CHAPTER THIRTEEN Mercedes Prieto drew aside the curtain that served as a door to her daughter's room.

"Jacinta," Mercedes said, but she saw the room was empty. It was early afternoon, and still the place was deep in shadow, for no windows graced the pickers' quarters, only the curtains hanging at the door frames. The room was dingy and small. Four cots, each topped with a petate, lined up against the wall. The last one on the left belonged to Jacinta. On the wall above it, she had tacked the card of San Jacinto that Basilio Fermin had given her. The room contained no dresser, no chairs, no table, only the cots and the stifling heat. It smelled of the people living in it, of the people living up and down the gallery, of the rolled-up clothing and the meager belongings stashed under the cots, of the latrines only meters away down the ravine. Mercedes let the curtain drop. She crossed the narrow gallery and stepped down into the road. It was payday; the notion that on days like these anything might happen hung over the finca like a thundercloud. Extra guardias patrolled the property, and this alone caused nerves to wear. Since early morning, a continuous stream of people had been snaking down the road in four lines that ultimately disappeared through the wide doors of the administration building. Workers' names were called out alphabetically by the pagadores, the paymasters, who manned the four pay tables. Because Jacinta's last name was Prieto, it was always midafternoon before she stood in front of a pagador. Mercedes hastened around to the back to see if Jacinta might be there. Mercedes had left the days laundry, scrubbed and soapy, spread over bushes and bleaching in the sun. She had little time before she must return to gather up the clothing and give it a final rinse before hanging it out to dry. Ernestina, one of the girls who shared Jacinta's room, walked up from the ravine. Buenas, nia Mercedes," Ernestina said. Wheres my daughter?" Mercedes asked. Shes in line. Shes with Chico Portales." Um. Mercedes said. The news did not surprise her. It was why she was here, away from the laundry. Chico Portales and Jacinta. Had Mercedes known what would spring up between the two, she would not have allowed Jacinta to pick coffee at La Abundancia. In El Congo, it was Luis Martnez,

the young man who owned the fruit stand, who had turned Jacinta's head. In Santa Ana, Chico Portales had clearly displaced Luis. Since the start of picking season, Chico and Jacinta had taken to each other. Over the months, Mercedes had watched them. Coyly they began, but now there was a confidence about them, as if they had settled on a secret that pleased them both. A person didn't need much imagination to guess what that might be. Chico Portales came from Metapn, a city to the north that bordered on Guatemala. At seventeen, he stood muscular and tall, with a chocolate hue to his skin that made him quite attractive. Only a fool would be blind to what Jacinta saw in him. Still, Jacinta was fourteen, and though it was not lost on Mercedes that she herself had already given birth at that age, it was precisely this responsibility, this precipitous leap into adulthood, that she wanted to forestall in her daughter's life. Mercedes headed toward the administration building. Shielding her eyes with a hand against the sun, she walked past the lines of pickers. An array of humanity was represented here, but all Mercedes noticed were the guardias. Ever at the ready, the men sauntered up and around the lines, their rifles slung on leather straps across their shoulders. Under the visors of their helmets, the guardias' eyes were indistinct. Although they were meters away, Mercedes felt the sear of their commanding gaze as if they were standing next to her. Mercedes hurried into la administracin. Inside, the temperature was only a little cooler than outside. Waiting for her eyes to adjust to the light, she noted the pickers inching their way down the hall. Some men in straw hats leaned silently against the walls as they waited. Others talked spiritedly. In the lines, old women wrapped in dull tapados, their arms crossed over their breasts, leaned toward each other as they quietly conversed. Young girls in tight dresses and strapping youths with dark mustaches shot furtive glances at one another up and down the line. The girls giggled behind spread hands, their eyes bright with expectation. Los machos cocked their narrow hips and guffawed out loud. Children of all ages, some dressed, most not, ran noisily about. Some mothers sprang periodically from lines to hurry after infants who had crawled away from reach. Because the line was moving, the dogs milling about moved along, too. At times, they plopped on their haunches, their tongues protruding at an angle from their mouths. In all this activity, there was not a sign of Jacinta.

