The Painted Boy by Charles De Lint

Author:Charles De Lint [Lint, Charles De]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2010-12-19T18:54:09.953000+00:00

“ Then why are you here? ”

“ I could ask you the same question. If she’s not connected to the Kings, why are you sitting outside her place like you’re her security guard? Did El Tigre put you up to this? ”

“ No. ”

“ So why are you here? ” I ask.

“ It’s complicated. ”

“ Isn’t everything? ”

She looks like she isn’t going to tell me. There’s no reason why she should, really. But then she shrugs.

“ I live here, ” she says. “ When my parents kicked me out of the house, Señora Elena took me in. ”

“ Did she know about the . . . you know . . . ”

I point to the scarf tied around her wrist.

Maria nods. “ Of course. She’s old, not stupid. But she’s different, too. She sees past the surface. ”

At first I’m not really sure what that means. But then I think about it. A gangbanger, sitting here doing her homework. Living with the old lady who’s the spiritual heart of the barrio, which is about as far as you can get from the gangbanger mentality.

“ You don’t really care for the bandas, do you? ” I say.

Her only answer is to spit in the dirt.

“ So why did you hook up with them in the first place? ” I have to ask.

She studies me for a long moment, then she nods toward the door.

“ You should talk to Señora Elena, ” she says. “ Like you came here to do. ”

I stand outside, held back by the blue trim on the door. When I look back at Maria she nods.

“ Oh, yeah, ” she says. “ I forgot. So long as we’ve got the spirit protection up, you guys need an official invitation.

“ Unless it’s a public place. ”

She shrugs. “ Like I care. Just go on in. ”

My eyes take a moment to adjust once I’m inside. I’m standing in a kitchen. The furnishing are simple, the colors muted except for some odd flourishes. A tablecloth with a bright Navajo pattern. A bright turquoise mug standing beside the sink.

“ She’s in the next room, ” Maria says from behind me.

I cross the kitchen, hesitate in the doorway, then step through. Maria follows. It’s like the kitchen in here, too, simple furnishings, everything in subdued desert colors. A foot-high Jesus hangs crucified on one wall. A portrait of Our Lady of Guadalupe regards him from the opposite side of the room.

The light’s dimmer in here and it takes me a moment to find Señora Elena sitting with her hands folded in her lap. I get that ping of recognition that she’s more than what she seems. I also get the sense that she’s been waiting for me.

Her house hadn’t been what I expected, and neither was she. I pictured a small, thin woman, gray-haired, wrapped in a shawl—don’t ask me why. From the way people have talked about her, I guess I thought she was all used up. But though

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