I have a complaint,’ he said to me. ‘I have a complaint that you are running a bad house.’ ‘But that is a lie,’ I said. ‘A lie and an insult to our mother and to General Vahlejo.’ ‘I have a complaint,’ he told me. ‘You must close your doors or else I must arrest you for running a bad house.’ ‘But it is a lie,’ I tried to make him understand. ‘I got a complaint this afternoon,’ he said. ‘When I have a complaint, there is nothing I can do, for see, Rosa,’ he said to me as a friend, ‘I am only the servant of the people who make complaints.’ And now you see, Maria, my sister, we must go back to the old living.” She left the stricken Maria and turned back to her table. For a moment Maria tried to understand it, and then she sobbed hysterically. “Be still, Maria! I have been thinking. You know it is true that we will starve if we cannot sell enchiladas. Do not blame me too much when I tell you this. I have made up my mind. See, Maria! I will go to San Francisco and be a bad woman.” Her head dropped low over her fat hands. Maria’s sobbing had stopped. She crept close to her sister.
“For money?” she whispered in horror.
“Yes,” cried Rosa bitterly. “For money. For a great deal of money. And may the good mother forgive me.”
Maria left her then, and scuttled into the hallway where she stood in front of the porcelain Mary. “I have placed candles,” she cried. “I have put flowers every day. Holy Mother, what is the matter with us? Why do you let this happen?” Then she dropped on her knees and prayed, fifty Hail Marys! She crossed herself and rose to her feet. Her face was strained but determined.
In the other room Rosa still sat bent over her table.
“Rosa,” Maria cried shrilly. “I am your sister. I am what you are.” She gulped a great breath. “Rosa, I will go to San Francisco with you, I, too, will be a bad woman—”
Then the reserve of Rosa broke. She stood up and opened her huge embrace. And for a long time the Lopez sisters cried hysterically in each other’s arms.
Eight
MOLLY MORGAN got off the train in Salinas and waited three quarters of an hour for the bus. The big automobile was empty except for the driver and Molly.
“I’ve never been to the Pastures of Heaven, you know,” she said. “Is it far from the main road?”
“About three miles,” said the driver.
“Will there be a car to take me into the valley?”
“No, not unless you’re met.”
“But how do people get in there?”
The driver ran over the flattened body of a jack rabbit with apparent satisfaction. “I only hit ‘em when they’re dead,” he apologized. “In the dark, when they get caught in the lights, I try to miss ‘em.”
“Yes, but how am I going to get into the Pastures of Heaven?”
“I dunno. Walk, I guess. Most people walk if they ain’t met.”
When he set her down at the entrance to the dirt side-road, Molly Morgan grimly picked up her suitcase and marched toward the draw in the hills. An old Ford truck squeaked up beside her.
“Goin’ into the valley, ma’am?”
“Oh—yes, yes, I am.”
“Well, get in, then. Needn’t be scared. I’m Pat Humbert. I got a place in the Pastures.”
Molly surveyed the grimy man and acknowledged his introduction. “I’m the new school teacher. I mean, I think I am. Do you know where Mr. Whiteside lives?”
“Sure, I go right by there. He’s clerk of the board. I’m on the school board myself, you know. We wondered what you’d look like.” Then he grew embarrassed at what he had said, and flushed under his coating of dirt. “Course I mean what you’d be like. Last teacher we had gave a good deal of trouble. She was all right, but she was sick—I mean, sick and nervous. Finally quit because she was sick.”
Molly picked at the fingertips of her gloves. “My letter says I’m to call on Mr. Whiteside. Is he all right? I don’t mean that. I mean is he—what kind of a man is he?”
“Oh. you’ll get along with him all right. He’s a fine old man. Born in that house he lives in. Been to college, too. He’s a good man. Been clerk of the board for over twenty years.”
When he put her down in front of the big old house of John Whiteside, she was really frightened. “Now it’s coming,” she said to herself. “But there’s nothing to be afraid of. He can’t do anything to me.” Molly was only nineteen. She felt that this moment of interview for her first job was a tremendous inch in her whole existence. The walk up to the door did not reassure her, for the path lay between tight little flower beds hedged in with dipped box, seemingly planted with the admonition, “Now grow and multiply, but don’t grow too high, nor multiply too greatly, and above all things, keep out of this path!” There was a hand on those flowers, a guiding and a correcting hand. The large white house was very dignified. Venetian blinds of yellow wood were tilted down to keep out the noon sun. Halfway up the path she came in sight of the entrance. There was a veranda as broad and warm and welcoming as an embrace. Through her mind flew the thought, “Surely you can tell the hospitality of a house by its entrance. Suppose it had a little door and no porch.” But in spite of the welcoming of the wide steps and the big doorway, her timidities clung to her when she rang the bell. The big door opened, and a large, comfortable woman stood smiling at Molly.
“I hope you’re not selling something,” said Mrs. Whiteside. “I never want to buy anything, and I always do, and then I’m mad.”
Molly laughed. She felt suddenly very happy. Until that moment she hadn’t known how frightened she really was. “Oh, no,” she cried. “I’m the new school teacher. My letter says I’m to interview Mr. Whiteside. Can I see him?”
“Well, it’s noon, and he’s just finishing his dinner. Did you have dinner?”
“Oh, of course. I mean, no.”
Mrs. Whiteside chuckled and stood aside for her to enter. “Well, I’m glad you’re sure.” She led Molly into a large dining room, lined with mahogany, glass-fronted dish closets. The square table was littered with the dishes of a meal. “Why, John must have finished and gone. Sit down, young woman. I’ll bring back the roast.”
“Oh, no. Really, thank you, no. I’ll just talk to Mr. Whiteside and then go along.”
“Sit down. You’ll need nourishment to face John.”