Mercedes came to the place where the hall veered to the left and then ballooned into the large room that contained, at the back, the four payroll tables. A low gated railing was strung across the width of the room, passing in front of the tables and forming a barrier between authority and servitude. The pagadores sat behind the tables. Stacks of bills rose in front of them, as well as large metal boxes with compartments holding coins of different denominations. Next to each pagador's hand was his own revolver. Don Samuel Vega and don Ernesto were present, too. So were Elena's sons. All were armed. They patrolled the space behind the tables, checking with one pagador and then with another. Mercedes decided to give up her search. She retraced her steps and was about to head toward the laundry when Jacinta came through the door. "What are you doing here?" Jacinta said, scratching an elbow, trying to keep reproof from surfacing on her tongue. It was tiresome to have her mother always checking on her. Why was she so meddlesome? So sure that she knew what was best in their lives. Mercedes turned to the woman standing in line behind Jacinta. "I'm not in line. I'm only here to talk to my daughter." Mercedes smiled and pointed to Jacinta before turning back to her. Jacinta muttered hello and made perfunctory inquiries, softening her tone because Chico Portales stood just four pickers in front of her and it was obvious her mother had not seen him, which was very good. Jacinta lifted her hair off her neck. "It's so hot," she said. She did not braid her hair anymore, for she was too old for that. Now she wore her hair loose and flowing, the way Chico preferred it. Mercedes narrowed her eyes, spying a pair of copper-colored hoops dangling from her daughter's earlobes. "Where did you get those earrings?" Im in for it now, Jacinta thought, letting her hair drop onto her shoulders. She looked away from her mother. "That boy Chico gave them to you, didn't he?" "Shush, Mam, don't talk so loud," Jacinta said, laying a finger across her lips. Her hands were stained dark from stripping red berries. Little rag ribbons were tied around two abrasions on her fingers. She leaned in close to her mother. "It's true. Chico gave them to me," she whispered finally, deciding it was best to tell the truth and be done with it Mercedes lowered her voice. "I hope he gave them to you out of the kindness of his heart. I hope he's not expecting you to earn those earrings."

Jacinta stamped a foot. "Mam! What a thing to say." "Well," Mercedes said, "just so you know how I stand on these matters." "That's something I never have to guess, Mam: your feelings about anything." Jacinta sneaked a peek up the line. She could see Chico's hat with the distinct blue kerchief wound around the band. The line had made the turn down the hall, and now the railing and the pay tables were in view. "Since you think that's the case," Mercedes said, "you should know one more thing. When picking is over, and after la nia Magda gets married, you'll be working for her. In the meantime, I'll see if you can work at the church with Basilio." Thanks to Elena, Basilio had left El Congo. Elena had helped him secure work at the cathedral of Santa Ana. Not me, Jacinta thought. She and Chico had other plans. After the harvest, they would move to Metapn. They would live with Chico's to Gaspar. Chico would work at a cattle ranch there and help his uncle with the union business. It's what Chico did besides picking. It was secret work, of course. Here, at la finca, Chico helped Alirio Perez keep the pickers informed. Jacinta was proud of Chico, that he worked for justice. As had Antonio, may he rest in peace, and his father, el compadre Goyo, may he also rest in peace. They had worked for justice, and they had died for it. "You heard me, didn't you?" Mercedes said, surprised Jacinta had not protested the news she brought. "S, Mama," Jacinta said, amazed at the coincidences that can spring up in life. She had just thought of Alirio Perez and now there he was. He was in the line next to hers. He was at the railing gate, one person away from a pay table. Mercedes repeated what she had said, in case it hadn't sunk in. She was about to go on when something in Jacinta's eyes silenced her. Mercedes turned her gaze to the line beside them. "Alirio Perez," the pagador called out. A tall reedy man unsheathed his machete and placed the weapon on the ground beside the railing as all men had to do. With an insolent thrust of the knee, he pushed open the railing's low gate and stepped toward the table. When he reached the pagador, the paymaster did not look in his ledger as was the custom. Instead he kept his eyes on the man and counted out from a stack of bills, "Uno, dos." El pagador placed two bills on the table. He plucked two coins from the box and placed them on the bills. "Dos colones

