Twitch and Die!

Ch.2: The Stone House

Chancho struck a match and dipped it into the reservoir. The kerosene whoofed into flame, licking the sides of the glass globe. He twiddled with the knob until it transformed from flickering chaos into a steady glow. "Really, Mrs. Marcon, it's no trouble." He placed the lamp in its regular place, determined by the discolored streak of soot running up the plaster wall.

"I should have asked Angelo to tend to all this before dismissing him and your lady friend."

Chancho's partner in politics, State Senator James Starr, responded from the cupboard where he clanked stale biscuits onto a plate. "No problem at all, ma'am. Angelo seemed quite the charmer. I'm sure Miss O'Brien's enjoying herself."

Chancho shot Starr the evil eye before logging his cursory assessment of the stone house and its occupants. The Tucci brothers, Angelo and Marcello, appeared at least as Catholic as himself, and yet unfettered by law. The ingredients in the cupboard, combined with the collection of brown jugs under the sink, indicated the Tucci's either consumed an inordinate amount of booze, even for Italian miners, or they perhaps proffered it to others for a small profit. The combination of mysticism and rebellion instantly endeared them to Chancho—men after his own heart.

"Angelo's truly been an angel to take me in, after Serge's..." Mrs. Marcon's voice guttered and died as a chill wind rattled a loose window pane.

Chancho couldn't shake the cold grip of paranoia squeezing him from the house itself. Built during rugged pioneer years, defense and function had trumped less practical things like the human yearning to connect with his surroundings. As a man who'd spent much of his adult life sleeping either in a wagon or under the stars, the dank oppressiveness wearied Chancho. Something about the stagnant odor—too much methane?—riled his stomach.

He took his time returning to the seating area. Tucked in the front corner of an open room serving as kitchen, dining and living, the Tucci's had arranged two chairs and a small sofa. As he rounded Mrs. Marcon's wingback, a rasping wheeze came from the bedroom. Rushing as if to mask the sound, Mrs. Marcon continued, "Do you mind catching the curtains against the cold? Sorry about the dark, but I'm afraid light...irritates me."

Chancho paused. Two bedrooms opened off the main room. Both doors were closed. Combined with the living space, the bedrooms constituted the entirety of the stone home. Finally, he obeyed her request, despite his loathing to lose his last tether to the outside world.

Starr set the plate of ceremonial biscuits on a low table and plopped into the chair closest to Mrs. Marcon while Chancho fussed with the wool curtains. In the corner of his eye a large animal, maybe a horse, disappeared behind a splash of shifting juniper. The evergreens created a shocking contrast against the winter's dismal gray.

"I haven't time for formality or even proper manners, but I really am grateful you've responded to my letter, Representative Villarreal and Senator Starr."

Chancho shifted his sombrero from the floral patterned cushion to the floor. Taking his seat across the way, he established eye contact with the woman who'd brought him and James Starr to Gordon, Texas, on urgent business. Mrs. Phebe Marcon's sunken, listless eyes had once been a portal to tantalizing beauty—both an internal and external strength revealed now only by the grace with which she accepted her ailing condition.

"Call me Chancho, por favor." He gestured toward Starr. "James and I prefer less formality when outside of Austin."

Starr added, "And inside Austin, truth be told. But the institutions we serve won't have it."

While Mrs. Marcon's impassioned plea for justice had been Chancho and Starr's impetus to drive to Gordon four days before the 37th Legislature commenced, more pointedly they had left Austin to dig up anecdotal support for their paramount piece of legislation. The so-called Pay for Progress Act attempted to balance an egalitarian work force with a strong state economy. Chancho preferred the call it the Progress for Freedom Act, but had been outweighed.