House of the Rooster

By Mary Rudy

John E. is a handsome young husband and father in a remote village in northern Mexico. Every weekday he travels to Juarez to work in the maquiladora to support his growing family. When his body is found in the desert riddled with bullets, the federales insist he was involved with the cartels. How else could he afford to buy a generator for his home and computers for the children's school? But his family knows better. Only one federale, Oscar Ramirez, is interested in investigating. And even he does not believe in the man's innocence. Will there ever be justice for John E. and his family?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Rudy
• Release date: May 18, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224551415

Book preview

Chapter 1

You must lean in close, John E., and listen as though you were deaf. And just before the soul flies free, you will hear it, the truth of the man. Crouched at the foot of the old man’s bed, the child, Juan Escobar, felt goose bumps bristle on his skin. He didn’t want to be a listener. He wanted to play fútból. His grandmother droned on—about big men, angry and afraid, bargaining with God (or the devil) for more time on this earth; about gentle spirits going peacefully, singing praises, Cantemos al Señor. And Hector, who went out shouting, Hallelujah, God, I’m coming. When you know what occupies a man’s last thoughts... she pulled the child to his feet and put a drop of bitter liquid on his tongue, ...that is when you know the man. Then she covered his ears and nudged him closer. John E. broke away and ran outside to enjoy his first peyote high in the sunlight.

In his own final moment, between realizing he was about to die and slumping face down in the dirt, John E. lifted his eyes to the midday sun and smiled at the vision of his eight-year-old Yolanda, rising as a star in the darkening sky. Her long black hair fanned out around her like a gleaming halo. Her coffee-colored eyes, so much like his own, sparkled with mischief. When she had fully eclipsed the sun, she scolded him: Daddy, who will take me to Disneyland?

In the minuscule space of time that remained, and with none but God listening, John E. prayed: Please, while her innocence still shines, keep my promise to my little girl.

***

Orozco’s location—at the end of a rocky and rutted road, protected by mountains and deserts, beyond the reach of public broadcasting—kept it isolated from many outside influences. Things like weapons of mass destruction, pirating on the high seas, electing the first Black US president—the news that filled much of the rest of the world—were barely acknowledged here. Because what does any of that matter when the tinacos that collect and store rainwater are running dry and the clouds refuse to shed a drop. When the electricity has been out for seven days and the temperature inside the refrigerator is the same as that outside. When one of your own has been murdered and no amount of prayers and herbs and incantations will bring him back.

***

The senile cuckoo-bird above the mantle failed to announce the noon hour, as usual, but Elena was painfully aware of the moment. The baby, Miguel, was cranky—cutting his first tooth—and had sought relief by clamping down on her tender nipple. At twenty-six she was a breast-feeding veteran, and this bite did not inflict the emotional sting she’d felt the first time Yolanda had done the same. But the vice grip of infant jaws was still enough to bring tears to her eyes and cause her to let out a yelp, which startled Miguel into wailing and, hopefully, would frighten him away from ever doing it again. In fear, or remembered guilt, five-year-old Javier dropped his toy soldiers to the floor and ran, crying, to hug his mother’s leg. Elena sat on the sofa and held her two weeping sons on her lap, breathed the salty wet from their skin and hair. The oscillating fan on the table provided little more than the rustling of curtains and a steady whoosh, whoosh. Yet in the midst of the crying and sweating, Elena shivered, as if an icy hand had gripped her. Her heart was racing, and she felt the urge to join it. To run, anywhere, in circles like a mad dog. She wished that she had not scolded her husband just before he left that morning. She closed her eyes and crossed herself, drew her children close, and vowed to make it up to him as soon as they were alone together.

John E.’s mother, Rosamelia, was unaware of the commotion. She had been in the kitchen singing and pressing masa between skilled hands till it formed perfect, thin crepes she would then fry into light, toasty tortillas for the evening meal. That was when they would arrange tables and chairs on the front patio, place the chalkboard menu at the edge of the road, and call themselves Casa del Gallo—for the weathervane on the roof and the flock cock-a-doodle-dooing in the yard. Rosamelia always sang while she worked, but just before noon, a coughing fit had stopped both her song and her work and sent her choking into the bathroom.

Yolanda was outside, squatting in the short shade at the back of the house, trying to put a spit shine on the lucky silver dollar she’d borrowed from her father’s pocket that morning while he was in the shower. Silver was supposed to be glossy, as the coin had been when her father showed it to her long ago. But now, it was dull, greenish, like the slime that formed on the sometimes pond behind the hen house. And no matter how much she rubbed, she couldn’t bring up a sparkle. It had to be real silver. Her father had told her so. She did not hear her friend’s bare feet approaching on the hard dirt.

What are you doing?