con diez centavos," he said, sliding the money across the table toward the man. Alirio Perez did not move. He did not pick up his pay. "I want to know why I was let go," he said, his voice loud and steady. The room went quiet, and this sudden change was like the expectant moment between lightning and thunder. Mercedes took Jacinta's arm, tightening her grip on it. The pagador pushed his hat back from his forehead. "We don't want your kind picking here," he said. Alirio Perez said nothing. He stood his ground. One of the guardias who had been at the edge of the room moved toward the table. Don Ernesto and don Samuel laid their hands on their revolvers. "Go on," the pagador said. "Get out of here." He leaned back in his chair and waved his hand impatiently in the air. "Take your pay and get out of here." Alirio Perez reached across his waist. In one swift movement he pulled from his left pant leg a second machete concealed there. For an instant the weapon hung in the air, and then it whistled down over the table. The blade cut through the pagador's wrist. The severed hand made a dull thud when it dropped on the table. The guardia fired on Alirio, who spun crazily around before collapsing like a human drape over the railing. His machete went skittering under the pay table. Mercedes flung herself to the floor, pulling Jacinta down with her as the room erupted into chaos. People screamed. Dogs barked. The guardia continued firing. A second man went down. A woman toppled under the spray of bullets. When the shooting stopped moments later, others had also taken to the floor, but many started in all directions. Children wailed, searching wildly for their mothers. El pagador lay slumped over the money stacks. Blood spurted from the stump of his wrist, spilling, shiny and thick, over the edge of the pay table. Mercedes thought she would be sick. The biting smell of gunpowder filled her nostrils; her arms were gray with floor dust that she could taste at the back of her throat. Jacinta scrambled up. Keeping low to the ground, she went to the man sprawled on the floor, a hat, bright blue at the brim, lying beside him. "Chico," Jacinta said, dropping down next to him. She looked him over. His eyes were open. "My leg," he said hoarsely.

He reached out and touched his thigh. Jacinta looked at his leg, at the red stain spreading through the trouser fabric. She glanced around the room, noting el patrn and la guardia, how their weapons were still drawn, how a semblance of order was returning to the room. Jacinta threw back her head. "Auxilio!" she screamed, "Auxilio!" all the rage pent inside her loosening in the utterance of her cries for help. The Cadillac sedan pulled away from la casona and rolled across the big yard. Alberto was at the wheel. Next to him sat Cecilia, mute as stone, and Isabel, her daughter. Slumped down in the back between Magda and Elena was don Orlando. The Cadillac followed the pickup driven by Ernesto Contreras with Neto in the cab. In the bed of the truck, the clinic attendant ministered to el pagador and the two others who had been wounded. Traveling also in the pickup bed was Coffee. Ernesto's dog sat up by the cab's window. Occasionally he turned his head to test the wind, but mostly he kept his eyes on the back of his master's head. Both vehicles were traveling toward Santa Ana-one to the hospital, the other to the safety of Elena's house. "Stop that, Papa," Elena said. She gave her father's hand a little slap as he pulled himself up and tried to reach the door handle again. Elena sighed deeply. Not thirty minutes had passed since she'd heard the sound of rifle shots. She had been resting in the comforting shadows other room when the roar of the commotion Game through the screens of the windows and over the babble of the brook. All the dogs in the world had begun to bark after that. Now the family was rushing away. Elena had had barely enough time to gather up her valuables and collect those items she could not do without: her makeup, her correspondence, a few books, her down pillows. In the ensuing days, the servants left behind at la casona would take care of packing up and closing the house for the season. In Santa Ana, there would be peace again. Peace behind the cool walls of her house. Peace along the wide covered porch with the view of the patio and its charming tiled fountain that, day and night, brought her the soothing sound of cascading water, Elena looked out the car window. Mercedes Prieto's daughter ran up beside the car, her brown graceful legs pumping swiftly. Because the car was moving slowly, she easily kept pace. Astonished, Elena watched Jacinta glide past without looking in the Cadillac. It was the pickup she ran after. When it went through the finca gates, Jacinta came to an abrupt halt. She stood and

looked down the road in the direction the truck had taken. When the sedan passed, she paid it no heed. Her gaze remained fixed down the road, her arms stiff at her sides, her hands slowly opening and dosing. Elena leaned her head against the soft back of the seat. Her dream of just two nights ago had dearly augured this new violence. Despite the horror of what had transpired, she welcomed the relief from the dream's foreboding. None of her own had been touched today. Neto and Alberto. Her own beloved. They were all safe and driving away. For perhaps the hundredth time, Elena felt the smooth flesh of her ring finger. She could not get used to not wearing Ernesto's ring. As soon as she could, tomorrow perhaps, she would take the ring to don Valdemar, the jeweler. Elena dosed her eyes against the intruding thought of the paymaster's hand, wrapped round and round in lengths of gauze, and resting like a little package of gruesomeness somewhere in the pickup. Elena shook her head. Cmo puede ocurrir esto en un pas llamado El Salvador?" she whispered, mostly to herself she thought. But this was not the case. Her father sat beside her, and he began to parrot what she had spoken. "How can this happen in a country named The Savior?" he said. Excerpted from: Benitez, S. (1997). Bitter Grounds. Picador USA, NY.