A LITTLE NIGHT MUSIC, by Carol Caffrey

Laurita loved the desert at night.  Bristling with life, it sang of the infiniteness of things.  As she sat under the Joshua tree she sometimes believed the nocturnal rustlings were the sounds of her ancestors, returning to Avikwa’ame, the Spirit Mountain. She pictured Mastamho as he drew a line in the sand which became the Colorado River and saw the mud from its banks become the mountains.   

Once, the Mohave Indians were known as the Aha Macav, the people who live along the water.  Laurita supposed she was more Mexican than Native American, whose tribes had moved between camps in the vastness of the desert.   But wasn’t that what she, Raul and the little ones had done for years, following the work as one mine closed, then another?  Well, the niños were not so little now, and there would be no more wandering. 

Ai-ee, enough of this wool-gathering, she decided; time to go home.  Creaking a little, Laurita swung herself into the family’s ancient jeep.  It’s a good job my backside has plenty of meat on it, she thought, as the jalopy bounced along the arroyo.  Soon, if the Gods were kind, the rain would come, and the cracked, dry bed would overflow for a few precious days.

“Gabriela, are you there?”  Laurita whispered, as she rattled the door handle of her little home.  She’d forgotten her keys again and didn’t want to waken Raul if he’d managed to sleep.  Where was her daughter?   “Gabriela? Open up!”

“Momentito!”

Laurita stared at her husband in surprise as he opened the door. “Raul! What are you doing up?  Where is Gabriela?”

Raul smiled at her.  “Come sit by me.”  He patted the couch.  Laurita, still puzzled, sat down gingerly beside him.

“Gabriela is in bed, fast asleep.  She was tired after the concert.”

“What?  She went?  I told her she couldn’t go.”

“I know.”

“I told her to stay here and look after you until I finished work.”  Laurita clenched her hands in dismay. 

Raul picked up a piece of paper and gave it to her. “I know, but I had a good day, querida.  I told her you’d changed your mind and said she could go.  Here, read her note.”

Laurita unfolded the paper: Mama, I had the best time.  Thank you.  I love you.

“Oh.”  She smoothed the paper and held it to her breast.  “She hasn’t said that in a long time.”

“I know.  But she does love you, you know.”

Laurita smiled at him.  “Not too much pain today?”

“No, I told you, a good day.”

“Yes,” she breathed thankfully, “a good day.” 

Outside the wind chimes sounded in the quickening breeze. 

Copyright  © Carol Caffrey.