Yolanda jumped to her feet, her back to Luz Rosario, and tried to hide the coin in her pocket. But it was too late. Luz Rosario had already seen what was in her hand.

Is that it? Let me see. Luz Rosario tried to take the coin from Yolanda.

Yolanda hesitated. She couldn’t let her friend see it this way. Luz Rosario would call her a liar. Worse yet, she’d tell her mother and all her friends, and after they stopped laughing at her, Yolanda would get in trouble. She wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about the coin. Her father had shown it to her in secret, and she had promised. But Luz Rosario was always bragging—about her father’s job and the house he was building in the states—and Yolanda had to prove that her own father was special, too. Now she had to think fast, to come up with a lie that would convince Luz Rosario.

No. This is just an old rock. Nothing to see.

You’re lying.

No.

Then show me the rock.

Yolanda dug in her pocket, hoping to find an old pebble hiding. There was nothing but the coin, clenched in her fist. Luz Rosario grabbed her arm. Yolanda resisted, but Luz Rosario was two years older and two years bigger, and it took only seconds for her to pry the coin from Yolanda’s hand.

Luz Rosario held it in the flat of her palm, turned it over and over again, held it up to the high sun.

Yolanda hung her head and waited.

Finally, Luz Rosario spoke. Wow. It really is silver.

Yolanda strained to see if it had magically polished itself. How can you tell?

It’s heavy. And all tarnished. I thought you’d try to fool me with some shiny fake.

That was when Yolanda knew for sure that the coin was charmed.

Chapter 2

Estéban Gutiérrez was sweeping dust from the front of his liquor store when the glint of light stabbed his eyes. The black SUV was approaching from the north. Late afternoon sun bounced off its windshield wipers; a cloud of dust rose in its wake. He stopped to watch the car pass, but instead, it stopped, and the uniformed driver asked directions to the Escobar home. Gutiérrez gave instructions then dropped the broom and followed the car. His wife had been watching from inside the store. She closed the cash register drawer and ran to catch up with him. The car continued south on Orozco’s main street, a narrow dirt road that bisected the town and also traced the boundary between Sonora State to the west and Chihuahua to the east, equidistant from the cities of Nogales and Ciudad Juárez. It was three-thirty, Orozco time, which meant three o’clock in Sonora and four o’clock in Chihuahua. The two federales had no interest in what had come to be known as the Orozco Compromise, reached too far back for anyone to remember, and their report would record the time as that in Sonora State because the Escobar family lived on the west side of town.

There was no speed limit in Orozco. Any vehicle that did not slow for the ruts and rocks would soon be stopped by a broken axle or lost wheel. Even official vehicles.

The black SUV bounced along at a pace that even Paco, El Perezoso (the sloth), lured from his shady bench outside the mini-super, had no trouble keeping up with. Other townspeople appeared as if from nowhere, ghosts suddenly visible in the light of day. Some still carried the pots they had been washing or the books they had been reading. Many had children dancing alongside, dogs yipping at their heels. So that, by the time they reached the Escobar home, it looked more like a gypsy caravan than an official visit.

Yolanda saw them turn the corner from the main street. She and Luz Rosario were still in the yard, twining palm fronds into dolls to give to their friends. She tugged on Luz Rosario’s arm. Both girls jumped to their feet and were ready to follow along, when the entire procession came to a halt in front of the house. The two officers got out of the vehicle, pushed their way through the crowd, and walked importantly toward the girls.

Where is your mother?

Yolanda looked up at them, as if at two paris of tree trunks. One was old, the other older. Both had faces like bulldogs and bellies overstuffed like her grandma’s chiles rellenos. And both were looking at Luz Rosario. It was the older one speaking, the one with the slippery face.

I said, where is your mother?

Neither girl answered. They didn’t mean to be disrespectful or disobedient. But they were eye level with the clubs and guns hanging from the officers’ belts and afraid to make a mistake: he was asking Luz Rosario, but they both knew it was not her mother they were looking for. And Yolanda knew better than to speak out of turn. Neither girl noticed the silence of the crowd, waiting and watching. Yolanda felt a warm trickle down her leg and tried not to cry. Then she heard her mother’s voice.

May I help you?

The men swung around to face Elena standing in the doorway. She wore shorts and a T-shirt and her cheeks were flushed from the heat.

Is this the home of Juan Escobar?

Yolanda turned and ran.

