The Long and Storied Life of Jose Montoya

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The Long and Storied Life of Jose Montoya 84against the dictates of her curfew.Jose, as always, waited until she was inside and he was sure he wouldn't get one last glimpse ofher before he turned to walk away. The night was still cold, but wrapped in his coat and with an innerwarmth that simmered and bubbled like chocolate Jose did not feel its bony caress. He walkedaimlessly around the camp, lost in the colors of visions and daydreams that the black canvas of nightonly intensified.At last he found himself back at the rifle range. Still swept along by the current of his thoughts,he walked the length of a firing lane and climbed the mound left in place by the engineers as a berm.He had not been there long when the grass on the far side of the berm rustled, and Ned Skelly sat downbeside him with a thump that was neither heard nor felt. He was clutching a suitcase with both hands,and Jose's surprise at this mirrored the look that Ned himself always wore.Ned laughed at Jose's surprise. It was in fact October 31 st , and at the stroke of midnight,coming up quickly, it would be the start of El Dia de Los Muertos. Ned was packed and ready to gohome to El Paso for his visit, although he admitted that the suitcase was simply for effect. Josewatched and laughed as Ned stood and demonstrated one guise after another for him, switching rapidlyfrom Sunday best to hobo to panting dog and back again. After several minutes of this display, Nedlooked up at the sky and then smiled back down at Jose. It was time to go. Flinging his suitcaseupwards but not letting go of the handles, Ned Skelly flew off into the sky.Jose stayed seated on the mound as ghostly figures of Indians began to push out of the groundaround him. Some dropped bullets on the ground in front of him with a nod and sometimes a wink.Most paid him no attention whatsoever, and simply walked off into the trees. Jose wondered what kindof home they could possibly be going to, strolling across a landscape and through a culture that couldno longer be recognized. Perhaps a home, if you have one, never changes. Or perhaps they wouldwalk through modern life forever, bent on reaching a destination that no longer existed.
The Long and Storied Life of Jose Montoya 85Jose's thoughts turned to his own home in Agua Prieta, and then to the battlefield where twoyears ago on this very night he had seen and fallen in love with La Catrina. He still loved her. She wasinescapable and constant, his fancy lady that seemed to be always near, always watching, alwaystolerant. Then he thought of Eudora, and how to her he was Joe, and he wondered if his own home wasnow forever out of his reach, an endless walk through a culture he did not recognize.He decided he didn't care. He decided that culture was a lie created by revolutionaries. Hedecided that if you walked forever, you would end up right back where you started. He decided thatmaybe home didn't matter, because you could at times be more confused and lost there than anywhereelse, and most at peace as a stranger in a strange land.Jose stood and filled the pockets of his coat with the bullets left by the Indians and walked backdown the range to his quarters. He was only mildly surprised by the two roses that lay on his bed,which was still in disarray from Eudora's visit. The powers of La Catrina extended even here, to thiscold northern place, and she was just as elusive and as forthright as ever. Two roses: Two years goneby? One for each of them, or one for him and one for Eudora, a symbol of never-mind and good will?He cut the blooms from the roses and fished his tin of treasures out of the desk where he had slid itearlier that evening. The two roses fit easily with the first one, inside his little box that seemingly hadan endless capacity. And even though he was not sure what the three of them together meant, Jose hadno doubt now that each would stay forever fresh and in bloom. Sitting down at the desk, he composeda letter to his family about how the weather was getting cold, but that ultimately one got used to it.Winter came and denuded and ravished the land before giving it back a new white gown tocover its shame. After-church picnics turned into after-church snowball fights and sledding. On oneparticular Sunday, after all the assembled saints had been reminded of their unworthiness, when thechurch was stifling on the inside but outside the snow was cold and the air was crisp and the sun felt
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The Long and Storied Life of Jose Montoya

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