It is one lucky eighty- seven -year- old jackass whose jailer is his confessor. If Las Almas did not have its own jail I would be in the Dona Ana County Detention Center and would have no one to tell the stories to, that I used to tell in the confessional.
Cleophas Galvin, son of Pancho Villa's lieutenant, Manuel Hernandez Galvin, has his right hand resting low on my waist and his left hand in my hand, and we are practicing the dance lesson he has just received from my wife Recita. I am humming "Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain," and sometimes singing a part that I remember or the parts of "Always on My Mind" that I mix it up with.
Recita is allowed to visit me here every day because Cleophas, who will marry soon, needs her to come and show him the steps. Though I have been in Jail many times, I am never in for long, so he and I must make the most of our time together.
I hum-sing, "Other arms reach out to me, hmmm hmmm smile tenderly." He should lower his hand on my waist. He should press. He should almost rest it on my hip. He should touch lightly. He should lead. "Like this--like this," I tell him. He should gently let his hand roam to the center of my back and then lower, and then back again to my hip. But he must not be annoying. He must not spread his fingers. He must not mash my hand in his hand. When I tell him this, he says, "Red, I'm embarrassed,"
I answer, "You're beautiful when you blush," and bat my eyes. He stops. He stamps his boots, handsome ostrich-skill boots, to knock the shame off him. Then, he takes my hand, my waist. We begin. Who would guess men like us ever could or ever can tell what they know-or ever will listen to each other if they do?
This-this compassionate arrangcment-compassionatc for me, compassionate for Cleophas, and for my wife Recitathis has been the plan of God and of Judge Isidro Merida, nephew of my grade-school teacher Sister Maria Josefa, a terrible angel of our Mesilla valley, who still appears in whirlwinds on the dusty playgrounds of our schools.
I ask Cleophas if he wants to know a story about his father.
"No," he says.
"About yourself?" No.
"About me?"
Cleophas says, "They're all about you. You tell stories like a coyote spitting up his own bones, Red. And who can put them together?"
"Like this-like this," I say, and leave less space between our legs and waists. "Intimate. Be Intimate.'' I wipe my leaking nose.
"Okay," he whines.
I lead, of course.
I have always one story in mind and others that interfere. I am like the mulberry on the malpais where once my friend Frank threw junk into the limbs night after night. When the nest of junk in a tree is large enough, there is more nest than tree. What kind of story is that?
Hyssop. Copyright © by Kevin McIlvoy. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.