Free And Yesterday Is Gone by Dolores Durando Page A

bellow of the old ram sounded, answering the call of the undisputed matriarch.
    Carlos cursed, knowing that the old ram had torn through the fence at last. He could see the sheep rampaging in and out of the barn and knew that the hay would be scattered everywhere in the morning.
    â€œI should have killed that old bastard a long time ago,” he muttered.
    He staggered into the house, found his gun and lit the lantern. It would be dark in the barn.
    â€œI’ll be chasing those damn sheep all night.” Then, “No, I’ll get those wetbacks up….”
    The light burned brightly in the lantern, unnecessary in the moonlight but essential in the barn, so dark where the moon rays didn’t reach.
    The snort and angry bawl of the hostile animal sounded near and Carlos’ drunken mind reminded him he had better be quick with the gun.
    He advanced, swinging the lantern, farther into the barn. Suddenly from the darkness, the ram exploded, knocking Carlos sprawling. As he fell, his head struck a cement pier block that held a pillar supporting the roof. The lantern flung from his outstretched hand, and with the glass chimney broken, kerosene and flame exploded and, in an instant, the dry hay ignited.
    The men in the bunkhouse were awakened by the screaming sheep and the outraged bellow of the old ram. They opened the door to the suffocating smoke that coiled into the sky to watch, awestruck, the furious flames that devoured the barn.
    At last, the tormented mind of Carlos was stilled.

CHAPTER 8
    S tepping over the money, Juan walked away, then paused to look around. The park pulsed with humanity. It seemed choked with young people in wildly colored clothing adorned with feathers, beads, chains; they were singing, dancing…a couple lying on the grass in an intimate embrace caused him to blush as he turned his head.
    The curious stares of the passing celebrants made him conscious of his heavy boots, ragged mud-splattered jeans and ill-fitting shirt, partly covered by an old, discarded jacket.
    The panic kept building. Where will I go? What will I do? He felt the trickle of sweat slide down his back as the terror enveloped him.
    He was lost in the avalanche of people in this unknown world. A desperate burst of overpowering fear swept over him and he started to run. He ran until his lungs were begging for breath, his steps slowed to a stagger, and the pavement rose up to meet his pounding feet.
    He turned aside to discover a seldom-used path that led to a secluded part of the park. The steady whine of traffic and noisy voices faded into the distance.
    The path seemed to end at a thick stand of bushes, a hiding place heavy with pink and white buds about to burst at the first ray of sunshine.
    Exhausted, he sank down and lay back, his arms pillowing his head. The body slowly stilled, but his mind refused to be reconciled.
    How have I come to this? From my grandmother who loved me—my life in that tiny mountain village. Why wasn’t I allowed to play with the other children? Because “You are El Jefe’s son.”
    El Jefe’s son. How I waited for my father’s visits—how I loved him. And I knew he loved me. When I grew older—thirteen? fourteen?—he came so seldom and would only watch me, not looking me in the face, and I could hear grandmother’s pleading voice, his angry responses, my name, often. And all I wanted from him was his love.
    Then suddenly from there to that horrible, lonely place, always raining, cold, working from daylight to dark. Me, who had never known physical work, only the love and care of an old woman.
    The loneliness—I thought I’d die of loneliness…and then there was Steve. I loved him. I loved him from the moment our hands touched in that first, shy handshake. If that means I am maricón , I’ll shout it to the world. I love him.
    How wonderful our short time together had been—smoking a little pot, learning from each other