It was a beautiful spring day when Calderón laughed, excused himself from the poker table, sat beneath the garden’s lemon tree, and shot himself.
The doctor with the granite face was summoned. “There is nothing we can do for him now,” he said. The doctor with the granite face tried to close Calderón’s eyelids, but they snapped open each time with the twang and alacrity of rubber bands. And so Calderón’s electric blue eyes shone through his funeral, wake, and even burial. Today, you can find the one-handed priest dozing at his desk and ask for the key to the graveyard behind the La Iglesia De La Descuidada Madre. At night two twin beams of light pierce through the dirt and pillar into the sky. Even in death, General Calderón saw the unspeakable horror that would descend from the mountains and drive seventy able-bodied men into madness.
But I am getting ahead of myself.