"He tried to spit on us. Did you see his lips?" asked Raul, resenting the scene, feeling he would never be able to forget it. "Ssst, Raul. It's bad enough." "It won't be bad for our people." "I know ... I know," said Gabriel. "Tomorrow our people will have grain." "Tomorrow, yes ... tomorrow," said Gabriel. He brushed flies from his bald spot and scanned the sky, his gold rims twinkling. "It has gotten cloudy. It may rain. The corn needs rain. I must go, Raul. I must talk to others." Walking away, he felt for the small bronze cross he wore on a neck chain. The cross was buried in the hairs of his throat. He prayed as he walked, fingers enclosing the metal. He prayed for the hacienda people; he asked help for the old man; wisdom for Raul; let good come of this transition, no additional anguish. In his room, the door closed, a candle lit, he knelt on the bare tiles before the mountain crucifix: as he knelt, a lovely bone figurine appeared on the barren wood: the figure had hung in his mother's house in Padua, very old, very yellow, very fragile. A women knelt beside him, in this illusion, wrapped in a threadbare shawl. It was cloudy and sultry and the Italian light filmed the room; the woman was speaking. Strange he could not recall her face, only the form, wrapped in blue cloth. The sound of her voice was also lost. "Mother," he said aloud; then he pushed aside his longing for Italy and his home and family and began to pray: "Jesus, help us. We are many here. Bless us with a special mercy. Take us to your sacred heart; we are your children ... the haciendas are headed for troubled times. Help us to be decent to one another." 4 Sitting in his living room, Raul tried to rationalize his own actions. It still seemed illogical he had waited so long before assuming authority. Slouched in a red plush chair, he regarded his son, writing at the desk, doing an assignment given him by his school. Vicente would return to his school in Colima on Monday. A brass candlestick, holding five candles, burned beside the boy; the back of his blond head was toward Raul. Raul listened to the scratch of pencil on paper. Now and then Vicente sighed. He was ten, attractive, sweet-mannered, bright, and kind. He said he wanted to become a priest--"like Father Gabriel." Raul hoped he would change his mind and administer Petaca someday. How quiet Vicente had become since Raul had taken over the hacienda! It was as if he understood the gravity of the changes; the responsibilities. Yesterday at breakfast, Chavela had spouted, as she served: "Is it true? What will happen? Is that why Don Fernando won't eat? You know he won't eat anything at all. Why, he won't talk to me!" Vicente had dug impulsively at his sliced pineapple. "You leave things to Papa," he had said.