Talented William Logan, though he hails from Dodger territory, tells aquiet story from down near the Mexican border, where men are veryclose to ancestral memories and to the things which dwell in the shadows.Logan is one of the more interesting of the newer writers.
Perhaps it was just as well that I did not tell them what I was....
What they called me,that was what started it. I'mas good an American as thenext fellow, and maybe a littlebit better than men likethat, big men drinking in abar who can't find anythingbetter to do than to spit on aman and call him Mex. As ifa Mexican is something tohide or to be ashamed of. Wehave our own heroes and ourown strength and we don'thave to bend down to menlike that, or any other men.But when they called me thatI saw red and called themnames back.
"Mex kid," one of the mensaid, a big red-haired bullywith his sleeves rolled backand muscles like ropes on thebig hairy arms. "Snot-nosedlittle Mex brat."
I called him a name. Heonly laughed back at me andturned his back, waving ahand for the bartender. Maybein a big city in the Northit would be different andprobably it would not: thistoleration we hear about isno more good than an openfight, and there must be understandinginstead. But herenear the border, just on theAmerican side of the border,a Mexican is called fair game,and a seventeen-year-old likeme is less than nothing tothem, to the white ones whogo to the big bars.
I thought carefully aboutwhat to do, and finally whenI had made my mind up Iwent for him and tried to hithim. But other men held meback, and I was kicking andshouting with my legs off theground. When I stopped theyput me down, so I startedfor the big red-haired managain and they had to stopme again. The red-haired manwas laughing all this time. Iwanted to run, back to myown family in their littlehouse, and yet running wouldhave been wrong; I was tooangry to run, so I stayed.
"My sister," I said. "Mysister is a witch and I willget her to put a curse onyou." I was very angry, youmust understand this.
And of course they had noidea that my sister is a realwitch, and her curses arereal, and only last yearManuel Valdez had diedfrom the effects of her curse.Of all people, sometimes Iwish I were my sister mostof all, to curse people andsee them shrivel and sickenand choke and die.
"Go ahead, half-pint," oneof the other men yelled. "Getyour sister to put a curse onme. I bet she knows who Iam; I been with every Mexgirl this side of the border."
This made me see red; mysister is pure and must bepure, since she is a witch.And she is not like some ofthe others even aside fromthat. I have heard her talkabout them and I know.
I called him a name andran up to him and hit him;my fist against his solid sidefelt good, but some other menpulled me off again. Yet itwas impossible to leave. Thiswas wrong for me, and I hadto make it right. "I shall getmy father to fight you, sincehe is a giant ten feet tall."
The men laughed at me,not knowing, of course, thatmy father is a giant ten feettall in truth, and my mothera sweet siren like those inthe books, the old books, withspells in her eyes and astrange power. They did notknow I was not a daydreamingchild but a man who toldtruth.
And they laughed; I grewangry again and told themmany things, calling themnames in Spanish, which theydid not understand. That onlymade them laugh the more.
Finally I left; it was necessaryfor me to leave, since Iwas not want