We were sharing a bottle of whiskey, my brother and I, and talking about family lore. We hadn’t seen each other in years and had much to catch up on. We sat at his kitchen table. I poured fresh shots, about two fingers in our highball glasses, and asked, “What did you know about our grandfather?”
“Not much,” my brother said. “Just that he died in Mexico, on his first visit there since coming to the states when he was a young man.” Our grandfather and grandmother, who died before my brother or I or any of our siblings had the chance to meet her, left Mexico for Laredo, Texas, during the Mexican Revolution.
“Why do you ask?”
I sipped. “One of our California cousins told me our grandfather was a paymaster for Pancho Villa. He said when General Pershing’s men were hot on Pancho’s trail, our grandfather escaped across the border with all of Pancho’s silver and gold. He said when our grandfather’s flight arrived in Mexico City, as soon as he stepped off the plane, he had a heart attack and died on the spot.”
My brother sipped and raised an eyebrow.
“I never heard anything about him being a part of Pancho Villa’s army. Knowing our family, I would think he would have been with the federales.”
I swirled my whiskey in the glass, studied it like I was trying to divine the hidden meaning of a mystery.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But that’s the story he told me. He said it was Pancho Villa’s revenge.”
“Pancho getting vengeance from the grave?” My brother laughed. “I don’t think so, hermano.”
“But it’s a pretty good story, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes. It’s a great story,” he said. “Especially when told over whiskey.”
Pushing aside his glass, he grabbed the whiskey bottle by the neck, held it to his mouth, and took a swig, the way I imagined Pancho’s bandoleros must have, the way our grandfather might have, in some dusty village tavern so long ago in northern Mexico, before he’d betrayed his leader for so many pieces of silver.
“Ahhh,” my brother said, smacking his lips as he handed me the bottle. I nodded and chugged.