The Ghost of Milagro Creek by Melanie Sumner

Author:Melanie Sumner
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Algonquin Books
Published: 2010-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

At the Taos city limits, as Mister followed the pilgrims across the broken stretch of road that curved around Pilar, he paused to look into the shaded windows of Mercado de Milagros. Come and get me, he thought. Shoot me. But the door stayed shut. Was Ramona in there? Yolanda? It seemed like everybody was dead.

The harder he chased the memory of last night, the faster it ran away from him, but when he tried to forget it, the details edged back like rats around a barrel of corn. He didn’t remember taking the boots. They were too small; he could feel three blisters rubbing against the new leather. His last meal had been with Tomás—Ramona’s enchiladas, and he was starving now.

In Embudo, he smelled the chickens roasting before he saw the sign in Embudo: MARÍA’S TAQUERÍA. He knew the place from the road; a faded blue shack with a lean-to built on one side to shade a couple of rickety tables. After patting his empty pockets a second time, he sidled around to the back of the building and looked through the screen door into the dark, steamy kitchen. Over the clatter of dishes, a woman shouted in ferocious Spanish, “You want catsup with that, you gotta ask for it, okay? Next time, you ask, I’ll get it. I’m busy!” A thick braid swung against her fat bottom as she slapped her hand on the counter and yelled, “Next!” The odor of fresh tortillas mixed with the savory smell of the meat made his knees weak.

A few minutes later, a lanky boy in a greasy apron stepped outside. Pulling a cigarette from behind his ear, he glanced at Mister and then looked away.

“You got any work?” asked Mister. “I’m in need of a lunch.”

The boy lit his cigarette, inhaled, and shrugged. “It’s María’s place,” he said, waving vaguely toward the screen door. “She’s my mom.”

“I’m hungry,” said Mister, looking him in the eye.

“What you got?”

“Real hungry.”

Mister was elbow deep in suds before Maria spotted him.

“Frank!” she shouted at the boy. “¿Quién es éste? You hiring people behind my back? I got no money for dat chit, you lazy pendejo!”

“Chillax Mamá. Éste es Señor. He’s hungry.”

“Buenos días, señora,” said Mister. His mouth had watered the whole time he was scraping plates, but he held on. Wiping her face with the back of her arm, María stepped closer to him.

“What do you want?”

Someone at the counter window requested salsa picante.

“¡Un minuto!” yelled María, without turning her head.

Mister tried to play it cool. Don’t want it too much, Abuela used to tell him when they were crouched in the blackbrush hunting rabbits. Animals smell that, and it gives them the advantage. He looked back into María’s round face—tight jaw, thin lips, a deep crease on her forehead. She was looking past him to the pile of crusty pots and pans, the overflowing trash can, the clotheslines of unfilled orders on sheets of yellow paper.

“Frank,” she said. “Give me something. I’ve got a migraine.

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