The Coyote's Bicycle Read Free Page A

tractor.
    â€œSo what will your family do with the plata ?” Solo asked.
    â€œThey say, maybe, the school,” Pablito answered.
    Their grammar school education was coming to an end. This was the limit for the majority of villagers, as families had to pay out of pocket for anything further. Transportation to the school was another challenge. Pablito might have hesitated to mention the possibility because it was no secret that Solo’s family, despite the boy’s desire to attend, wouldn’t be able to pay. Solo and his siblings sometimes sustained themselves on local fruit for days, and occasionally went to sleep with nothing in their bellies. Still, Solo’s optimism didn’t wilt. “The lucky ones get to go,” he said. “We just need to get lucky.”
    The boys footed it down out of the hills. Open land gave way to fenced sections. They came upon the small outlying ranches where scarecrows commanded the fields. Soon, they separated to drop the firewood at their respective houses. A farmer worked a light green plot of sesame in the distance, but not many of the men remained this time of year. A cadre of women would be down at the little river, standing to their knees in the brackish water, scrubbing laundry. The lady standing farthest out handed a clean article off to the next woman, and then a third set the pieces to dry over bushes, warm cobbles, and branches. Solo, whose walk home passed that way, always noted the conversation. Occasionally he re-created it for Pablito upon rejoining the path to the dairy: “They’re talking about washing machines again,” he said. “As if it’s something new. Everybody knows about washing machines.”
    Husbands and sons returning for Christmas often rode with workmates in secondhand cars acquired in el Norte . They’d drive night and day to get home, sputtering through the badlands of the interior and over the sierra. Big towns and notoriously dangerous regions were avoided. Both bandits and police were a concern, as the workers often packed the autos with goods too expensive or unavailable in Mexico. The women dreamed of conveniences, but neither the cars nor large appliances ever entered the village. The men, likelyas not, would hike in, bearing used clothing but first-rate baseball bats for the village team.
    â€œWhen we are old men, Pablito,” Solo would say, “the river talk will still be about washing machines.”
    The milkman’s bicycle was a very sturdy, very old utility bike with solid rubber tires, two parallel top tubes, and wide, level handlebars. The steel basket was mounted astride the front wheel. A metal dipper with a hooked handle hung from the bike frame. When the boys stopped at a home, one called for the proprietor and the other lifted the dipper and measured the correct amount of milk from the canisters. The bike’s seat was made of petrified leather and wobbled on worn springs. Fenders, front and back, helped protect the dairy and the riders from mud splatter in the rainy season and loose rocks in the dry. The rear axle bolts held little posts threaded on either side, which the boys called diablitos , or little devils. One kid could stand over the rear tire with a foot on each of these diablitos and balance while holding on to the bike rider’s shoulders. If done right, the sensation was like flying.
    Braking, however, was a matter of art. The milkman’s bicycle boasted only a front brake, and with the weight of the load over the fore wheel, even a modest squeeze could send the boys over the handlebars. So, whoever was in back had to apply the sole of his huarache to the rear tire. The foot quickly became hot, and the diablito rider would switch to the other foot. Usually, this was Solo’s position. Pablito would yell, “Brakes,” and Solo would lift his skinny leg like a flamingo and place it on the tire.
    The dairy farmer was not young, but from his choice of