The Guardians Read Online Free Page A

fate. I felt it in my heart. She could have given me some piece of information, however small, a gold nugget to take back to Gabo so that the poor boy would somehow, someday, find closure.
    I wanted to go back in and shake her myself. Shake her until her stupid head fell off. Until her neck snapped and we'd carry her lifeless body to Gabo so that he could pray over it for seven days. Then he'd find aplace to bury it even though his father had gotten no such consideration. And when la Tuerta Winnie sniffed up the corpse and started digging, fine; she could dig all she wanted. I'd let her dig up that estúpida's body so that all the coyotes that wanted to come on my little bit of land that I protected so well could feed off of her stupid flesh and lick her stupid bones clean. And then we'd all, me and Winnie and Gabo and Miguel, too, if he wanted, and even the coyotes with four feet, could go out to the BLM land and scatter the bones out there to dry in the sun, for sands and wind to wash over. And Rafa, wherever they had left him, would no longer be alone out there.
    Then I felt Miguel take my hand. He had to pull me with him. “Come on,” he muttered close to my ear. “We'd better get the hell out of here while we can.”

GABO
    Su Reverencia, el Santo Franciscano, Padre Pío:
    Venerado Santo, gracias for permitting me this great honor to write to you in heaven. If there is one reason alone why your most humblest of servants is given the privilege of not being un analfabeto and not knowing how to read or write like my mamá or mis abuelos, I believe it was for this purpose. Because you are at God's feet perhaps He bothers Himself to converse with you about what is going on when you don't hear from me. If not, I will relate what has happened now, as best as I am able to express myself como siempre, Santito.
    On that day walking up the dirt road after school, I saw my tía Regina coming down in a car with a man I did not know. I knew it had to do with mi papá. She smiled and gave that little wave that people give out here when they pass each other on the road. My tía Regina's wave is like that of the Queen of England. She waved and smiled that very sad smile of hers, her fading red hair flying in the wind of the hombre's old Mustang convertible. We did not know anyone like that, my tía and I. Most of the people on the mesa and out around these parts drive trucks. Old ones, mostly. One neighbor rides a Harley but only on weekends, with his bikers’ club.
    Tía Regina smiled with her little squinting eyes that make her look like a china poblana and then they passed me. I stayed on the side of the road watching them. As the Mustang turned the corner, a flock of blackbirds with long patas, feeding on a rich wet patch of worms, all together lifted their wings. For a moment all the birds hung in the air,shiny wings out. As soon as the car passed, all together they gently went back down to feed, not one losing sight of the feast below.
    I watched until the car was no more than a small, fast-moving object surrounded by fields of green alfalfa, swaying right, then down, until it became a red speck and there was nothing left to think about anymore. I swung around and kept going up the sandy hill lined with cholla y sprawling nopales. Dogs barked aquí y allá, letting my Winnie know that I was coming.
    At my tía Regina's I got ready to go to work. “El Estockboy” is what my manager calls me. I pack groceries and keep the shelves stocked with inventory. I know that God gives us drudgery to keep us from being idle, Padrecito. As I unpack cans of string beans y garbanzos to line the shelves, it is a meditation of our Lord. Sweeping is my favorite quehacer, Santito, because then I am free to contemplate God's eternal love. Sometimes the manager sends me out to wash the windows. He says I am the best estockboy he's ever had and whenever I want, I can work for him full-time.
    The money I earn I put away. My tía has refused it. When