***

The space under the tinaco was hot and so small that even the air could not move. Yolanda sat motionless, legs numb, folded under her like an accordion, nostrils tingling from the smell of sweat and pee. It felt like she’d been huddled there for hours. Even with her hands over her ears, she could hear the loud voices, her grandmother wailing, her brothers crying. And every time someone turned on a faucet, the old tank above her creaked and complained, a reminder that water was hard to come by and should be used sparingly. She crouched and waited, sure that any moment now the whole thing would fall down on her head. Roosters were scratching and pecking in the dirt nearby. She closed her eyes and lowered her hands, listened for the crowing of Pepe, the largest and loudest of the flock. She tried to count how many times he cock-a-doodle-dooed but lost track when she heard a crash inside the house. She knew she was in trouble. The silver dollar was still in her pocket, and it was only a matter of time till the federales would find it and put her in jail. She thought about burying it deep in the earth but was afraid it would be lost forever and, along with it, all of her father’s good luck. She wished he’d come home. He would be angry when he found out she was the one who had stolen it, but he would not let them take her to jail. He would tell the officers to leave.

Yolanda peeked out from her hiding place. Except for a couple of stragglers—two boys lobbing pebbles at the humming power lines—the crowd had gone. It was time for her to go inside and confess. She opened the front door and found her mother and grandmother hugging one another and crying in the middle of the living room. They were both brown as raisins but only one was small and shriveled, like a very old child. The other was tall and round. Strong. Like the earth. Her mother. They were surrounded by the contents of every closet and drawer in the house.

Yolanda. Her mother wiped the tears from her face and started picking things up from the floor. I thought you were outside playing.

Yolanda looked at the mounds of clothing and dishes and toys, an overturned cabinet. It seemed a lot of fuss for one coin, but then, it was a special coin, made from real silver and good luck, and her father never went anywhere without it in his pocket. Until today. She started to cry. I’m sorry, Mama. It’s my fault. I have it. I’m sorry. I didn’t know they would do this. I’ll never do it again, I promise. Please, don’t let them put me in jail. Please, Mama. I promise I’ll be good.

Elena stepped over the mess and grabbed her daughter, held her close to stop her shaking. What are you talking about, Yolanda? What do you have?

The silver dollar, Mama. I have Daddy’s lucky silver dollar. It’s not missing. It’s not stolen. I’m the one that took it. But I wasn’t really stealing it. Just borrowing. I was going to put it back in Daddy’s pocket as soon as he got home. I didn’t think he’d notice.

Elena hugged her daughter tighter. How was it that children always picked the worst possible moment for their misadventures? "No, Cariño. It’s okay. Her voice was weary. She would be strong for her children, she had no choice. But who would be strong for her? That’s not why they were here. You’re not in trouble. Come. Sit with me. Mama Rosa, please, come sit with us."

Rosamelia was still sobbing, standing in the middle of the mess, chanting low—words that Yolanda could not understand. A new fear filled her. One she couldn’t identify. Where is Javier, Mama? And Miguel?

In their room. They cried themselves to sleep. Let’s the three of us sit together here and rest a minute.

Elena wasn’t so old that she couldn’t remember what it was like to be eight, to believe in the magic of a rabbit’s foot or lucky coin, to believe in your own power to cause harm. She needed a little magic of her own—magic words or divine inspiration.

May I see the silver dollar, Yolanda?

Yolanda pulled the coin out of her pocket and gave it to her mother.

Elena looked at it then handed it back. She took a deep breath, hoping to suck the fear and guilt out of her daughter. To pull wisdom out of the air. It’s very lucky that you took this today.

It is?

Your father would be very relieved to know that it’s in good hands. Your hands.

Where is he? Where’s Daddy?

Elena spoke to her daughter about an accident. A mistake. Rosamelia quieted. Yolanda listened. There was something wrong in her mother’s voice. Like one string out of tune on her father’s guitar. Like she was telling a lie. Then Yolanda understood.

It’s my fault. He didn’t have his good luck with him. It’s all my fault.

"No, Cariño. That coin was very special to your father, and it might have been taken by bandidos if he’d had it with him. The luck put it in your pocket, right where he would want it to be. It could not change what had to happen. It was meant to be this way, Yolanda. You have to have faith."

But Mama...

No. You listen to me. What happened to your father is too big for luck or coins or the actions of little children. God decides these things. Only God. Everything happens for a reason, and it is not for us to question. Elena did not want to be lecturing her daughter. She wanted to be pounding her fists on the concrete floor, screaming at God and the devil and offering her soul in return for her husband—that he might walk through the door with his laughing eyes and reassure her this was nothing more than a bad dream. But being the parent requires that you be brave, even when you’re not. Just as faith requires you to believe, even when you don’t. Even when you know better. She pressed her hands to her belly, cradling the new life she couldn’t even feel yet, and prayed for a miracle.

Yolanda felt the force of her mother’s words, washing over her like a summer downpour. She had to believe. Sister Sofia had told them everything is God’s plan—every storm and every rainbow. And it was a sin to disobey