Anita raised a knotted, brown hand and smoothed her bangs, tucking them neatly under her red kerchief.
“I was little,” she said complacently. “Ver’ beautiful. Every-body was—crazy—about—me.” She halted, choosing the best English words she knew. “I was—good girl. I love—nobody. I jus’ laugh all time—when them so’jers make the love. Then I see—Jawge—my Sah-geant King. He is king to me. Tall—big—strong—all time laughing—making love with blue eyes—like you—all time make love—with eyes—to Nevada. I know them eyes—I have lived—to look—in them eyes.”
“I don’t do anything of the kind,” Rawley protested, confusion crimsoning his face. “I’ve always tried—”
“Eyes like them eyes—no tell lies. Woman eyes see—things they tell. Jawge—he write more?”
“Most of it was cut from the book. He called you ‘el gusto de mi corazon,’ and his ‘dulce corazon.’ Do you know—?”
Beneath his palm Anita’s hand was trembling. She pulled it free and lifted it to her face, her withered fingers wiping the tears that were slipping down her wrinkled cheeks. Rawley could have bitten his tongue in two. Awkwardly he patted her on one huge, rounded shoulder.
Like a lonesome dog, the old woman whimpered behind her brown palm, from beneath which a tear sometimes escaped and splashed upon her calico wrapper. Rawley sat silent, abashed before this forlorn grief over a romance fifty years dead.
“Now I love Nevada, Peter.” She mastered her tears and became again impassive. “You leave me—Nevada? Lil time—I want Nevada. I die—then you can love—many years. You do that?”
“Of course. I promised Peter, a long time ago. But it doesn’t matter, anyway. Nevada doesn’t care a rap about me.”
The old woman looked at him stolidly.